Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  Mr. Jobling looked like a man who has suddenly discovered a flaw in his calculations. “I was thinking of the front parlor winder,” he said, at last.

  “It’ll get more sun upstairs,” said his wife.

  She took the pot in her arms, and disappeared. Her surprise when she came down again and found Mr. Jobling rearranging the furniture, and even adding a choice ornament or two from the kitchen, was too elaborate to escape his notice.

  “Been going to do it for some time,” he remarked.

  Mrs. Jobling left the room and strove with herself in the scullery. She came back pale of face and with a gleam in her eye which her husband was too busy to notice.

  “It’ll never look much till we get a new hearthrug,” she said, shaking her head. “They’ve got one at Jackson’s that would be just the thing; and they’ve got a couple of tall pink vases that would brighten up the fireplace wonderful. They’re going for next to nothing, too.”

  Mr. Jobling’s reply took the form of uncouth and disagreeable growlings. After that phase had passed he sat for some time with his hand placed protectingly in his trouser-pocket. Finally, in a fierce voice, he inquired the cost.

  Ten minutes later, in a state fairly evenly divided between pleasure and fury, Mrs. Jobling departed with the money. Wild yearnings for courage that would enable her to spend the money differently, and confront the dismayed Mr. Jobling in a new hat and jacket, possessed her on the way; but they were only yearnings, twenty-five years’ experience of her husband’s temper being a sufficient safeguard.

  Miss Robinson came in the day after as they were sitting down to tea. Mr. Jobling, who was in his shirt-sleeves, just had time to disappear as the girl passed the window. His wife let her in, and after five remarks about the weather sat listening in grim pleasure to the efforts of Mr. Jobling to find his coat. He found it at last, under a chair cushion, and, somewhat red of face, entered the room and greeted the visitor.

  Conversation was at first rather awkward. The girl’s eyes wandered round the room and paused in astonishment on the pink vases; the beauty of the rug also called for notice.

  “Yes, they’re pretty good,” said Mr. Jobling, much gratified by her approval.

  “Beautiful,” murmured the girl. “What a thing it is to have money!” she said, wistfully.

  “I could do with some,” said Mr. Jobling, with jocularity. He helped himself to bread and butter and began to discuss money and how to spend it. His ideas favored retirement and a nice little place in the country.

  “I wonder you don’t do it,” said the girl, softly.

  Mr. Jobling laughed. “Gingell and Watson don’t pay on those lines,” he said. “We do the work and they take the money.”

  “It’s always the way,” said the girl, indignantly; “they have all the luxuries, and the men who make the money for them all the hardships. I seem to know the name Gingell and Watson. I wonder where I’ve seen it?”

  “In the paper, p’r’aps,” said Mr. Jobling.

  “Advertising?” asked the girl.

  Mr. Jobling shook his head. “Robbery,” he replied, seriously. “It was in last week’s paper. Somebody got to the safe and got away with nine hundred pounds in gold and bank-notes.”

  “I remember now,” said the girl, nodding, “Did they catch them?”

  “No, and not likely to,” was the reply.

  Miss Robinson opened her big eyes and looked round with an air of pretty defiance. “I am glad of it,” she said.

  “Glad?” said Mrs. Jobling, involuntarily breaking a self-imposed vow of silence. “Glad?”

  The girl nodded. “I like pluck,” she said, with a glance in the direction of Mr. Jobling; “and, besides, whoever took it had as much right to it as Gingell and Watson; they didn’t earn it.”

  Mrs. Jobling, appalled at such ideas, glanced at her husband to see how he received them. “The man’s a thief,” she said, with great energy, “and he won’t enjoy his gains.”

  “I dare say — I dare say he’ll enjoy it right enough,” said Mr. Jobling, “if he ain’t caught, that is.”

  “I believe he is the sort of man I should like,” declared Miss Robinson, obstinately.

  “I dare say,” said Mrs. Jobling; “and I’ve no doubt he’d like you. Birds of a—”

  “That’ll do,” said her husband, peremptorily; “that’s enough about it. The guv’nors can afford to lose it; that’s one comfort.”

