Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  The very next visit introduced a fresh complication, it being evident to the most indifferent spectator that Mr. Stiles and the widow were getting on very friendly terms. Glances of unmistakable tenderness passed between them, and on the occasion of the third visit Mr. Burton sat an amazed and scandalised spectator of a flirtation of the most pronounced description. A despairing attempt on his part to lead the conversation into safer and, to his mind, more becoming channels only increased his discomfiture. Neither of them took any notice of it, and a minute later Mr. Stiles called the widow a “saucy little baggage,” and said that she reminded him of the Duchess of Marford.

  “I used to think she was the most charming woman in England,” he said, meaningly.

  Mrs. Dutton simpered and looked down; Mr. Stiles moved his chair a little closer to her, and then glanced thoughtfully at his friend.

  “Burton,” he said.

  “Sir,” snapped the other.

  “Run back and fetch my pipe for me,” said Mr. Stiles. “I left it on the mantelpiece.”

  Mr. Burton hesitated, and, the widow happening to look away, shook his fist at his superior officer.

  “Look sharp,” said Mr. Stiles, in a peremptory voice.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” said Mr. Burton, whose wits were being sharpened by misfortune, “but I broke it.”

  “Broke it?” repeated the other.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Burton. “I knocked it on the floor and trod on it by accident; smashed it to powder.”

  Mr. Stiles rated him roundly for his carelessness, and asked him whether he knew that it was a present from the Italian Ambassador.

  “Burton was always a clumsy man,” he said, turning to the widow. “He had the name for it when he was on the Destruction with me; ‘Bungling Burton’ they called him.”

  He divided the rest of the evening between flirting and recounting various anecdotes of Mr. Burton, none of which were at all flattering either to his intelligence or to his sobriety, and the victim, after one or two futile attempts at contradiction, sat in helpless wrath as he saw the infatuation of the widow. They were barely clear of the house before his pent-up emotions fell in an avalanche of words on the faithless Mr. Stiles.

  “I can’t help being good-looking,” said the latter, with a smirk.

  “Your good looks wouldn’t hurt anybody,” said Mr. Burton, in a grating voice; “it’s the admiral business that fetches her. It’s turned ‘er head.”

  Mr. Stiles smiled. “She’ll say ‘snap’ to my ‘snip’ any time,” he remarked. “And remember, George, there’ll always be a knife and fork laid for you when you like to come.”

  “I dessay,” retorted Mr. Burton, with a dreadful sneer. “Only as it happens I’m going to tell ‘er the truth about you first thing to-morrow morning. If I can’t have ‘er you sha’n’t.”

  “That’ll spoil your chance, too,” said Mr. Stiles. “She’d never forgive you for fooling her like that. It seems a pity neither of us should get her.”

  “You’re a sarpent,” exclaimed Mr. Burton, savagely— “a sarpent that I’ve warmed in my bosom and — —”

  “There’s no call to be indelicate, George,” said Mr. Stiles, reprovingly, as he paused at the door of the house. “Let’s sit down and talk it over quietly.”

  Mr. Burton followed him into the room and, taking a chair, waited.

  “It’s evident she’s struck with me,” said Mr. Stiles, slowly; “it’s also evident that if you tell her the truth it might spoil my chances. I don’t say it would, but it might. That being so, I’m agreeable to going back without seeing her again by the six-forty train to-morrow morning if it’s made worth my while.”

  “Made worth your while?” repeated the other.

  “Certainly,” said the unblushing Mr. Stiles. “She’s not a bad-looking woman — for her age — and it’s a snug little business.”

  Mr. Burton, suppressing his choler, affected to ponder. “If ‘arf a sovereign—” he said, at last.

  “Half a fiddlestick!” said the other, impatiently. “I want ten pounds. You’ve just drawn your pension, and, besides, you’ve been a saving man all your life.”

  “Ten pounds?” gasped the other. “D’ye think I’ve got a gold-mine in the back garden?”

  Mr. Stiles leaned back in his chair and crossed his feet. “I don’t go for a penny less,” he said, firmly. “Ten pounds and my ticket back. If you call me any more o’ those names I’ll make it twelve.”

  “And what am I to explain to Mrs. Dutton?” demanded Mr. Burton, after a quarter of an hour’s altercation.

