Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  She smiled at old Sam till Peter got uneasy agin, and began to think p’r’aps ‘e’d been praising ‘im too much.

  “Of course, I’m speaking of long ago now,” he ses.

  “Years and years afore you was born, ma’am,” ses Ginger.

  Old Sam was going to say something, but Mrs. Finch looked so pleased that ‘e thought better of it. Some o’ the cocoa ‘e was drinking went the wrong way, and then Ginger patted ‘im on the back and told ‘im to be careful not to bring on ‘is brownchitis agin. Wot with temper and being afraid to speak for fear they should let Mrs. Finch know that ‘e wasn’t a captin, he could ‘ardly bear ‘imself, but he very near broke out when Peter Russet advised ‘im to ‘ave his weskit lined with red flannel. They all stayed on till closing time, and by the time they left they ‘ad made theirselves so pleasant that Mrs. Finch said she’d be pleased to see them any time they liked to look in.

  Sam Small waited till they ‘ad turned the corner, and then he broke out so alarming that they could ‘ardly do anything with ‘im. Twice policemen spoke to ‘im and advised ‘im to go home afore they altered their minds; and he ‘ad to hold ‘imself in and keep quiet while Ginger and Peter Russet took ‘is arms and said they were seeing him ‘ome.

  He started the row agin when they got in-doors, and sat up in ‘is bed smacking ‘is lips over the things he’d like to ‘ave done to them if he could. And then, arter saying ‘ow he’d like to see Ginger boiled alive like a lobster, he said he knew that ‘e was a noble-’arted feller who wouldn’t try and cut an old pal out, and that it was a case of love at first sight on top of a tram-car.

  “She’s too young for you,” ses Ginger; “and too good-looking besides.”

  “It’s the nice little bisness he’s fallen in love with, Ginger,” ses Peter Russet. “I’ll toss you who ‘as it.”

  Ginger, who was siting on the foot o’ Sam’s bed, said “no” at fust, but arter a time he pulled out arf a dollar and spun it in the air.

  That was the last ‘e see of it, although he ‘ad Sam out o’ bed and all the clothes stripped off of it twice. He spent over arf an hour on his ‘ands and knees looking for it, and Sam said when he was tired of playing bears p’r’aps he’d go to bed and get to sleep like a Christian.

  They ‘ad it all over agin next morning, and at last, as nobody would agree to keep quiet and let the others ‘ave a fair chance, they made up their minds to let the best man win. Ginger Dick bought a necktie that took all the colour out o’ Sam’s, and Peter Russet went in for a collar so big that ‘e was lost in it.

  They all strolled into the widow’s shop separate that night. Ginger Dick ‘ad smashed his pipe and wanted another; Peter Russet wanted some tobacco; and old Sam Small walked in smiling, with a little silver brooch for ‘er, that he said ‘e had picked up.

  It was a very nice brooch, and Mrs. Finch was so pleased with it that Ginger and Peter sat there as mad as they could be because they ‘adn’t thought of the same thing.

  “Captain Small is very lucky at finding things,” ses Ginger, at last.

  “He’s got the name for it,” ses Peter Russet.

  “It’s a handy ‘abit,” ses Ginger; “it saves spending money. Who did you give that gold bracelet to you picked up the other night, captin?” he ses, turning to Sam.

  “Gold bracelet?” ses Sam. “I didn’t pick up no gold bracelet. Wot are you talking about?”

  “All right, captin; no offence,” ses Ginger, holding up his ‘and. “I dreamt I saw one on your mantelpiece, I s’pose. P’r’aps I oughtn’t to ha’ said anything about it.”

  Old Sam looked as though he’d like to eat ‘im, especially as he noticed Mrs. Finch listening and pretending not to. “Oh! that one,” he ses, arter a bit o’ hard thinking. “Oh! I found out who it belonged to. You wouldn’t believe ‘ow pleased they was at getting it back agin.”

  Ginger Dick coughed and began to think as ‘ow old Sam was sharper than he ‘ad given ‘im credit for, but afore he could think of anything else to say Mrs. Finch looked at old Sam and began to talk about ‘is ship, and to say ‘ow much she should like to see over it.

  “I wish I could take you,” ses Sam, looking at the other two out o’ the corner of his eye, “but my ship’s over at Dunkirk, in France. I’ve just run over to London for a week or two to look round.”

  “And mine’s there too,” ses Peter Russet, speaking a’most afore old Sam ‘ad finished; “side by side they lay in the harbour.”