  He leaned over as the girl asked for more sugar and dropped a spoonful in her cup, expressing surprise that she should like her tea so sweet. Miss Robinson, denying the sweetness, proffered her cup in proof, and Mrs. Jobling sat watching with blazing eyes the antics of her husband as he sipped at it.

  “Sweets to the sweet,” he said, gallantly, as he handed it back.

  Miss Robinson pouted, and, raising the cup to her lips, gazed ardently at him over the rim. Mr. Jobling, who certainly felt not more than twenty-two that evening, stole her cake and received in return a rap from a teaspoon. Mr. Jobling retaliated, and Mrs. Jobling, unable to eat, sat looking on in helpless fury at little arts of fascination which she had discarded — at Mr. Jobling’s earnest request — soon after their marriage.

  By dint of considerable self-control, aided by an occasional glance from her husband, she managed to preserve her calm until he returned from accompaning the visitor to her tram. Then her pent-up feelings found vent. Quietly scornful at first, she soon waxed hysterical over his age and figure. Tears followed as she bade him remember what a good wife she had been to him, loudly claiming that any other woman would have poisoned him long ago. Speedily finding that tears were of no avail, and that Mr. Jobling seemed to regard them rather as a tribute to his worth than otherwise, she gave way to fury, and, in a fine, but unpunctuated passage, told him her exact opinion of Miss Robinson.

  “It’s no good carrying on like that,” said Mr. Jobling, magisterially, “and, what’s more, I won’t have it.”

  “Walking into my house and making eyes at my ‘usband,” stormed his wife.

  “So long as I don’t make eyes at her there’s no harm done,” retorted Mr. Jobling. “I can’t help her taking a fancy to me, poor thing.”

  “I’d poor thing her,” said his wife.

  “She’s to be pitied,” said Mr. Jobling, sternly. “I know how she feels. She can’t help herself, but she’ll get oyer it in time. I don’t suppose she thinks for a moment we have noticed her — her — her liking for me, and I’m not going to have her feelings hurt.”

  “What about my feelings?” demanded his wife.

  “You have got me,” Mr. Jobling reminded her.

  The nine points of the law was Mrs. Jobling’s only consolation for the next few days. Neighboring matrons, exchanging sympathy for information, wished, strangely enough, that Mr. Jobling was their husband. Failing that they offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses.

  Mr. Jobling, who was a proud man, met their hostile glances as he passed to and from his work with scorn, until a day came when the hostility vanished and gave place to smiles. Never so many people in the street, he thought, as he returned from work; certainly never so many smiles. People came hurriedly from their back premises to smile at him, and, as he reached his door, Mr. Joe Brown opposite had all the appearance of a human sunbeam. Tired of smiling faces, he yearned for that of his wife. She came out of the kitchen and met him with a look of sly content. The perplexed Mr. Jobling eyed her morosely.

  “What are you laughing at me for?” he demanded.

  “I wasn’t laughing at you,” said his wife.

  She went back into the kitchen and sang blithely as she bustled over the preparations for tea. Her voice was feeble, but there was a triumphant effectiveness about the high notes which perplexed the listener sorely. He seated himself in the new easy-chair — procured to satisfy the supposed aesthetic tastes of Miss Robinson — and stared at the window.

  “You seem very happy all of a
sudden,” he growled, as his wife came in with the tray.

  “Well, why shouldn’t I be?” inquired Mrs. Jobling. “I’ve got everything to make me so.”

  Mr. Jobling looked at her in undisguised amazement.

  “New easy-chair, new vases, and a new hearth-rug,” explained his wife, looking round the room. “Did you order that little table you said you would?”

  “Yes,” growled Mr. Jobling.

  “Pay for it?” inquired his wife, with a trace of anxiety.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Jobling again.

  Mrs. Jobling’s face relaxed. “I shouldn’t like to lose it at the last moment,” she said. “You ‘ave been good to me lately, Bill; buying all these nice things. There’s not many women have got such a thoughtful husband as what I have.”

  “Have you gone dotty? or what?” enquired her bewildered husband.

  “It’s no wonder people like you,” pursued Mrs. Jobling, ignoring the question, and smiling again as she placed three chairs at the table. “I’ll wait a minute or two before I soak the tea; I expect Miss Robinson won’t be long, and she likes it fresh.”

