Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  Mr. Price drew his chair up, but, as to talking about Australia, he said ungratefully that he was sick of the name of the place, and preferred instead to discuss the past and future of Mr. Potter. He learned, among other things, that that gentleman was of a careful and thrifty disposition, and that his savings, augmented by a lucky legacy, amounted to a hundred and ten pounds.

  “Alfred is going to stay with Palmer and Mays for another year, and then we shall take a business of our own,” said Ethel.

  “Quite right,” said Mr. Price. “I like to see young people make their own way,” he added meaningly. “It’s good for ’em.”

  It was plain to all that he had taken a great fancy to Mr. Potter. He discussed the grocery trade with the air of a rich man seeking a good investment, and threw out dark hints about returning to England after a final visit to Australia and settling down in the bosom of his family. He accepted a cigar from Mr. Potter after supper, and, when the young man left — at an unusually late hour — walked home with him.

  It was the first of several pleasant evenings, and Mr. Price, who had bought a book dealing with Australia from a second-hand bookstall, no longer denied them an account of his adventures there. A gold watch and chain, which had made a serious hole in his brother-in-law’s Savings Bank account, lent an air of substance to his waistcoat, and a pin of excellent paste sparkled in his neck-tie. Under the influence of good food and home comforts he improved every day, and the unfortunate Mr. Spriggs was at his wits’ end to resist further encroachments. From the second day of their acquaintance he called Mr. Potter “Alf,” and the young people listened with great attention to his discourse on “Money: How to Make It and How to Keep It.”

  His own dealings with Mr. Spriggs afforded an example which he did not quote. Beginning with shillings, he led up to half-crowns, and, encouraged by success, one afternoon boldly demanded a half-sovereign to buy a wedding-present with. Mrs. Spriggs drew her over-wrought husband into the kitchen and argued with him in whispers.

  “Give him what he wants till they’re married,” she entreated; “after that Alfred can’t help himself, and it’ll be as much to his interest to keep quiet as anybody else.”

  Mr. Spriggs, who had been a careful man all his life, found the half-sovereign and a few new names, which he bestowed upon Mr. Price at the same time. The latter listened unmoved. In fact, a bright eye and a pleasant smile seemed to indicate that he regarded them rather in the nature of compliments than otherwise.

  “I telegraphed over to Australia this morning,” he said, as they all sat at supper that evening.

  “A gold watch and chain lent an air of substance to his waistcoat.”

  “About my money?” said Mr. Potter, eagerly.

  Mr. Price frowned at him swiftly. “No; telling my head clerk to send over a wedding-present for you,” he said, his face softening under the eye of Mr. Spriggs. “I’ve got just the thing for you there. I can’t see anything good enough over here.”

  The young couple were warm in their thanks.

  “What did you mean, about your money?” inquired Mr. Spriggs, turning to his future son-in-law.

  “Nothing,” said the young man, evasively.

  “It’s a secret,” said Mr. Price.

  “What about?” persisted Mr. Spriggs, raising his voice.

  “It’s a little private business between me and Uncle Gussie,” said Mr. Potter, somewhat stiffly.

  “You — you haven’t been lending him money?” stammered the bricklayer.

  “Don’t be silly, father,” said Miss Spriggs, sharply. “What good would Alfred’s little bit o’ money be to Uncle Gussie? If you must know, Alfred is drawing it out for uncle to invest it for him.”

  The eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Spriggs and Mr. Price engaged in a triangular duel. The latter spoke first.

  “I’m putting it into my business for him,” he said, with a threatening glance, “in Australia.”

  “And he didn’t want his generosity known,” added Mr. Potter.

  The bewildered Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly round the table. His wife’s foot pressed his, and like a mechanical toy his lips snapped together.

  “I didn’t know you had got your money handy,” said Mrs. Spriggs, in trembling tones.

  “I made special application, and I’m to have it on Friday,” said Mr. Potter, with a smile. “You don’t get a chance like that every day.”

  He filled Uncle Gussie’s glass for him, and that gentleman at once raised it and proposed the health of the young couple. “If anything was to ‘appen to break it off now,” he said, with a swift glance at his sister, “they’d be miserable for life, I can see that.”