  “Anything you like,” said his generous friend. “Tell her I’m engaged to my cousin, and our marriage keeps being put off and off on account of my eccentric behaviour. And you can say that that was caused by a splinter of a shell striking my head. Tell any lies you like; I shall never turn up again to contradict them. If she tries to find out things about the admiral, remind her that she promised to keep his visit here secret.”

  For over an hour Mr. Burton sat weighing the advantages and disadvantages of this proposal, and then — Mr. Stiles refusing to seal the bargain without — shook hands upon it and went off to bed in a state of mind hovering between homicide and lunacy.

  He was up in good time next morning, and, returning the shortest possible answers to the remarks of Mr. Stiles, who was in excellent feather, went with him to the railway station to be certain of his departure.

  It was a delightful morning, cool and bright, and, despite his misfortunes. Mr. Burton’s spirits began to rise as he thought of his approaching deliverance. Gloom again overtook him at the booking-office, where the unconscionable Mr. Stiles insisted firmly upon a first-class ticket.

  “Who ever heard of an admiral riding third?” he demanded, indignantly.

  “But they don’t know you’re an admiral,” urged Mr. Burton, trying to humour him.

  “No; but I feel like one,” said Mr. Stiles, slapping his pocket. “I’ve always felt curious to see what it feels like travelling first-class; besides, you can tell Mrs. Dutton.”

  “I could tell ‘er that in any case,” returned Mr. Burton.

  Mr. Stiles looked shocked, and, time pressing, Mr. Burton, breathing so hard that it impeded his utterance, purchased a first-class ticket and conducted him to the carriage. Mr. Stiles took a seat by the window and lolling back put his foot up on the cushions opposite. A large bell rang and the carriage-doors were slammed.

  “Good-bye, George,” said the traveller, putting his head to the window. “I’ve enjoyed my visit very much.”

  “Good riddance,” said Mr. Burton, savagely.

  Mr. Stiles shook his head. “I’m letting you off easy,” he said, slowly. “If it hadn’t ha’ been for one little thing I’d have had the widow myself.”

  “What little thing?” demanded the other, as the train began to glide slowly out.

  “My wife,” said Mr. Stiles, as a huge smile spread slowly over his face. “Good-bye, George, and don’t forget to give my love when you go round.”

  CAPTAINS ALL

  CONTENTS

  CAPTAINS ALL

  THE BOATSWAIN’S MATE

  THE NEST EGG

  THE CONSTABLE’S MOVE

  BOB’S REDEMPTION

  OVER THE SIDE

  THE FOUR PIGEONS

  THE TEMPTATION OF SAMUEL BURGE

  THE MADNESS OF MR. LISTER

  THE WHITE CAT

  CAPTAINS ALL

  Every sailorman grumbles about the sea, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully. It’s human nature to grumble, and I s’pose they keep on grumbling and sticking to it because there ain’t much else they can do. There’s not many shore-going berths that a sailorman is fit for, and those that they are — such as a night-watchman’s, for instance — wants such a good character that there’s few as are to equal it.

  Sometimes they get things to do ashore. I knew one man that took up butchering, and ‘e did very well at it till the police took him up.
Another man I knew gave up the sea to marry a washerwoman, and they hadn’t been married six months afore she died, and back he ‘ad to go to sea agin, pore chap.

  A man who used to grumble awful about the sea was old Sam Small — a man I’ve spoke of to you before. To hear ‘im go on about the sea, arter he ‘ad spent four or five months’ money in a fortnight, was ‘artbreaking. He used to ask us wot was going to happen to ‘im in his old age, and when we pointed out that he wouldn’t be likely to ‘ave any old age if he wasn’t more careful of ‘imself he used to fly into a temper and call us everything ‘e could lay his tongue to.

  One time when ‘e was ashore with Peter Russet and Ginger Dick he seemed to ‘ave got it on the brain. He started being careful of ‘is money instead o’ spending it, and three mornings running he bought a newspaper and read the advertisements, to see whether there was any comfortable berth for a strong, good-’arted man wot didn’t like work.

  He actually went arter one situation, and, if it hadn’t ha’ been for seventy-nine other men, he said he believed he’d ha’ had a good chance of getting it. As it was, all ‘e got was a black eye for shoving another man, and for a day or two he was so down-’arted that ‘e was no company at all for the other two.