  Mr. Jobling, to conceal his amazement and to obtain a little fresh air walked out of the room and opened the front door.

  “Cheer oh!” said the watchful Mr. Brown, with a benignant smile.

  Mr. Jobling scowled at him.

  “It’s all right,” said Mr. Brown. “You go in and set down; I’m watching for her.”

  He nodded reassuringly, and, not having curiosity enough to accept the other’s offer and step across the road and see what he would get, shaded his eyes with his hand and looked with exaggerated anxiety up the road. Mr. Jobling, heavy of brow, returned to the parlor and looked hard at his wife.

  “She’s late,” said Mrs. Jobling, glancing at the clock. “I do hope she’s all right, but I should feel anxious about her if she was my gal. It’s a dangerous life.”

  “Dangerous life!” said Mr. Jobling, roughly. “What’s a dangerous life?”

  “Why, hers,” replied his wife, with a nervous smile. “Joe Brown told me. He followed her ‘ome last night, and this morning he found out all about her.”

  The mention of Mr. Brown’s name caused Mr. Jobling at first to assume an air of indifference; but curiosity overpowered him.

  “What lies has he been telling?” he demanded.

  “I don’t think it’s a lie, Bill,” said his wife, mildly. “Putting two and two—”

  “What did he say?” cried Mr. Jobling, raising his voice.

  “He said, ‘She — she’s a lady detective,’” stammered Mrs. Jobling, putting her handkerchief to her unruly mouth.

  “A tec!” repeated her husband. “A lady tec?”

  Mrs. Jobling nodded. “Yes, Bill. She — she — she — —”

  “Well?” said Mr. Jobling, in exasperation.

  “She’s being employed by Gingell and Watson,” said his wife.

  Mr. Jobling sprang to his feet, and with scarlet face and clinched fists strove to assimilate the information and all its meaning.

  “What — what did she come here for? Do you mean to tell me she thinks I took the money?” he said, huskily, after a long pause.

  Mrs. Jobling bent before the storm. “I think she took a fancy to you, Bill,” she said, timidly.

  Mr. Jobling appeared to swallow something; then he took a step nearer to her. “You let me see you laugh again, that’s all,” he said, fiercely. “As for that Jezzybill—”

  “There she is,” said his wife, as a knock sounded at the door. “Don’t say anything to hurt her feelings, Bill. You said she was to be pitied. And it must be a hard life to ‘ave to go round and flatter old married men. I shouldn’t like it.”

  Mr. Jobling, past speech, stood and glared at her. Then, with an inarticulate cry, he rushed to the front door and flung it open. Miss Robinson, fresh and bright, stood smiling outside. Within easy distance a little group of neighbors were making conversation, while opposite Mr. Brown awaited events.

  “What d’you want?” demanded Mr. Jobling, harshly.

  Miss Robinson, who had put out her hand, drew it back and gave him a swift glance. His red face and knitted brows told their own story.

  “Oh!” she said, with a winning smile, “will you please tell Mrs. Jobling that I can’t come to tea with her this evening?”

  “Isn’t there anything else you’d like to say?” inquired Mr. Jobling, disdainfully, as she turned away.

  The girl paused and appeared to reflect. “You can say that I am sorry to miss an amusing evening,” she said, regarding him steadily. “Good-by.”

  Mr. Jobling slammed the door.

  SAILORS’ KNOTS

  CONTENTS

  DESERTED

  HOMEWARD BOUND

  SELF-HELP

  SENTENCE DEFERRED

  MATRIMONIAL OPENINGS

  ODD MAN OUT

  THE TOLL-HOUSE

  PETER’S PENCE

  THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY

  PRIZE MONEY

  DOUBLE DEALING

  KEEPING UP APPEARANCES

  DESERTED

  “Sailormen ain’t wot you might call dandyfied as a rule,” said the night-watchman, who had just had a passage of arms with a lighterman and been advised to let somebody else wash him and make a good job of it; “they’ve got too much sense. They leave dressing up and making eyesores of theirselves to men wot ‘ave never smelt salt water; men wot drift up and down the river in lighters and get in everybody’s way.”