  “Miserable for ever,” assented Mr. Potter, in a sepulchral voice, as he squeezed the hand of Miss Spriggs under the table.

  “It’s the only thing worth ‘aving — love,” continued Mr. Price, watching his brother-in-law out of the corner of his eye. “Money is nothing.”

  Mr. Spriggs emptied his glass and, knitting his brows, drew patterns on the cloth with the back of his knife. His wife’s foot was still pressing on his, and he waited for instructions.

  For once, however, Mrs. Spriggs had none to give. Even when Mr. Potter had gone and Ethel had retired upstairs she was still voiceless. She sat for some time looking at the fire and stealing an occasional glance at Uncle Gussie as he smoked a cigar; then she arose and bent over her husband.

  “Do what you think best,” she said, in a weary voice. “Good-night.”

  “What about that money of young Alfred’s?” demanded Mr. Spriggs, as the door closed behind her.

  “I’m going to put it in my business,” said Uncle Gussie, blandly; “my business in Australia.” “Ho! You’ve got to talk to me about that first,” said the other.

  His brother-in-law leaned back and smoked with placid enjoyment. “You do what you like,” he said, easily. “Of course, if you tell Alfred, I sha’n’t get the money, and Ethel won’t get ‘im. Besides that, he’ll find out what lies you’ve been telling.”

  “I wonder you can look me in the face,” said the raging bricklayer.

  “And I should give him to understand that you were going shares in the hundred and ten pounds and then thought better of it,” said the unmoved Mr. Price. “He’s the sort o’ young chap as’ll believe anything. Bless ‘im!”

  Mr. Spriggs bounced up from his chair and stood over him with his fists clinched. Mr. Price glared defiance.

  “If you’re so partikler you can make it up to him,” he said, slowly. “You’ve been a saving man, I know, and Emma ‘ad a bit left her that I ought to have ‘ad. When you’ve done play-acting I’ll go to bed. So long!”

  He got up, yawning, and walked to the door, and Mr. Spriggs, after a momentary idea of breaking him in pieces and throwing him out into the street, blew out the lamp and went upstairs to discuss the matter with his wife until morning.

  Mr. Spriggs left for his work next day with the question still undecided, but a pretty strong conviction that Mr. Price would have to have his way. The wedding was only five days off, and the house was in a bustle of preparation. A certain gloom which he could not shake off he attributed to a raging toothache, turning a deaf ear to the various remedies suggested by Uncle Gussie, and the name of an excellent dentist who had broken a tooth of Mr. Potter’s three times before extracting it.

  Uncle Gussie he treated with bare civility in public, and to blood-curdling threats in private. Mr. Price, ascribing the latter to the toothache, also varied his treatment to his company; prescribing whisky held in the mouth, and other agreeable remedies when there were listeners, and recommending him to fill his mouth with cold water and sit on the fire till it boiled, when they were alone.

  He was at his worst on Thursday morning; on Thursday afternoon he came home a bright and contented man. He hung his cap on the nail with a flourish, kissed his wife, and, in full view of the disapproving Mr. Price, executed a few clumsy steps on the hearthrug.

  “Come in
for a fortune?” inquired the latter, eying him sourly.

  “No; I’ve saved one,” replied Mr. Spriggs, gayly. “I wonder I didn’t think of it myself.”

  “Think of what?” inquired Mr. Price.

  “You’ll soon know,” said Mr. Spriggs, “and you’ve only got yourself to thank for it.”

  Uncle Gussie sniffed suspiciously; Mrs. Spriggs pressed for particulars.

  “I’ve got out of the difficulty,” said her husband, drawing his chair to the tea-table. “Nobody’ll suffer but Gussie.”

  “Ho!” said that gentleman, sharply.

  “I took the day off,” said Mr. Spriggs, smiling contentedly at his wife, “and went to see a friend of mine, Bill White the policeman, and told him about Gussie.”

  Mr. Price stiffened in his chair.

  “Acting — under — his — advice,” said Mr. Spriggs, sipping his tea, “I wrote to Scotland Yard and told ’em that Augustus Price, ticket-of-leave man, was trying to obtain a hundred and ten pounds by false pretences.”

  Mr. Price, white and breathless, rose and confronted him.

