Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Well, I don’t want to say things behind a man’s back,” said the latter, recovering himself. “Let’s wait till George comes in, and I’ll say ’em before his face.”

  Mrs. Henshaw, biting her lip with annoyance, argued with him, but in vain. Mr. Stokes was firm, and, with a glance at the clock, said that George would be in soon and he would wait till he came.

  Conversation flagged despite the efforts of Mrs. Henshaw to draw Mr. Bell out on the subject of Ireland. At an early stage of the catechism he lost his voice entirely, and thereafter sat silent while Mrs. Henshaw discussed the most intimate affairs of her husband’s family with Mr. Stokes. She was in the middle of an anecdote about her mother-in-law when Mr. Bell rose and, with some difficulty, intimated his desire to depart.

  “What, without seeing George?” said Mrs. Henshaw. “He can’t be long now, and I should like to see you together.”

  “P’r’aps we shall meet him,” said Mr. Stokes, who was getting rather tired of the affair. “Good night.”

  He led the way to the door and, followed by the eager Mr. Bell, passed out into the street. The knowledge that Mrs. Henshaw was watching him from the door kept him silent until they had turned the corner, and then, turning fiercely on Mr. Henshaw, he demanded to know what he meant by it.

  “I’ve done with you,” he said, waving aside the other’s denials. “I’ve got you out of this mess, and now I’ve done with you. It’s no good talking, because I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Good-by, then,” said Mr. Henshaw, with unexpected hauteur, as he came to a standstill.

  “I’ll ‘ave my trousers first, though,” said Mr. Stokes, coldly, “and then you can go, and welcome.”

  “It’s my opinion she recognized me, and said all that just to try us,” said the other, gloomily.

  Mr. Stokes scorned to reply, and reaching his lodging stood by in silence while the other changed his clothes. He refused Mr. Henshaw’s hand with a gesture he had once seen on the stage, and, showing him downstairs, closed the door behind him with a bang.

  Left to himself, the small remnants of Mr. Hen-shaw’s courage disappeared. He wandered forlornly up and down the streets until past ten o’clock, and then, cold and dispirited, set off in the direction of home. At the corner of the street he pulled himself together by a great effort, and walking rapidly to his house put the key in the lock and turned it.

  The door was fast and the lights were out. He knocked, at first lightly, but gradually increasing in loudness. At the fourth knock a light appeared in the room above, the window was raised, and Mrs. Henshaw leaned out.

  “Mr. Bell!” she said, in tones of severe surprise.

  “Bell?” said her husband, in a more surprised voice still. “It’s me, Polly.”

  “Go away at once, sir!” said Mrs. Henshaw, indignantly. “How dare you call me by my Christian name? I’m surprised at you!”

  “It’s me, I tell you — George!” said her husband, desperately. “What do you mean by calling me Bell?”

  “If you’re Mr. Bell, as I suppose, you know well enough,” said Mrs. Henshaw, leaning out and regarding him fixedly; “and if you’re George you don’t.”

  “I’m George,” said Mr. Henshaw, hastily.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what to make of it,” said Mrs. Henshaw, with a bewildered air. “Ted Stokes brought round a man named Bell this afternoon so like you that I can’t tell the difference. I don’t know what to do, but I do know this — I don’t let you in until I have seen you both together, so that I can tell which is which.”

  “Both together!” exclaimed the startled Mr. Henshaw. “Here — look here!”

  He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the window. Mrs. Henshaw scrutinized him gravely.

  “It’s no good,” she said, despairingly. “I can’t tell. I must see you both together.”

  Mr. Henshaw ground his teeth. “But where is he?” he inquired.

  “He went off with Ted Stokes,” said his wife. “If you’re George you’d better go and ask him.”

  She prepared to close the window, but Mr. Hen-shaw’s voice arrested her.

  “And suppose he is not there?” he said.

  Mrs. Henshaw reflected. “If he is not there bring Ted Stokes back with you,” she said at last, “and if he says you’re George, I’ll let you in.”