  He glanced fiercely at the retreating figure of the lighterman, and, turning a deaf ear to a request for a lock of his hair to patch a favorite doormat with, resumed with much vigor his task of sweeping up the litter.

  The most dressy sailorman I ever knew, he continued, as he stood the broom up in a corner and seated himself on a keg, was a young feller named Rupert Brown. His mother gave ‘im the name of Rupert while his father was away at sea, and when he came ‘ome it was too late to alter it. All that a man could do he did do, and Mrs. Brown ‘ad a black eye till ‘e went to sea agin. She was a very obstinate woman, though — like most of ’em — and a little over a year arterwards got pore old Brown three months’ hard by naming ‘er next boy Roderick Alfonso.

  Young Rupert was on a barge when I knew ‘im fust, but he got tired of always ‘aving dirty hands arter a time, and went and enlisted as a soldier. I lost sight of ‘im for a while, and then one evening he turned up on furlough and come to see me.

  O’ course, by this time ‘e was tired of soldiering, but wot upset ‘im more than anything was always ‘aving to be dressed the same and not being able to wear a collar and neck-tie. He said that if it wasn’t for the sake of good old England, and the chance o’ getting six months, he’d desert. I tried to give ‘im good advice, and, if I’d only known ‘ow I was to be dragged into it, I’d ha’ given ‘im a lot more.

  As it ‘appened he deserted the very next arternoon. He was in the Three Widders at Aldgate, in the saloon bar — which is a place where you get a penn’orth of ale in a glass and pay twopence for it — and, arter being told by the barmaid that she had got one monkey at ‘ome, he got into conversation with another man wot was in there.

  He was a big man with a black moustache and a red face, and ‘is fingers all smothered in di’mond rings. He ‘ad got on a gold watch-chain as thick as a rope, and a scarf-pin the size of a large walnut, and he had ‘ad a few words with the barmaid on ‘is own account. He seemed to take a fancy to Rupert from the fust, and in a few minutes he ‘ad given ‘im a big cigar out of a sealskin case and ordered ‘im a glass of sherry wine.

  “Have you ever thought o’ going on the stage?” he ses, arter Rupert ‘ad told ‘im of his dislike for the Army.

  “No,” ses Rupert, staring.

  “You s’prise me,” ses the big man; “you’re wasting of your life by not doing so.”

  “But I can’t act,” ses Rupert.

  “Stuff and nonsense!” ses the big man. “Don�
�t tell me. You’ve got an actor’s face. I’m a manager myself, and I know. I don’t mind telling you that I refused twenty-three men and forty-eight ladies only yesterday.”

  “I wonder you don’t drop down dead,” ses the barmaid, lifting up ‘is glass to wipe down the counter.

  The manager looked at her, and, arter she ‘ad gone to talk to a gentleman in the next bar wot was knocking double knocks on the counter with a pint pot, he whispered to Rupert that she ‘ad been one of them.

  “She can’t act a bit,” he ses. “Now, look ‘ere; I’m a business man and my time is valuable. I don’t know nothing, and I don’t want to know nothing; but, if a nice young feller, like yourself, for example, was tired of the Army and wanted to escape, I’ve got one part left in my company that ‘ud suit ‘im down to the ground.”

  “Wot about being reckernized?” ses Rupert.

  The manager winked at ‘im. “It’s the part of a Zulu chief,” he ses, in a whisper.

  Rupert started. “But I should ‘ave to black my face,” he ses.

  “A little,” ses the manager; “but you’d soon get on to better parts — and see wot a fine disguise it is.”

  He stood ‘im two more glasses o’ sherry wine, and, arter he’ ad drunk ’em, Rupert gave way. The manager patted ‘im on the back, and said that if he wasn’t earning fifty pounds a week in a year’s time he’d eat his ‘ead; and the barmaid, wot ‘ad come back agin, said it was the best thing he could do with it, and she wondered he ‘adn’t thought of it afore.

  They went out separate, as the manager said it would be better for them not to be seen together, and Rupert, keeping about a dozen yards behind, follered ‘im down the Mile End Road. By and by the manager stopped outside a shop-window wot ‘ad been boarded up and stuck all over with savages dancing and killing white people and hunting elephants, and, arter turning round and giving Rupert a nod, opened the door with a key and went inside.