  “The beauty o’ that is, as Bill says,” continued Mr. Spriggs, with much enjoyment, “that Gussie’ll ‘ave to set out on his travels again. He’ll have to go into hiding, because if they catch him he’ll ‘ave to finish his time. And Bill says if he writes letters to any of us it’ll only make it easier to find him. You’d better take the first train to Australia, Gussie.”

  “What — what time did you post — the letter?” inquired Uncle Gussie, jerkily.

  “‘Bout two o’clock,” said Mr. Spriggs, glaring aft the clock. “I reckon you’ve just got time.”

  Mr. Price stepped swiftly to the small sideboard, and, taking up his hat, clapped it on. He paused a moment at the door to glance up and down the street, and then the door closed softly behind him. Mrs. Spriggs looked at her husband.

  “Called away to Australia by special telegram,” said the latter, winking. “Bill White is a trump; that’s what he is.”

  “Oh, George!” said his wife. “Did you really write that letter?”

  Mr. Spriggs winked again.

  THE TEST

  PEBBLESEA was dull, and Mr. Frederick Dix, mate of the ketch Starfish, after a long and unsuccessful quest for amusement, returned to the harbor with an idea of forgetting his disappointment in sleep. The few shops in the High Street were closed, and the only entertainment offered at the taverns was contained in glass and pewter. The attitude of the landlord of the “Pilots’ Hope,” where Mr. Dix had sought to enliven the proceedings by a song and dance, still rankled in his memory.

  The skipper and the hands were still ashore and the ketch looked so lonely that the mate, thinking better of his idea of retiring, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and sauntered round the harbor. It was nearly dark, and the only other man visible stood at the edge of the quay gazing at the water. He stood for so long that the mate’s easily aroused curiosity awoke, and, after twice passing, he edged up to him and ventured a remark on the fineness of the night.

  “The night’s all right,” said the young man, gloomily.

  “You’re rather near the edge,” said the mate, after a pause.

  “I like being near the edge,” was the reply.

  Mr. Dix whistled softly and, glancing up at the tall, white-faced young man before him, pushed his cap back and scratched his head.

  “Ain’t got anything on your mind, have you?” he inquired.

  The young man groaned and turned away, and the mate, scenting a little excitement, took him gently by the coat-sleeve and led him from the brink. Sympathy begets confidence, and, within the next ten minutes, he had learned that Arthur Heard, rejected by Emma Smith, was contemplating the awful crime of self-destruction.

  “Why, I’ve known ‘er for seven years,” said Mr. Heard; “seven years, and this is the end of it.”

  The mate shook his head.

  “I told ‘er I was coming straight away to drownd myself,” pursued Mr. Heard. “My last words to ‘er was, ‘When you see my bloated corpse you’ll be sorry.’”

  “I expect she’ll cry and carry on like anything,” said the mate, politely.

  The other turned and regarded him. “Why, you don’t think I’m going to, do you?” he inquired, sharply. “Why, I wouldn’t drownd myself for fifty blooming gells.”

  “But what did you tell her you were going to for, then?” demanded the puzzled mate.

  “‘Cos I thought it would upset ‘er and make ‘er give way,” said the other, bitterly; “and all it done was to make ‘er laugh as though she’d ‘ave a fit.”

  “It would serve her jolly well right if you did drown yourself,” said Mr. Dix, judiciously. “It ‘ud spoil her life for her.”

  “Ah, and it wouldn’t spoil mine, I s’pose?” rejoined Mr. Heard, with ferocious sarcasm.

  “How she will laugh when she sees you to-morrow,” mused the mate. “Is she the sort of girl that would spread it about?”

  Mr. Heard said that she was, and, forgetting for a moment his great love, referred to her partiality for gossip in the most scathing terms he could muster. The mate, averse to such a tame ending to a promising adventure, eyed him thoughtfully.

  “Why not just go in and out again,” he said, seductively, “and run to her house all dripping wet?”

  “That would be clever, wouldn’t it?” said the ungracious Mr. Heard. “Starting to commit suicide, and then thinking better of it. Why, I should be a bigger laughing-stock than ever.”

  “But suppose I saved you against your will?” breathed the tempter; “how would that be?”

