Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “I’ve been watching from the back window,” he said, nodding. “You’re a wonder; that’s what you are. Come and look at him.”

  Mrs. Waters followed, and leaning out of the window watched with simple pleasure the efforts of the amateur sexton. Mr. Benn was digging like one possessed, only pausing at intervals to straighten his back and to cast a fearsome glance around him. The only thing that marred her pleasure was the behaviour of Mr. Travers, who was struggling for a place with all the fervour of a citizen at the Lord Mayor’s show.

  “Get back,” she said, in a fierce whisper. “He’ll see you.”

  Mr. Travers with obvious reluctance obeyed, just as the victim looked up.

  “Is that you, Mrs. Waters?” inquired the boatswain, fearfully.

  “Yes, of course it is,” snapped the widow. “Who else should it be, do you think? Go on! What are you stopping for?”

  Mr. Benn’s breathing as he bent to his task again was distinctly audible. The head of Mr. Travers ranged itself once more alongside the widow’s. For a long time they watched in silence.

  “Won’t you come down here, Mrs. Waters?” called the boatswain, looking up so suddenly that Mr. Travers’s head bumped painfully against the side of the window. “It’s a bit creepy, all alone.”

  “I’m all right,” said Mrs. Waters.

  “I keep fancying there’s something dodging behind them currant bushes,” pursued the unfortunate Mr. Benn, hoarsely. “How you can stay there alone I can’t think. I thought I saw something looking over your shoulder just now. Fancy if it came creeping up behind and caught hold of you! The widow gave a sudden faint scream.

  “If you do that again!” she said, turning fiercely on Mr. Travers.

  “He put it into my head,” said the culprit, humbly; “I should never have thought of such a thing by myself. I’m one of the quietest and best-behaved — —”

  “Make haste, Mr. Benn,” said the widow, turning to the window again; “I’ve got a lot to do when you’ve finished.”

  The boatswain groaned and fell to digging again, and Mrs. Waters, after watching a little while longer, gave Mr. Travers some pointed instructions about the window and went down to the garden again.

  “That will do, I think,” she said, stepping into the hole and regarding it critically. “Now you’d better go straight off home, and, mind, not a word to a soul about this.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder, and noticing with pleasure that he shuddered at her touch led the way to the gate. The boat-swain paused for a moment, as though about to speak, and then, apparently thinking better of it, bade her good-bye in a hoarse voice and walked feebly up the road. Mrs. Waters stood watching until his steps died away in the distance, and then, returning to the garden, took up the spade and stood regarding with some dismay the mountainous result of his industry. Mr. Travers, who was standing just inside the back door, joined her.

  “Let me,” he said, gallantly.

  The day was breaking as he finished his task. The clean, sweet air and the exercise had given him an appetite to which the smell of cooking bacon and hot coffee that proceeded from the house had set a sharper edge. He took his coat from a bush and put it on. Mrs. Waters appeared at the door.

  “You had better come in and have some breakfast before you go,” she said, brusquely; “there’s no more sleep for me now.”

  Mr. Travers obeyed with alacrity, and after a satisfying wash in the scullery came into the big kitchen with his face shining and took a seat at the table. The cloth was neatly laid, and Mrs. Waters, fresh and cool, with a smile upon her pleasant face, sat behind the tray. She looked at her guest curiously, Mr. Travers’s spirits being somewhat higher than the state of his wardrobe appeared to justify.

  “Why don’t you get some settled work?” she inquired, with gentle severity, as he imparted snatches of his history between bites.

  “Easier said than done,” said Mr. Travers, serenely. “But don’t you run away with the idea that I’m a beggar, because I’m not. I pay my way, such as it is. And, by-the-bye, I s’pose I haven’t earned that two pounds Benn gave me?”

  His face lengthened, and he felt uneasily in his pocket.

  “I’ll give them to him when I’m tired of the joke,” said the widow, holding out her hand and watching him closely.

  Mr. Travers passed the coins over to her. “Soft hand you’ve got,” he said, musingly. “I don’t wonder Benn was desperate. I dare say I should have done the same in his place.”

  Mrs. Waters bit her lip and looked out at the window; Mr. Travers resumed his breakfast.

  “There’s only one job that I’m really fit for, now that I’m too old for the Army,” he said, confidentially, as, breakfast finished, he stood at the door ready to depart.

  “Playing at burglars?” hazarded Mrs. Waters.