  For three or four days ‘e went out by ‘imself, and then, all of a sudden, Ginger Dick and Peter began to notice a great change in him. He seemed to ‘ave got quite cheerful and ‘appy. He answered ’em back pleasant when they spoke to ‘im, and one night he lay in ‘is bed whistling comic songs until Ginger and Peter Russet ‘ad to get out o’ bed to him. When he bought a new necktie and a smart cap and washed ‘imself twice in one day they fust began to ask each other wot was up, and then they asked him.

  “Up?” ses Sam; “nothing.”

  “He’s in love,” ses Peter Russet.

  “You’re a liar,” ses Sam, without turning round.

  “He’ll ‘ave it bad at ‘is age,” ses Ginger.

  Sam didn’t say nothing, but he kept fidgeting about as though ‘e’d got something on his mind. Fust he looked out o’ the winder, then he ‘ummed a tune, and at last, looking at ’em very fierce, he took a tooth-brush wrapped in paper out of ‘is pocket and began to clean ‘is teeth.

  “He is in love,” ses Ginger, as soon as he could speak.

  “Or else ‘e’s gorn mad,” ses Peter, watching ‘im. “Which is it, Sam?”

  Sam made believe that he couldn’t answer ‘im because o’ the tooth-brush, and arter he’d finished he ‘ad such a raging toothache that ‘e sat in a corner holding ‘is face and looking the pictur’ o’ misery. They couldn’t get a word out of him till they asked ‘im to go out with them, and then he said ‘e was going to bed. Twenty minutes arterwards, when Ginger Dick stepped back for ‘is pipe, he found he ‘ad gorn.

  He tried the same game next night, but the other two wouldn’t ‘ave it, and they stayed in so long that at last ‘e lost ‘is temper, and, arter wondering wot Ginger’s father and mother could ha’ been a-thinking about, and saying that he believed Peter Russet ‘ad been changed at birth for a sea-sick monkey, he put on ‘is cap and went out. Both of ’em follered ‘im sharp, but when he led ’em to a mission-hall, and actually went inside, they left ‘im and went off on their own.

  They talked it over that night between themselves, and next evening they went out fust and hid themselves round the corner. Ten minutes arterwards old Sam came out, walking as though ‘e was going to catch a train; and smiling to think ‘ow he ‘ad shaken them off. At the corner of Commercial Road he stopped and bought ‘imself a button-hole for ‘is coat, and Ginger was so surprised that ‘e pinched Peter Russet to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming.

  Old Sam walked straight on whistling, and every now and then looking down at ‘is button-hole, until by-and-by he turned down a street on the right and went into a little shop. Ginger Dick and Peter waited for ‘im at the corner, but he was inside for so long that at last they got tired o’ waiting and crept up and peeped through the winder.

  It was a little tobacconist’s shop, with newspapers and penny toys and such-like; but, as far as Ginger could see through two rows o’ pipes and the Police News, it was empty. They stood there with their noses pressed against the glass for some time, wondering wot had ‘appened to Sam, but by-and-by a little boy went in and then they began to ‘ave an idea wot Sam’s little game was.

  As the shop-bell went the door of a little parlour at the back of the shop opened, and a stout and uncommon good-looking woman of about forty came out. Her ‘ead pushed the Police News out o’ the way and her ‘and came groping into the winder arter a toy.

  Ginger ‘ad a good look at ‘er out o’ the corner of one eye, while he pretended to be looking at a tobacco-jar with the other. As the little boy came out ‘im and Peter Russet went in.

  “I want a pipe, please,” he ses, smiling at ‘er; “a clay pipe — one o’ your best.” The woman handed ‘im down a box to choose from, and just then Peter, wot ‘ad been staring in at the arf-open door at a boot wot wanted lacing up, gave a big start and ses, “Why! Halloa!”

  “Wot’s the matter?” ses the woman, looking at ‘im.

  “I’d know that foot anywhere,” ses Peter, still staring at it; and the words was hardly out of ‘is mouth afore the foot ‘ad moved itself away and tucked itself under its chair. “Why, that’s my dear old friend Sam Small, ain’t it?”

  “Do you know the captin?” ses the woman, smiling at ‘im.

  “Cap —— ?” ses Peter. “Cap —— ? Oh, yes; why, he’s the biggest friend I’ve got.” “‘Ow strange!” ses the woman.

  “We’ve been wanting to see ‘im for some time,” ses Ginger. “He was kind enough to lend me arf a crown the other day, and I’ve been wanting to pay ‘im.”