  The window closed and the light disappeared. Mr. Henshaw waited for some time, but in vain, and, with a very clear idea of the reception he would meet with at the hands of Mr. Stokes, set off to his lodging.

  If anything, he had underestimated his friend’s powers. Mr. Stokes, rudely disturbed just as he had got into bed, was the incarnation of wrath. He was violent, bitter, and insulting in a breath, but Mr. Henshaw was desperate, and Mr. Stokes, after vowing over and over again that nothing should induce him to accompany him back to his house, was at last so moved by his entreaties that he went upstairs and equipped himself for the journey.

  “And, mind, after this I never want to see your face again,” he said, as they walked swiftly back.

  Mr. Henshaw made no reply. The events of the day had almost exhausted him, and silence was maintained until they reached the house. Much to his relief he heard somebody moving about upstairs after the first knock and in a very short time the window was gently raised and Mrs. Henshaw looked out.

  “What, you’ve come back?” she said, in a low, intense voice. “Well, of all the impudence! How dare you carry on like this?”

  “It’s me,” said her husband.

  “Yes, I see it is,” was the reply.

  “It’s him right enough; it’s your husband,” said Mr. Stokes. “Alfred Bell has gone.”

  “How dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods!” exclaimed Mrs. Henshaw. “I wonder the ground don’t open and swallow you up. It’s Mr. Bell, and if he don’t go away I’ll call the police.”

  Messrs. Henshaw and Stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking up at her. Then they conferred in whispers.

  “If you can’t tell ’em apart, how do you know this is Mr. Bell?” inquired Mr. Stokes, turning to the window again.

  “How do I know?” repeated Mrs. Henshaw. “How do I know? Why, because my husband came home almost directly Mr. Bell had gone. I wonder he didn’t meet him.”

  “Came home?” cried Mr. Henshaw, shrilly. “Came home?”

  “Yes; and don’t make so much noise,” said Mrs. Henshaw, tartly; “he’s asleep.”

  The two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. Mr. Stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away. At the end of the street he took a deep breath, and, after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, summed up the situation.

  “She’s twigged it all along,” he said, with conviction. “You’ll have to come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best thing you can do is to make a clean breast of it. It was a silly game, and, if you remember, I was against it from the first.”

  MIXED RELATIONS

  THE brig Elizabeth Barstow came up the river as though in a hurry to taste again the joys of the Metropolis. The skipper, leaning on the wheel, was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate, who was placing before him the hygienic, economical, and moral advantages of total abstinence in language of great strength but little variety.

  “Teetotallers eat more,” said the skipper, finally.

  The mate choked, and his eye sought the galley. “Eat more?” he spluttered. “Yesterday the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted like a bit o’ dirty sponge. I’ve lived on biscuits this trip; and the only tater I ate I’m going to see a doctor about direckly I get ashore. It’s a sin and a shame to spoil good food the way ‘e does.”

  “The moment I can ship another cook he goes,” said the skipper. “He seems busy, judging by the noise.”

  “I’m making him clean up everything, ready for the next,” explained the mate, grimly. “And he ‘ad the cheek to tel
l me he’s improving — improving!”

  “He’ll go as soon as I get another,” repeated the skipper, stooping and peering ahead. “I don’t like being poisoned any more than you do. He told me he could cook when I shipped him; said his sister had taught him.”

  The mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind by putting his head in at the galley and bidding the cook hold up each separate utensil for his inspection. A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly attributed to elbow-grease.

  The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the traffic, sought her old berth at Buller’s Wharf. It was occupied by a deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable position and consoled itself with adjectives.

  The men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the crew of the Elizabeth Barstow, after making fast, went below to prepare themselves for an evening ashore. Standing before the largest saucepan-lid in the galley, the cook was putting the finishing touches to his toilet.

