Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  That was about the last dream the cook had that v’y’ge, although he told old Bill one day that he had ‘ad the same dream about Joseph and Emily agin, so that he was quite certain they ‘ad got to be married and killed. He wouldn’t tell Bill ‘ow they was to be killed, because ‘e said it would make ‘im an old man afore his time; but, of course, he ‘ad to say that if they wasn’t married the other part couldn’t come true. He said that as he ‘ad never told ‘is dreams before — except in the case of Bill’s leg — he couldn’t say for certain that they couldn’t be prevented by taking care, but p’r’aps, they could; and Bill pointed out to ‘im wot a useful man he would be if he could dream and warn people in time.

  By the time we got into the London river old Bill’s leg was getting on fust-rate, and he got along splendid on a pair of crutches the carpenter ‘ad made for him. Him and Joseph and the cook had ‘ad a good many talks about the dream, and the old man ‘ad invited the cook to come along ‘ome with ’em, to be referred to when he told the tale.

  “I shall take my opportunity,” he ses, “and break it to ‘er gentle like. When I speak to you, you chip in, and not afore. D’ye understand?”

  We went into the East India Docks that v’y’ge, and got there early on a lovely summer’s evening. Everybody was ‘arf crazy at the idea o’ going ashore agin, and working as cheerful and as willing as if they liked it. There was a few people standing on the pier-head as we went in, and among ’em several very nice-looking young wimmen.

  “My eye, Joseph,” ses the cook, who ‘ad been staring hard at one of ’em, “there’s a fine gal — lively, too. Look ‘ere!”

  He kissed ‘is dirty paw — which is more than I should ‘ave liked to ‘ave done it if it ‘ad been mine — and waved it, and the gal turned round and shook her ‘ead at ‘im.

  “Here, that’ll do,” ses Joseph, very cross, “That’s my gal; that’s my Emily.”

  “Eh?” says the cook. “Well, ‘ow was I to know? Besides, you’re a-giving of her up.”

  Joseph didn’t answer ‘im. He was staring at Emily, and the more he stared the better-looking she seemed to grow. She really was an uncommon nice-looking gal, and more than the cook was struck with her.

  “Who’s that chap standing alongside of her?” ses the cook.

  “It’s one o’ Bill’s sister’s lodgers,” ses Joseph, who was looking very bad-tempered. “I should like to know wot right he ‘as to come ‘ere to welcome me ‘ome. I don’t want ‘im.”

  “P’r’aps he’s fond of ‘er,” ses the cook. “I could be, very easy.”

  “I’ll chuck ‘im in the dock if he ain’t careful,” ses Joseph, turning red in the face.

  He waved his ‘and to Emily, who didn’t ‘appen to be looking at the moment, but the lodger waved back in a careless sort of way and then spoke to Emily, and they both waved to old Bill who was standing on his crutches further aft.

  By the time the ship was berthed and everything snug it was quite dark, and old Bill didn’t know whether to take the cook ‘ome with ‘im and break the news that night, or wait a bit. He made up his mind at last to get it over and done with, and arter waiting till the cook ‘ad cleaned ‘imself they got a cab and drove off.

  Bert Simmons, the lodger, ‘ad to ride on the box, and Bill took up so much room with ‘is bad leg that Emily found it more comfortable to sit on Joseph’s knee; and by the time they got to the ‘ouse he began to see wot a silly mistake he was making.

  “Keep that dream o’ yours to yourself till I make up my mind,” he ses to the cook, while Bill and the cabman were calling each other names.

  “Bill’s going to speak fust,” whispers the cook.

  The lodger and Emily ‘ad gone inside, and Joseph stood there, fidgeting, while the cabman asked Bill, as a friend, why he ‘adn’t paid twopence more for his face, and Bill was wasting his time trying to think of something to say to ‘urt the cabman’s feelings. Then he took Bill by the arm as the cab drove off and told ‘im not to say nothing about the dream, because he was going to risk it.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” ses Bill. “I’m going to tell Emily, It’s my dooty. Wot’s the good o’ being married if you’re going to be killed?”

  He stumped in on his crutches afore Joseph could say any more, and, arter letting his sister kiss ‘im, went into the front room and sat down. There was cold beef and pickles on the table and two jugs o’ beer, and arter just telling his sister ‘ow he fell and broke ‘is leg, they all sat down to supper.