  “It would be all right if I cared to run the risk,” said the other, “but I don’t. I should look well struggling in the water while you was diving in the wrong places for me, shouldn’t I?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of such a thing,” said Mr. Dix, hastily; “twenty strokes is about my mark — with my clothes off. My idea was to pull you out.”

  Mr. Heard glanced at the black water a dozen feet below. “How?” he inquired, shortly.

  “Not here,” said the mate. “Come to the end of the quay where the ground slopes to the water. It’s shallow there, and you can tell her that you jumped in off here. She won’t know the difference.”

  With an enthusiasm which Mr. Heard made no attempt to share, he led the way to the place indicated, and dilating upon its manifold advantages, urged him to go in at once and get it over.

  “You couldn’t have a better night for it,” he said, briskly. “Why, it makes me feel like a dip myself to look at it.”

  Mr. Heard gave a surly grunt, and after testing the temperature of the water with his hand, slowly and reluctantly immersed one foot. Then, with sudden resolution, he waded in and, ducking his head, stood up gasping.

  “Give yourself a good soaking while you’re about it,” said the delighted mate.

  Mr. Heard ducked again, and once more emerging stumbled towards the bank.

  “Pull me out,” he cried, sharply.

  Mr. Dix, smiling indulgently, extended his hands, which Mr. Heard seized with the proverbial grasp of a drowning man.

  “All right, take it easy, don’t get excited,” said the smiling mate, “four foot of water won’t hurt anyone. If — Here! Let go o’ me, d’ye hear? Let go! If you don’t let go I’ll punch your head.”

  “You couldn’t save me against my will without coming in,” said Mr. Heard. “Now we can tell ‘er you dived in off the quay and got me just as I was sinking for the last time. You’ll be a hero.”

  The mate’s remarks about heroes were mercifully cut short. He was three stone lighter than Mr. Heard, and standing on shelving ground. The lat-ter’s victory was so sudden that he over-balanced, and only a commotion at the surface of the water showed where they had disappeared. Mr. Heard was first up and out, but almost immediately the figure of the mate, who had gone under with his mouth open, emerged from the water and crawled ashore.

  “You — wait
— till I — get my breath back,” he gasped.

  “There’s no ill-feeling, I ‘ope?” said Mr. Heard, anxiously. “I’ll tell everybody of your bravery. Don’t spoil everything for the sake of a little temper.”

  Mr. Dix stood up and clinched his fists, but at the spectacle of the dripping, forlorn figure before him his wrath vanished and he broke into a hearty laugh.

  “Come on, mate,” he said, clapping him on the back, “now let’s go and find Emma. If she don’t fall in love with you now she never will. My eye I you are a picture!”

  He began to walk towards the town, and Mr. Heard, with his legs wide apart and his arms held stiffly from his body, waddled along beside him, Two little streamlets followed.

  They walked along the quay in silence, and had nearly reached the end of it, when the figure of a man turned the corner of the houses and advanced at a shambling trot towards them.

  “Old Smith!” said Mr. Heard, in a hasty whisper. “Now, be careful. Hold me tight.”

  The new-comer thankfully dropped into a walk as he saw them, and came to a standstill with a cry of astonishment as the light of a neighboring lamp revealed their miserable condition.

  “Wot, Arthur!” he exclaimed.

  “Halloa,” said Mr. Heard, drearily.

  “The idea o’ your being so sinful,” said Mr. Smith, severely. “Emma told me wot you said, but I never thought as you’d got the pluck to go and do it. I’m surprised at you.”

  “I ain’t done it,” said Mr. Heard, in a sullen voice; “nobody can drownd themselves in comfort with a lot of interfering people about.”

  Mr. Smith turned and gazed at the mate, and a broad beam of admiration shone in his face as he grasped that gentleman’s hand. “Come into the ‘ouse both of you and get some dry clothes,” he said, warmly.

  He thrust his strong, thick-set figure between them, and with a hand on each coat-collar propelled them in the direction of home. The mate muttered something about going back to his ship, but Mr. Smith refused to listen, and stopping at the door of a neat cottage, turned the handle and thrust his dripping charges over the threshold of a comfortable sitting-room.