  A light, quick step on the wharf attracted the attention of the skipper as he leaned against the side smoking. It stopped just behind him, and turning round he found himself gazing into the soft brown eyes of the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

  “Is Mr. Jewell on board, please?” she asked, with a smile.

  “Jewell?” repeated the skipper. “Jewell? Don’t know the name.”

  “He was on board,” said the girl, somewhat taken aback. “This is the Elizabeth Barstow, isn’t it?”

  “What’s his Christian name,” inquired the skipper, thoughtfully.

  “Albert,” replied the girl. “Bert,” she added, as the other shook his head.

  “Oh, the cook!” said the skipper. “I didn’t know his name was Jewell. Yes, he’s in the galley.”

  He stood eyeing her and wondering in a dazed fashion what she could see in a small, white-faced, slab-sided —

  The girl broke in upon his meditations. “How does he cook?” she inquired, smiling.

  He was about to tell her, when he suddenly remembered the cook’s statement as to his instructor. “He’s getting on,” he said, slowly; “he’s getting on. Are you his sister?”

  The girl smiled and nodded. “Ye — es,” she said, slowly. “Will you tell him I am waiting for him, please?”

  The skipper started and drew himself up; then he walked forward and put his head in at the galley.

  “Bert,” he said, in a friendly voice, “your sister wants to see you.”

  “Who?” inquired Mr. Jewell, in the accents of amazement. He put his head out at the door and nodded, and then, somewhat red in the face with the exercise, drew on his jacket and walked towards her. The skipper followed.

  “Thank you,” said the girl, with a pleasant smile.

  “You’re quite welcome,” said the skipper.

  Mr. Jewell stepped ashore and, after a moment of indecision, shook hands with his visitor.

  “If you’re down this way again,” said the skipper, as they turned away, “perhaps you’d like to see the cabin. We’re in rather a pickle just now, but if you should happen to come down for Bert to-morrow night—”

  The girl’s eyes grew mirthful and her lips trembled. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Some people like looking over cabins,” murmured the skipper.

  He raised his hand to his cap and turned away. The mate, who had just come on deck, stared after the retreating couple and gave vent to a low whistle.

  “What a fine gal to pick up with Slushy,” he remarked.

  “It’s his sister,” said the skipper, somewhat sharply.

  “The one that taught him to cook?” said the other, hastily. “Here! I’d like five minutes alone with her; I’d give ‘er a piece o’ my mind that ‘ud do her good. I’d learn ‘er. I’d tell her wot I thought of her.”

  “That’ll do,” said the skipper; “that’ll do. He’s not so bad for a beginner; I’ve known worse.”

  “Not so bad?” repeated the mate. “Not so bad? Why” — his voice trembled— “ain’t you going to give ‘im the chuck, then?”

  “I shall try him for another vy’ge, George,” said the skipper. “It’s hard lines on a youngster if he don’t have a chance. I was never one to be severe. Live and let live, that’s my motto. Do as you’d be done by.”

  “You’re turning soft-’arted in your old age,” grumbled the mate.

  “Old age!” said the other, in a startled voice, “Old age! I’m not thirty-seven yet.”

  “You’re getting on,” said the mate; “besides, you look old.”

  The skipper investigated the charge in the cabin looking-glass ten minutes later. He twisted his beard in his hand and tried to imagine how he would look without it. As a compromise he went out and had it cut short and trimmed to a point. The glass smiled approval on his return; the mate smiled too, and, being caught in the act, said it made him look like his own grandson.

  It was late when the cook returned, but the skipper was on deck, and, stopping him for a match, entered into a little conversation. Mr. Jewell, surprised at first, soon became at his ease, and, the talk drifting in some unknown fashion to Miss Jewell, discussed her with brotherly frankness.

  “You spent the evening together, I s’pose?” said the skipper, carelessly.

  Mr. Jewell glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Cooking,” he said, and put his hand over his mouth with some suddenness.