  Bert Simmons sat on one side of Emily and Joseph the other, and the cook couldn’t ‘elp feeling sorry for ‘er, seeing as he did that sometimes she was ‘aving both hands squeezed at once under the table and could ‘ardly get a bite in edgeways.

  Old Bill lit his pipe arter supper, and then, taking another glass o’ beer, he told ’em about the cook dreaming of his accident three days afore it happened. They couldn’t ‘ardly believe it at fust, but when he went on to tell ’em the other things the cook ‘ad dreamt, and that everything ‘ad ‘appened just as he dreamt it, they all edged away from the cook and sat staring at him with their mouths open.

  “And that ain’t the worst of it,” ses Bill.

  “That’s enough for one night, Bill,” ses Joseph, who was staring at Bert Simmons as though he could eat him. “Besides, I believe it was on’y chance. When cook told you ‘is dream it made you nervous, and that’s why you fell.”

  “Nervous be blowed!” ses Bill; and then he told ’em about the dream he ‘ad heard while he was laying in ‘is bunk.

  Bill’s sister gave a scream when he ‘ad finished, and Emily, wot was sitting next to Joseph, got up with a shiver and went and sat next to Bert Simmons and squeezed his coat-sleeve.

  “It’s all nonsense!” ses Joseph, starting up. “And if it wasn’t, true love would run the risk. I ain’t afraid!”

  “It’s too much to ask a gal,” ses Bert Simmons, shaking his ‘ead.

  “I couldn’t dream of it,” ses Emily. “Wot’s the use of being married for a week? Look at uncle’s leg — that’s enough for me!”

  They all talked at once then, and Joseph tried all he could to persuade Emily to prove to the cook that ‘is dreams didn’t always come true; but it was no good. Emily said she wouldn’t marry ‘im if he ‘ad a million a year, and her aunt and uncle backed her up in it — to say nothing of Bert Simmons.

  “I’ll go up and get your presents, Joseph,” she ses; and she ran upstairs afore anybody could stop her.

  Joseph sat there as if he was dazed, while everybody gave ‘im good advice, and said ‘ow thankful he ought to be that the cook ‘ad saved him by ‘is dreaming. And by and by Emily came downstairs agin with the presents he ‘ad given ‘er and put them on the table in front of ‘im.

  “There’s everything there but that little silver brooch you gave me, Joseph,” she ses, “and I lost that the other evening when I was out with — with — for a walk.”

  Joseph tried to speak, but couldn’t.

  “It was six-and-six, ‘cos I was with you when you bought it,” ses Emily; “and as I’ve lost it, it’s on’y fair I should pay for it.”

  She put down ‘arf a sovereign with the presents, and Joseph sat staring at it as if he ‘ad never seen one afore.

  “And you needn’t mind about the change, Joseph,” ses Emily; “that’ll ‘elp to make up for your disappointment.”

  Old Bill tried to turn things off with a bit of a laugh. “Why, you’re made o’ money, Emily,” he ses.

  “Ah! I haven’t told you yet,” ses Emily, smiling at him; “that’s a little surprise I was keeping for you. Aunt Emma — pore Aunt Emma, I should say — died while you was away and left me all ‘er furniture and two hundred pounds.”

  Joseph made a choking noise in his throat and then ‘e got up, leaving the presents and the ‘arf-sovereign on the table, and stood by the door, staring at them.

  “Good-night all,” he ses. Then he went to the front door and opened it, and arte
r standing there a moment came back as though he ‘ad forgotten something.

  “Are you coming along now?” he ses to the cook.

  “Not just yet,” ses the cook, very quick.

  “I’ll wait outside for you, then,” ses Joseph, grinding his teeth. “Don’t be long.”

  ANGELS’ VISITS

  MR. WILLIAM JOBLING leaned against his door-post, smoking. The evening air, pleasant in its coolness after the heat of the day, caressed his shirt-sleeved arms. Children played noisily in the long, dreary street, and an organ sounded faintly in the distance. To Mr. Jobling, who had just consumed three herrings and a pint and a half of strong tea, the scene was delightful. He blew a little cloud of smoke in the air, and with half-closed eyes corrected his first impression as to the tune being played round the corner.