  “Oh, dear,” ses Mrs. Finch, folding her ‘ands and shaking her ‘cad. “I should like to go over a ship one arternoon. I’d quite made up my mind to it, knowing three captins.”

  She smiled and looked at Ginger; and Sam and Peter looked at ‘im too, wondering whether he was going to berth his ship at Dunkirk alongside o’ theirs.

  “Ah, I wish I ‘ad met you a fortnight ago,” ses Ginger, very sad. “I gave up my ship, the High flyer, then, and I’m waiting for one my owners are ‘aving built for me at New-castle. They said the High flyer wasn’t big enough for me. She was a nice little ship, though. I believe I’ve got ‘er picture somewhere about me!”

  He felt in ‘is pocket and pulled out a little, crumpled-up photograph of a ship he’d been fireman aboard of some years afore, and showed it to ‘er.

  “That’s me standing on the bridge,” he ses, pointing out a little dot with the stem of ‘is pipe.

  “It’s your figger,” ses Mrs. Finch, straining her eyes. “I should know it anywhere.”

  “You’ve got wonderful eyes, ma’am,” ses old Sam, choking with ‘is pipe.

  “Anybody can see that,” ses Ginger. “They’re the largest and the bluest I’ve ever seen.”

  Mrs. Finch told ‘im not to talk nonsense, but both Sam and Peter Russet could see ‘ow pleased she was.

  “Truth is truth,” ses Ginger. “I’m a plain man, and I speak my mind.”

  “Blue is my fav’rit’ colour,” ses old Sam, in a tender voice. “True blue.”

  Peter Russet began to feel out of it. “I thought brown was,” he ses.

  “Ho!” ses Sam, turning on ‘im; “and why?”

  “I ‘ad my reasons,” ses Peter, nodding, and shutting ‘is mouth very firm.

  “I thought brown was ‘is fav’rit colour too,” ses Ginger. “I don’t know why. It’s no use asking me; because if you did I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Brown’s a very nice colour,” ses Mrs. Finch, wondering wot was the matter with old Sam.

  “Blue,” ses Ginger; “big blue eyes — they’re the ones for me. Other people may ‘ave their blacks and their browns,” he ses, looking at Sam and Peter Russet, “but give me blue.”

  They went on like that all the evening, and every time the shop-bell went and the widow ‘ad to go out to serve a customer they said in w’ispers wot they thought of each other; and once when she came back rather sudden Ginger ‘ad to explain to ‘er that ‘e was showing Peter Russet a scratch on his knuckle.

  Ginger Dick was the fust there next night, and took ‘er a little chiney teapot he ‘ad picked up dirt cheap because it was cracked right acrost the middle; but, as he explained that he ‘ad dropped it in hurrying to see ‘er, she was just as pleased. She stuck it up on the mantelpiece, and the things she said about Ginger’s kindness and generosity made Peter Russet spend good money that he wanted for ‘imself on a painted flower-pot next evening.

  With three men all courting ‘er at the same time Mrs. Finch had ‘er hands full, but she took to it wonderful considering. She was so nice and kind to ’em all that even arter a week’s ‘ard work none of ’em was really certain which she liked best.

  They took to going in at odd times o’ the day for tobacco and such-like. They used to go alone then, but they all met and did the polite to each other there of an evening, and then quarrelled all the way ‘ome.

  Then all of a sudden, without any warning, Ginger Dick and Peter Russet left off going there. The fust evening Sam sat expecting them every minu
te, and was so surprised that he couldn’t take any advantage of it; but on the second, beginning by squeezing Mrs. Finch’s ‘and at ha’-past seven, he ‘ad got best part of his arm round ‘er waist by a quarter to ten. He didn’t do more that night because she told him to be’ave ‘imself, and threatened to scream if he didn’t leave off.

  He was arf-way home afore ‘e thought of the reason for Ginger Dick and Peter Russet giving up, and then he went along smiling to ‘imself to such an extent that people thought ‘e was mad. He went off to sleep with the smile still on ‘is lips, and when Peter and Ginger came in soon arter closing time and ‘e woke up and asked them where they’d been, ‘e was still smiling.

  “I didn’t ‘ave the pleasure o’ seeing you at Mrs. Finch’s to-night,” he ses.

  “No,” ses Ginger, very short. “We got tired of it.”

  “So un’ealthy sitting in that stuffy little room every evening,” ses Peter.