  “Captin Small,” ses the woman, pushing open the door, “here’s some old friends o’ yours.”

  Old Sam turned ‘is face round and looked at ’em, and if looks could ha’ killed, as the saying is, they’d ha’ been dead men there and then.

  “Oh, yes,” he ses, in a choking voice; “‘ow are you?”

  “Pretty well, thank you, captin,” ses Ginger, grinning at ‘im; “and ‘ow’s yourself arter all this long time?”

  He held out ‘is hand and Sam shook it, and then shook ‘ands with Peter Russet, who was grinning so ‘ard that he couldn’t speak.

  “These are two old friends o’ mine, Mrs. Finch,” ses old Sam, giving ’em a warning look; “Captin Dick and Captin Russet, two o’ the oldest and best friends a man ever ‘ad.”

  “Captin Dick ‘as got arf a crown for you,” ses Peter Russet, still grinning.

  “There now,” ses Ginger, looking vexed, “if I ain’t been and forgot it; I’ve on’y got arf a sovereign.”

  “I can give you change, sir,” ses Mrs. Finch. “P’r’aps you’d like to sit down for five minutes?”

  Ginger thanked ‘er, and ‘im and Peter Russet took a chair apiece in front o’ the fire and began asking old Sam about ‘is ‘ealth, and wot he’d been doing since they saw ‘im last.

  “Fancy your reckernizing his foot,” ses Mrs. Finch, coming in with the change.

  “I’d know it anywhere,” ses Peter, who was watching Ginger pretending to give Sam Small the ‘arf-dollar, and Sam pretending in a most lifelike manner to take it.

  Ginger Dick looked round the room. It was a comfortable little place, with pictures on the walls and antimacassars on all the chairs, and a row of pink vases on the mantelpiece. Then ‘e looked at Mrs. Finch, and thought wot a nice-looking woman she was.

  “This is nicer than being aboard ship with a crew o’ nasty, troublesome sailormen to look arter, Captin Small,” he ses.

  “It’s wonderful the way he manages ’em,” ses Peter Russet to Mrs. Finch. “Like a lion he is.”

  “A roaring lion,” ses Ginger, looking at Sam. “He don’t know wot fear is.”

  Sam began to smile, and Mrs. Finch looked at ‘im so pleased that Peter Russet, who ‘
ad been looking at ‘er and the room, and thinking much the same way as Ginger, began to think that they was on the wrong tack.

  “Afore ‘e got stout and old,” he ses, shaking his ‘ead, “there wasn’t a smarter skipper afloat.”

  “We all ‘ave our day,” ses Ginger, shaking his ‘ead too.

  “I dessay he’s good for another year or two afloat, yet,” ses Peter Russet, considering. “With care,” ses Ginger.

  Old Sam was going to say something, but ‘e stopped himself just in time. “They will ‘ave their joke,” he ses, turning to Mrs. Finch and trying to smile. “I feel as young as ever I did.”

  Mrs. Finch said that anybody with arf an eye could see that, and then she looked at a kettle that was singing on the ‘ob.

  “I s’pose you gentlemen wouldn’t care for a cup o’ cocoa?” she ses, turning to them.

  Ginger Dick and Peter both said that they liked it better than anything else, and, arter she ‘ad got out the cups and saucers and a tin o’ cocoa, Ginger held the kettle and poured the water in the cups while she stirred them, and old Sam sat looking on ‘elpless.

  “It does seem funny to see you drinking cocoa, captin,” ses Ginger, as old Sam took his cup.

  “Ho!” ses Sam, firing up; “and why, if I might make so bold as to ask?”

  “‘Cos I’ve generally seen you drinking something out of a bottle,” ses Ginger.

  “Now, look ‘ere,” ses Sam, starting up and spilling some of the hot cocoa over ‘is lap.

  “A ginger-beer bottle,” ses Peter Russet, making faces at Ginger to keep quiet.

  “Yes, o’ course, that’s wot I meant,” ses Ginger.

  Old Sam wiped the cocoa off ‘is knees without saying a word, but his weskit kept going up and down till Peter Russet felt quite sorry for ‘im.

  “There’s nothing like it,” he ses to Mrs. Finch. “It was by sticking to ginger-beer and milk and such-like that Captain Small ‘ad command of a ship afore ‘e was twenty-five.”

  “Lor’!” ses Mrs. Finch.