  “Bill!” cried the voice of Mrs. Jobling, who was washing-up in the tiny scullery.

  “‘Ullo!” responded Mr. Jobling, gruffly.

  “You’ve been putting your wet teaspoon in the sugar-basin, and — well, I declare, if you haven’t done it again.”

  “Done what?” inquired her husband, hunching his shoulders.

  “Putting your herringy knife in the butter. Well, you can eat it now; I won’t. A lot of good me slaving from morning to night and buying good food when you go and spoil it like that.”

  Mr. Jobling removed the pipe from his mouth. “Not so much of it,” he commanded. “I like butter with a little flavor to it. As for your slaving all day, you ought to come to the works for a week; you’d know what slavery was then.”

  Mrs. Jobling permitted herself a thin, derisive cackle, drowned hurriedly in a clatter of tea-cups as her husband turned and looked angrily up the little passage.

  “Nag! nag! nag!” said Mr. Jobling.

  He paused expectantly.

  “Nag! nag! nag! from morning till night,” he resumed. “It begins in the morning and it goes on till bedtime.”

  “It’s a pity—” began Mrs. Jobling.

  “Hold your tongue,” said her husband, sternly; “I don’t want any of your back answers. It goes on all day long up to bedtime, and last night I laid awake for two hours listening to you nagging in your sleep.”

  He paused again.

  “Nagging in your sleep,” he repeated.

  There was no reply.

  “Two hours!” he said, invitingly; “two whole hours, without a stop.”

  “I ‘ope it done you good,” retorted his wife. “I noticed you did wipe one foot when you come in to-night.”

  Mr. Jobling denied the charge hotly, and, by way of emphasizing his denial, raised his foot and sent the mat flying along the passage. Honor satisfied, he returned to the door-post and, looking idly out on the street again, exchanged a few desultory remarks with Mr. Joe Brown, who, with his hands in his pockets, was balancing himself with great skill on the edge of the curb opposite.

  His gaze wandered from Mr. Brown to a young and rather stylishly-dressed woman who was approaching — a tall, good-looking girl with a slight limp, whose hat encountered unspoken feminine criticism at every step. Their eyes met as she came up, and recognition flashed suddenly into both faces.

  “Fancy seeing you here!” said the girl. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

  She held out her hand, and Mr. Jobling, with a fierce glance at Mr. Brown, who was not behaving, shook it respectfully.

  “I’m so glad to see you again,” said the girl; “I know I didn’t thank you half enough the other night, but I was too upset.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Jobling, in a voice the humility of which was in strong contrast to the expression with which he was regarding the antics of Mr. Brown, as that gentleman wafted kisses to the four winds of heaven.

  There was a pause, broken by a short, dry cough from the parlor window. The girl, who was almost touching the sill, started nervously.

  “It’s only my missis,” said Mr. Jobling.

  The girl turned and gazed in at the window. Mr. Jobling, with the stem of his pipe, performed a brief ceremony of introduction.

  “Good-evening,” said Mrs. Jobling, in a thin voice. “I don’t know who you are, but I s’pose my ‘usband does.”

  “I met him the other night,” said the girl, with a bright smile; “I slipped on a piece of peel or something and fell, and he was passing and helped me up.”

  Mrs. Jobling coughed again. “First I’ve heard of it,” she remarked.

  “I forgot to tell you,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “I hope you wasn’t hurt much, miss?”

  “I twisted my ankle a bit, that’s all,” said the girl; “it’s painful when I walk.”

  “Painful now?” inquired Mr. Jobling, in concern.

  The girl nodded. “A little; not very.”

  Mr. Jobling hesitated; the contortions of Mr. Brown’s face as he strove to make a wink carry across the road would have given pause to a bolder man; and twice his wife’s husky little cough had sounded from the window.

  “I s’pose you wouldn’t like to step inside and rest for five minutes?” he said, slowly.

  “Oh, thank you,” said the girl, gratefully; “I should like to. It — it really is very painful. I ought not to have walked so far.”

  She limped in behind Mr. Jobling, and after bowing to Mrs. Jobling sank into the easy-chair with a sigh of relief and looked keenly round the room. Mr. Jobling disappeared, and his wife flushed darkly as he came back with his coat on and his hair wet from combing. An awkward silence ensued.