  Old Sam put his ‘ead under the bedclothes and laughed till the bed shook; and every now and then he’d put his ‘ead out and look at Peter and Ginger and laugh agin till he choked.

  “I see ‘ow it is,” he ses, sitting up and wiping his eyes on the sheet. “Well, we cant all win.”

  “Wot d’ye mean?” ses Ginger, very disagreeable.

  “She wouldn’t ‘ave you, Sam, thats wot I mean. And I don’t wonder at it. I wouldn’t ‘ave you if I was a gal.”

  “You’re dreaming, ses Peter Russet, sneering at ‘im.

  “That flower-pot o’ yours’ll come in handy,” ses Sam, thinking ‘ow he ‘ad put ‘is arm round the widow’s waist; “and I thank you kindly for the teapot, Ginger.

  “You don’t mean to say as you’ve asked ‘er to marry you?” ses Ginger, looking at Peter Russet.

  “Not quite; but I’m going to,” ses Sam, “and I’ll bet you even arf-crowns she ses ‘yes.’”

  Ginger wouldn’t take ‘im, and no more would Peter, not even when he raised it to five shillings; and the vain way old Sam lay there boasting and talking about ‘is way with the gals made ’em both feel ill.

  “I wouldn’t ‘ave her if she asked me on ‘er bended knees,” ses Ginger, holding up his ‘ead.

  “Nor me,” ses Peter. “You’re welcome to ‘er, Sam. When I think of the evenings I’ve wasted over a fat old woman I feel — —”

  “That’ll do,” ses old Sam, very sharp; “that ain’t the way to speak of a lady, even if she ‘as said ‘no.’”

  “All right, Sam,” ses Ginger. “You go in and win if you think you’re so precious clever.”

  Old Sam said that that was wot ‘e was going to do, and he spent so much time next morning making ‘imself look pretty that the other two could ‘ardly be civil to him.

  He went off a’most direckly arter breakfast, and they didn’t see ‘im agin till twelve o’clock that night. He ‘ad brought a bottle o’ whisky in with ‘im, and he was so ‘appy that they see plain wot had ‘appened.

  “She said ‘yes’ at two o’clock in the arternoon,” ses old Sam, smiling, arter they had ‘ad a glass apiece. “I’d nearly done the trick at one o’clock, and then the shop-bell went, and I ‘ad to begin all over agin. Still, it wasn’t unpleasant.”

  “Do you mean to tell us you’ve asked ‘er to marry you?” ses Ginger, ‘olding out ‘is glass to be filled agin.

  “I do,” ses Sam; “but I ‘ope there’s no ill-feeling. You never ‘ad a chance, neither of you; she told me so.”

  Ginger Dick and Peter Russet stared at each other.

  “She said she ‘ad been in love with me all along,” ses Sam, filling their glasses agin to cheer ’em up. “We went out arter tea and bought the engagement-ring, and then she got somebody to mind the shop and we went to the Pagoda music-’all.”

  “I ‘ope you didn’t pay much for the ring, Sam,” ses Ginger, who always got very kind-’arted arter two or three glasses o’ whisky. “If I’d known you was going to be in such a hurry I might ha’ told you before.”

  “We ought to ha’ done,” ses Peter, shaking his ‘ead.

  “Told me?” ses Sam, staring at ’em. “Told me wot?”

  “Why me and Peter gave it up,” ses Ginger; “but, o’ course, p’r’aps you don’t mind.”

  “Mind wot?” ses Sam.

  “It’s wonderful ‘ow quiet she kept it,” ses Peter.

  Old Sam stared at ’em agin, and then he asked ’em to speak in plain English wot they’d got to say, and not to go taking away the character of a woman wot wasn’t there to speak up for herself.

  “It’s nothing agin ‘er character,” ses Ginger. “It’s a credit to her, looked at properly,” ses Peter Russet.

  “And Sam’ll ‘ave the pleasure of bringing of ’em up,” ses Ginger.

  “Bringing of ’em up?” ses Sam, in a trembling voice and turning pale; “bringing who up?”

  “Why, ‘er children,” ses Ginger. “Didn’t she tell you? She’s got nine of ’em.”

  Sam pretended not to believe ’em at fust, and said they was jealous; but next day he crept down to the greengrocer’s shop in the same street, where Ginger had ‘appened to buy some oranges one day, and found that it was only too true. Nine children, the eldest of ’em only fifteen, was staying with diff’rent relations owing to scarlet-fever next door.