  “Landlord of a little country public-house,” said Mr. Travers, simply.

  Mrs. Waters fell back and regarded him with open-eyed amazement.

  “Good morning,” she said, as soon as she could trust her voice.

  “Good-bye,” said Mr. Travers, reluctantly. “I should like to hear how old Benn takes this joke, though.”

  Mrs. Waters retreated into the house and stood regarding him. “If you’re passing this way again and like to look in — I’ll tell you,” she said, after a long pause. “Good-bye.”

  “I’ll look in in a week’s time,” said Mr. Travers.

  He took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. “It would be the best joke of all,” he said, turning away.

  “What would?”

  The soldier confronted her again.

  “For old Benn to come round here one evening and find me landlord. Think it over.”

  Mrs. Waters met his gaze soberly. “I’ll think it over when you have gone,” she said, softly. “Now go.”

  THE NEST EGG

  Artfulness,” said the night-watch-man, smoking placidly, “is a gift; but it don’t pay always. I’ve met some artful ones in my time — plenty of ’em; but I can’t truthfully say as ‘ow any of them was the better for meeting me.”

  He rose slowly from the packing-case on which he had been sitting and, stamping down the point of a rusty nail with his heel, resumed his seat, remarking that he had endured it for some time under the impression that it was only a splinter.

  “I’ve surprised more than one in my time,” he continued, slowly. “When I met one of these ‘ere artful ones I used fust of all to pretend to be more stupid than wot I really am.”

  He stopped and stared fixedly.

  “More stupid than I looked,” he said. He stopped again.

  “More stupid than wot they thought I looked,” he said, speaking with marked deliberation. And I’d let ’em go on and on until I thought I had ‘ad about enough, and then turn round on ’em. Nobody ever got the better o’ me except my wife, and that was only before we was married. Two nights arterwards she found a fish-hook in my trouser-pocket, and arter that I could ha’ left untold gold there — if I’d ha’ had it. It spoilt wot some people call the honey-moon, but it paid in the long run.

  One o’ the worst things a man can do is to take up artfulness all of a sudden. I never knew it to answer yet, and I can tell you of a case that’ll prove my words true.

  It’s some years ago now, and the chap it ‘appened to was a young man, a shipmate o’ mine, named Charlie Tagg. Very steady young chap he was, too steady for most of ’em. That’s ‘ow it was me and ‘im got to be such pals.

  He’d been saving up for years to get married, and all the advice we could give ‘im didn’t ‘ave any effect. He saved up nearly every penny of ‘is money and gave it to his gal to keep for ‘im, and the time I’m speaking of she’d got seventy-two pounds of ‘is and seventeen-and-six of ‘er own to set up house-keeping with.

  Then a thing happened that I’ve known to ‘appen to sailormen afore. At Sydney ‘e got silly on another gal, and started walking out with her, and afore he knew wot he was about he’d
promised to marry ‘er too.

  Sydney and London being a long way from each other was in ‘is favour, but the thing that troubled ‘im was ‘ow to get that seventy-two pounds out of Emma Cook, ‘is London gal, so as he could marry the other with it. It worried ‘im all the way home, and by the time we got into the London river ‘is head was all in a maze with it. Emma Cook ‘ad got it all saved up in the bank, to take a little shop with when they got spliced, and ‘ow to get it he could not think.

  He went straight off to Poplar, where she lived, as soon as the ship was berthed. He walked all the way so as to ‘ave more time for thinking, but wot with bumping into two old gentlemen with bad tempers, and being nearly run over by a cabman with a white ‘orse and red whiskers, he got to the house without ‘aving thought of anything.

  They was just finishing their tea as ‘e got there, and they all seemed so pleased to see ‘im that it made it worse than ever for ‘im. Mrs. Cook, who ‘ad pretty near finished, gave ‘im her own cup to drink out of, and said that she ‘ad dreamt of ‘im the night afore last, and old Cook said that he ‘ad got so good-looking ‘e shouldn’t ‘ave known him.

  “I should ‘ave passed ‘im in the street,” he ses. “I never see such an alteration.”

  “They’ll be a nice-looking couple,” ses his wife, looking at a young chap, named George Smith, that ‘ad been sitting next to Emma.

  Charlie Tagg filled ‘is mouth with bread and butter, and wondered ‘ow he was to begin. He squeezed Emma’s ‘and just for the sake of keeping up appearances, and all the time ‘e was thinking of the other gal waiting for ‘im thousands o’ miles away.