  “How strong your husband is!” said the girl, clasping her hands impulsively.

  “Is he?” said Mrs. Jobling.

  “He lifted me up as though I had been a feather,” responded the girl. “He just put his arm round my waist and had me on my feet before I knew where I was.”

  “Round your waist?” repeated Mrs. Jobling.

  “Where else should I put it?” broke in her husband, with sudden violence.

  His wife made no reply, but sat gazing in a hostile fashion at the bold, dark eyes and stylish hat of the visitor.

  “I should like to be strong,” said the latter, smiling agreeably over at Mr. Jobling.

  “When I was younger,” said that gratified man, “I can assure you I didn’t know my own strength, as the saying is. I used to hurt people just in play like, without knowing it. I used to have a hug like a bear.”

  “Fancy being hugged like that!” said the girl. “How awful!” she added, hastily, as she caught the eye of the speechless Mrs. Jobling.

  “Like a bear,” repeated Mr. Jobling, highly pleased at the impression he had made. “I’m pretty strong now; there ain’t many as I’m afraid of.”

  He bent his arm and thoughtfully felt his biceps, and Mrs. Jobling almost persuaded herself that she must be dreaming, as she saw the girl lean forward and pinch Mr. Jobling’s arm. Mr. Jobling was surprised too, but he had the presence of mind to bend the other.

  “Enormous!” said the girl, “and as hard as iron. What a prize-fighter you’d have made!”

  “He don’t want to do no prize-fighting,” said Mrs. Jobling, recovering her speech; “he’s a respectable married man.”

  Mr. Jobling shook his head over lost opportunities. “I’m too old,” he remarked.

  “He’s forty-seven,” said his wife.

  “Best age for a man, in my opinion,” said the girl; “just entering his prime. And a man is as old as he feels, you know.”

  Mr. Jobling nodded acquiescence and observed that he always felt about twenty-two; a state of affairs which he ascribed to regular habits, and a great partiality for the company of young people.

  “I was just twenty-two when I married,” he mused, “and my missis was just six months—”

  “You leave my age alone,” interrupted his wife, trembling with passion. “I’m not so fond of telling my age to strangers.”

  “You told mine,” retorted Mr. Jobling, “and nobody asked you to do that. Very free you was in coming out with
mine.”

  “I ain’t the only one that’s free,” breathed the quivering Mrs. Jobling. “I ‘ope your ankle is better?” she added, turning to the visitor.

  “Much better, thank you,” was the reply.

  “Got far to go?” queried Mrs. Jobling.

  The girl nodded. “But I shall take a tram at the end of the street,” she said, rising.

  Mr. Jobling rose too, and all that he had ever heard or read about etiquette came crowding into his mind. A weekly journal patronized by his wife had three columns regularly, but he taxed his memory in vain for any instructions concerning brown-eyed strangers with sprained ankles. He felt that the path of duty led to the tram-lines. In a somewhat blundering fashion he proffered his services; the girl accepted them as a matter of course.

  Mrs. Jobling, with lips tightly compressed, watched them from the door. The girl, limping slightly, walked along with the utmost composure, but the bearing of her escort betokened a mind fully conscious of the scrutiny of the street.

  He returned in about half an hour, and having this time to run the gauntlet of the street alone, entered with a mien which caused his wife’s complaints to remain unspoken. The cough of Mr. Brown, a particularly contagious one, still rang in his ears, and he sat for some time in fierce silence.

  “I see her on the tram,” he said, at last. “Her name’s Robinson — Miss Robinson.”

  “Indeed!” said his wife.

  “Seems a nice sort o’ girl,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “She’s took quite a fancy to you.”

  “I’m sure I’m much obliged to her,” retorted his wife.

  “So I — so I asked her to give you a look in now and then,” continued Mr. Jobling, filling his pipe with great care, “and she said she would. It’ll cheer you up a bit.”

  Mrs. Jobling bit her lip and, although she had never felt more fluent in her life, said nothing. Her husband lit his pipe, and after a rapid glance in her direction took up an old newspaper and began to read.

  He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a geranium in full bloom. Surprise impeded her utterance, but she thanked him at last with some warmth, and after a little deliberation decided to put it in the bedroom.