  Old Sam crept back ‘ome like a man in a dream, with a bag of oranges he didn’t want, and, arter making a present of the engagement-ring to Ginger — if ‘e could get it — he took the fust train to Tilbury and signed on for a v’y’ge to China.

  THE BOATSWAIN’S MATE

  Mr. George Benn, retired boat-swain, sighed noisily, and with a despondent gesture, turned to the door and stood with the handle in his hand; Mrs. Waters, sitting behind the tiny bar in a tall Windsor-chair, eyed him with some heat.

  “My feelings’ll never change,” said the boatswain.

  “Nor mine either,” said the landlady, sharply. “It’s a strange thing, Mr. Benn, but you always ask me to marry you after the third mug.”

  “It’s only to get my courage up,” pleaded the boatswain. “Next time I’ll do it afore I ‘ave a drop; that’ll prove to you I’m in earnest.”

  He stepped outside and closed the door before the landlady could make a selection from the many retorts that crowded to her lips.

  After the cool bar, with its smell of damp saw-dust, the road seemed hot and dusty; but the boatswain, a prey to gloom natural to a man whose hand has been refused five times in a fortnight, walked on unheeding. His steps lagged, but his brain was active.

  He walked for two miles deep in thought, and then coming to a shady bank took a seat upon an inviting piece of turf and lit his pipe. The heat and the drowsy hum of bees made him nod; his pipe hung from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes closed.

  He opened them at the sound of approaching footsteps, and, feeling in his pocket for matches, gazed lazily at the intruder. He saw a tall man carrying a small bundle over his shoulder, and in the erect carriage, the keen eyes, and bronzed face had little difficulty in detecting the old soldier.

  The stranger stopped as he reached the seated boatswain and eyed him pleasantly.

  “Got a pipe o’ baccy, mate?” he inquired.

  The boatswain handed him the small metal box in which he kept that luxury.

  “Lobster, ain’t you?” he said, affably.

  The tall man nodded. “Was,” he replied. “Now I’m my own commander-in-chief.”

  “Padding it?” suggested the boatswain, taking the box from him and refilling his pipe.

  The other nodded, and with the air of one disposed to conversation dropped his bundle in the ditch and took a seat beside him. “I’ve got plenty of time,” he remarked.

  Mr. Benn nodded, and for a while smoked on in silence. A dim idea which had been in his mind for some time began to clarify. He stole a glance at his companion — a man of about thirty-eight, clear eyes, with humorous wrinkles at the corners, a heavy moustache, and a cheerful expression m
ore than tinged with recklessness.

  “Ain’t over and above fond o’ work?” suggested the boatswain, when he had finished his inspection.

  “I love it,” said the other, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air, “but we can’t have all we want in this world; it wouldn’t be good for us.”

  The boatswain thought of Mrs. Waters, and sighed. Then he rattled his pocket.

  “Would arf a quid be any good to you?” he inquired.

  “Look here,” began the soldier; “just because I asked you for a pipe o’ baccy—”

  “No offence,” said the other, quickly. “I mean if you earned it?”

  The soldier nodded and took his pipe from his mouth. “Gardening and windows?” he hazarded, with a shrug of his shoulders.

  The boatswain shook his head.

  “Scrubbing, p’r’aps?” said the soldier, with a sigh of resignation. “Last house I scrubbed out I did it so thoroughly they accused me of pouching the soap. Hang ’em!”

  “And you didn’t?” queried the boatswain, eyeing him keenly.

  The soldier rose and, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, gazed at him darkly. “I can’t give it back to you,” he said, slowly, “because I’ve smoked some of it, and I can’t pay you for it because I’ve only got twopence, and that I want for myself. So long, matey, and next time a poor wretch asks you for a pipe, be civil.”

  “I never see such a man for taking offence in all my born days,” expostulated the boat-swain. “I ‘ad my reasons for that remark, mate. Good reasons they was.”

  The soldier grunted and, stooping, picked up his bundle.

  “I spoke of arf a sovereign just now,” continued the boatswain, impressively, “and when I tell you that I offer it to you to do a bit o’ burgling, you’ll see ‘ow necessary it is for me to be certain of your honesty.”

  “Burgling?” gasped the astonished soldier. “Honesty? ‘Struth; are you drunk or am I?”

  “Meaning,” said the boatswain, waving the imputation away with his hand, “for you to pretend to be a burglar.”

  “We’re both drunk, that’s what it is,” said the other, resignedly.