  By the time they parted the skipper had his hand in a friendly fashion on the cook’s shoulder, and was displaying an interest in his welfare as unusual as it was gratifying. So unaccustomed was Mr. Jewell to such consideration that he was fain to pause for a moment or two to regain control of his features before plunging into the lamp-lit fo’c’sle.

  The mate made but a poor breakfast next morning, but his superior, who saw the hand of Miss Jewell in the muddy coffee and the cremated bacon, ate his with relish. He was looking forward to the evening, the cook having assured him that his sister had accepted his invitation to inspect the cabin, and indeed had talked of little else. The boy was set to work house-cleaning, and, having gleaned a few particulars, cursed the sex with painstaking thoroughness.

  It seemed to the skipper a favorable omen that Miss Jewell descended the companion-ladder as though to the manner born; and her exclamations of delight at the cabin completed his satisfaction. The cook, who had followed them below with some trepidation, became reassured, and seating himself on a locker joined modestly in the conversation.

  “It’s like a doll’s-house,” declared the girl, as she finished by examining the space-saving devices in the state-room. “Well, I mustn’t take up any more of your time.”

  “I’ve got nothing to do,” said the skipper, hastily. “I — I was thinking of going for a walk; but it’s lonely walking about by yourself.”

  Miss Jewell agreed. She lowered her eyes and looked under the lashes at the skipper.

  “I never had a sister,” continued the latter, in melancholy accents.

  “I don’t suppose you would want to take her out if you had,” said the girl.

  The skipper protested. “Bert takes you out,” he said.

  “He isn’t like most brothers,” said Miss Jewell, shifting along the locker and placing her hand affectionately on the cook’s shoulder.

  “If I had a sister,” continued the skipper, in a somewhat uneven voice, “I should take her out. This evening, for instance, I should take her to a theatre.”

  Miss Jewell turned upon him the innocent face of a child. “It would be nice to be your sister,” she said, calmly.

  The skipper attempted to speak, but his voice failed him. “Well, pretend you are my sister,” he said, at last, “and we’ll go to one.”

  “Pretend?” said Miss Jewell, as she turned and eyed the cook. “Bert wouldn’t like that,” she said, decidedly.

  “N — no,” said the cook, nervously, avoiding the skipper’s eye.

  “It wouldn
’t be proper,” said Miss Jewell, sitting upright and looking very proper indeed.

  “I — I meant Bert to come, too,” said the skipper; “of course,” he added.

  The severity of Miss Jewell’s expression relaxed. She stole an amused glance at the cook and, reading her instructions in his eye, began to temporize. Ten minutes later the crew of the Elizabeth Barstow in various attitudes of astonishment beheld their commander going ashore with his cook. The mate so far forgot himself as to whistle, but with great presence of mind cuffed the boy’s ear as the skipper turned.

  For some little distance the three walked along in silence. The skipper was building castles in the air, the cook was not quite at his ease, and the girl, gazing steadily in front of her, appeared slightly embarrassed.

  By the time they reached Aldgate and stood waiting for an omnibus Miss Jewell found herself assailed by doubts. She remembered that she did not want to go to a theatre, and warmly pressed the two men to go together and leave her to go home. The skipper remonstrated in vain, but the cook came to the rescue, and Miss Jewell, still protesting, was pushed on to a ‘bus and propelled upstairs. She took a vacant seat in front, and the skipper and Mr. Jewell shared one behind.

  The three hours at the theatre passed all too soon, although the girl was so interested in the performance that she paid but slight attention to her companions. During the waits she became interested in her surroundings, and several times called the skipper’s attention to smart-looking men in the stalls and boxes. At one man she stared so persistently that an opera-glass was at last levelled in return.

  “How rude of him,” she said, smiling sweetly at the skipper.

  She shook her head in disapproval, but the next moment he saw her gazing steadily at the opera-glasses again.

  “If you don’t look he’ll soon get tired of it,” he said, between his teeth.

  “Yes, perhaps he will,” said Miss Jewell, without lowering her eyes in the least.