  “You’ve come ‘ome just in the nick o’ time,” ses old Cook; “if you’d done it o’ purpose you couldn’t ‘ave arranged it better.”

  “Somebody’s birthday?” ses Charlie, trying to smile.

  Old Cook shook his ‘ead. “Though mine is next Wednesday,” he ses, “and thank you for thinking of it. No; you’re just in time for the biggest bargain in the chandlery line that anybody ever ‘ad a chance of. If you ‘adn’t ha’ come back we should have ‘ad to ha’ done it without you.”

  “Eighty pounds,” ses Mrs. Cook, smiling at Charlie. “With the money Emma’s got saved and your wages this trip you’ll ‘ave plenty. You must come round arter tea and ‘ave a look at it.”

  “Little place not arf a mile from ‘ere,” ses old Cook. “Properly worked up, the way Emma’ll do it, it’ll be a little fortune. I wish I’d had a chance like it in my young time.”

  He sat shaking his ‘ead to think wot he’d lost, and Charlie Tagg sat staring at ‘im and wondering wot he was to do.

  “My idea is for Charlie to go for a few more v’y’ges arter they’re married while Emma works up the business,” ses Mrs. Cook; “she’ll be all right with young Bill and Sarah Ann to ‘elp her and keep ‘er company while he’s away.”

  “We’ll see as she ain’t lonely,” ses George Smith, turning to Charlie.

  Charlie Tagg gave a bit of a cough and said it wanted considering. He said it was no good doing things in a ‘urry and then repenting of ’em all the rest of your life. And ‘e said he’d been given to understand that chandlery wasn’t wot it ‘ad been, and some of the cleverest people ‘e knew thought that it would be worse before it was better. By the time he’d finished they was all looking at ‘im as though they couldn’t believe their ears.

  “You just step round and ‘ave a look at the place,” ses old Cook; “if that don’t make you alter your tune, call me a sinner.”

  Charlie Tagg felt as though ‘e could ha’ called ‘im a lot o’ worse things than that, but he took up ‘is hat and Mrs. Cook and Emma got their bonnets on and they went round.

  “I don’t think much of it for eighty pounds,” ses Charlie, beginning his artfulness as they came near a big shop, with plate-glass and a double front.

  “Eh?” ses old Cook, staring at ‘im. “Why, that ain’t the place. Why, you wouldn’t get that for eight ‘undred.”

  “Well, I don’t think much of it,” ses Charlie; “if it’s worse than that I can’t look at it — I can’t, indeed.”

  “You ain’t been drinking, Charlie?” ses old Cook, in a puzzled voice.

  “Certainly not,” ses Charlie.

  He was pleased to see ‘ow anxious they all looked, and when they did come to the shop ‘e set up a laugh that old Cook said chilled the marrer in ‘is bones. He stood looking in a ‘elpless sort o’ way at his wife and Emma, and then at last he ses, “There it is; and a fair bargain at the price.”

  “I s’pose you ain’t been drinking?” ses Charlie.

  “Wot’s the matter with it?” ses Mrs. Cook flaring up.

  “Come inside and look at it,” ses Emma, taking ‘old of his arm.

  “Not me,” ses Charlie, hanging back. “Why, I wouldn’t take it at a gift.”

  He stood there on the kerbstone, and all they could do ‘e wouldn’t budge. He said it was a bad road and a little shop, and ‘ad got a look about it he didn’t like. They walked back ‘ome like a funeral procession, and Emma ‘ad to keep saying “H’s!” in w’ispers to ‘er mother all the way.

  “I don’t know wot Charlie does want, I’m sure,” ses Mrs. Cook, taking off ‘er bonnet as soon as she got indoors and pitching it on the chair he was just going to set down on.

  “It’s so awk’ard,” ses old Cook, rubbing his ‘cad. “Fact is, Charlie, we pretty near gave ’em to understand as we’d buy it.”

  “It’s as good as settled,” ses Mrs. Cook, trembling all over with temper.

  “They won’t settle till they get the money,” ses Charlie. “You may make your mind easy about that.”

  “Emma’s drawn it all out of the bank ready,” ses old Cook, eager like.

  Charlie felt ‘ot and cold all over. “I’d better take care of it,” he ses, in a trembling voice. “You might be robbed.”

  “So might you be,” ses Mrs. Cook. “Don’t you worry; it’s in a safe place.”

  “Sailormen are always being robbed,” ses George Smith, who ‘ad been helping young Bill with ‘is sums while they ‘ad gone to look at the shop. “There’s more sailormen robbed than all the rest put together.”

  “They won’t rob Charlie,” ses Mrs. Cook, pressing ‘er lips together. “I’ll take care o’ that.”

  Charlie tried to laugh, but ‘e made such a queer noise that young Bill made a large blot on ‘is exercise-book, and old Cook, wot was lighting his pipe, burnt ‘is fingers through not looking wot ‘e was doing.

  “You see,” ses Charlie, “if I was robbed, which ain’t at all likely, it ‘ud only be me losing my own money; but if you was robbed of it you’d never forgive yourselves.”

  “I dessay I should get over it,” ses Mrs. Cook, sniffing. “I’d ‘ave a try, at all events.”

  Charlie started to laugh agin, and old Cook, who had struck another match, blew it out and waited till he’d finished.

  “The whole truth is,” ses Charlie, looking round, “I’ve got something better to do with the money. I’ve got a chance offered me that’ll make me able to double it afore you know where you are.”

  “Not afore I know where I am,” ses Mrs. Cook, with a laugh that was worse than Charlie’s.

  “The chance of a lifetime,” ses Charlie, trying to keep ‘is temper. “I can’t tell you wot it is, because I’ve promised to keep it secret for a time. You’ll be surprised when I do tell you.”

  “If I wait till then till I’m surprised,” ses Mrs. Cook, “I shall ‘ave to wait a long time. My advice to you is to take that shop and ha’ done with it.”

  Charlie sat there arguing all the evening, but it was no good, and the idea o’ them people sitting there and refusing to let ‘im have his own money pretty near sent ‘im crazy. It was all ‘e could do to kiss Emma good-night, and ‘e couldn’t have ‘elped slamming the front door if he’d been paid for it. The only comfort he ‘ad got left was the Sydney gal’s photygraph, and he took that out and lo
oked at it under nearly every lamp-post he passed.

  He went round the next night and ‘ad an-other try to get ‘is money, but it was no use; and all the good he done was to make Mrs. Cook in such a temper that she ‘ad to go to bed before he ‘ad arf finished. It was no good talking to old Cook and Emma, because they daren’t do anything without ‘er, and it was no good calling things up the stairs to her because she didn’t answer. Three nights running Mrs. Cook went off to bed afore eight o’clock, for fear she should say something to ‘im as she’d be sorry for arterwards; and for three nights Charlie made ‘imself so disagreeable that Emma told ‘im plain the sooner ‘e went back to sea agin the better she should like it. The only one who seemed to enjoy it was George Smith, and ‘e used to bring bits out o’ newspapers and read to ’em, showing ‘ow silly people was done out of their money.

  On the fourth night Charlie dropped it and made ‘imself so amiable that Mrs. Cook stayed up and made ‘im a Welsh rare-bit for ‘is supper, and made ‘im drink two glasses o’ beer instead o’ one, while old Cook sat and drank three glasses o’ water just out of temper, and to show that ‘e didn’t mind. When she started on the chandler’s shop agin Charlie said he’d think it over, and when ‘e went away Mrs. Cook called ‘im her sailor-boy and wished ‘im pleasant dreams.

  But Charlie Tagg ‘ad got better things to do than to dream, and ‘e sat up in bed arf the night thinking out a new plan he’d thought of to get that money. When ‘e did fall asleep at last ‘e dreamt of taking a little farm in Australia and riding about on ‘orseback with the Sydney gal watching his men at work.

  In the morning he went and hunted up a shipmate of ‘is, a young feller named Jack Bates. Jack was one o’ these ‘ere chaps, nobody’s enemy but their own, as the saying is; a good-’arted, free-’anded chap as you could wish to see. Everybody liked ‘im, and the ship’s cat loved ‘im. He’d ha’ sold the shirt off ‘is back to oblige a pal, and three times in one week he got ‘is face scratched for trying to prevent ‘usbands knocking their wives about.

  Charlie Tagg went to ‘im because he was the only man ‘e could trust, and for over arf an hour he was telling Jack Bates all ‘is troubles, and at last, as a great favour, he let ‘im see the Sydney gal’s photygraph, and told him that all that pore gal’s future ‘appiness depended upon ‘im.