Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “They’re beginning to see how the land lays,” said Mr. Smithson, on the evening of his friend’s return, “and if you keep quiet and do as I tell you she’ll begin to see it too. As I said before, she can’t name the day till you ask her.”

  Mr. Clarkson agreed, and the following morning, when he called upon Mrs. Phipps at her request, his manner was so distant that she attributed it to ill-health following business worries and the atmosphere of London. In the front parlour Mr. Digson, a small builder and contractor, was busy whitewashing.

  “I thought we might as well get on with that,” said Mrs. Phipps; “there is only one way of doing whitewashing, and the room has got to be done. To-morrow Mr. Digson will bring up some papers, and, if you’ll come round, you can help me choose.”

  Mr. Clarkson hesitated. “Why not choose ’em yourself?” he said at last.

  “Just what I told her,” said Mr. Digson, stroking his black beard. “What’ll please you will be sure to please him, I says; and if it don’t it ought to.”

  Mr. Clarkson started. “Perhaps you could help her choose,” he said, sharply.

  Mr. Digson came down from his perch. “Just what I said,” he replied. “If Mrs. Phipps will let me advise her, I’ll make this house so she won’t know it before I’ve done with it.”

  “Mr. Digson has been very kind,” said Mrs. Phipps, reproachfully.

  “Not at all, ma’am,” said the builder, softly. “Anything I can do to make you happy or comfortable will be a pleasure to me.”

  Mr. Clarkson started again, and an odd idea sent his blood dancing. Digson was a widower; Mrs. Phipps was a widow. Could anything be more suitable or desirable?

  “Better let him choose,” he said. “After all, he ought to be a good judge.”

  Mrs. Phipps, after a faint protest, gave way, and Mr. Digson, smiling broadly, mounted his perch again.

  Mr. Clarkson’s first idea was to consult Mr. Smithson; then he resolved to wait upon events. The idea was fantastic to begin with, but, if things did take such a satisfactory turn, he could not help reflecting that it would not be due to any efforts on the part of Mr. Smithson, and he would no longer be under any testamentary obligations to that enterprising gentleman.

  By the end of a week he was jubilant. A child could have told Mr. Digson’s intentions — and Mrs. Phipps was anything but a child. Mr. Clarkson admitted cheerfully that Mr. Digson was a younger and better-looking man than himself — a more suitable match in every way. And, so far as he could judge, Mrs. Phipps seemed to think so. At any rate, she had ceased to make the faintest allusion to any tie between them. He left her one day painting a door, while the attentive Digson guided the brush, and walked homewards smiling.

  “Morning!” said a voice behind him.

  “Morning, Bignell,” said Mr. Clarkson.

  “When — when is it to be?” inquired his friend, walking beside him.

  Mr. Clarkson frowned. “When is what to be?” he demanded, disagreeably.

  Mr. Bignell lowered his voice. “You’ll lose her if you ain’t careful,” he said. “Mark my words. Can’t you see Digson’s little game?”

  Mr. Clarkson shrugged his shoulders.

  “He’s after her money,” said the other, with a cautious glance around.

  “Money?” said the other, with an astonished laugh. “Why, she hasn’t got any.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Mr. Bignell. “You know best of course. I was just giving you the tip, but if you know better — why, there’s nothing more to be said. She’ll be riding in her carriage and pair in six months, anyhow; the richest woman in Little Molton.”

  Mr. Clarkson stopped short and eyed him in perplexity.

  “Digson got a bit sprung one night and told me,” said Mr. Bignell. “She don’t know it herself yet — uncle on her mother’s side in America. She might know at any moment.”

  “But — but how did Digson know?” inquired the astonished Mr. Clarkson.

  “He wouldn’t tell me,” was the reply. “But it’s good enough for him. What do you think he’s after? Her? And mind, don’t let on to a soul that I told you.”

  He walked on, leaving Mr. Clarkson standing in a dazed condition in the centre of the foot-path. Recovering himself by an effort, he walked slowly away, and, after prowling about for some time in an aimless fashion, made his way back to Mrs. Phipps’s house.

  He emerged an hour later an engaged man, with the date of the wedding fixed. With jaunty steps he walked round and put up the banns, and then, with the air of a man who has completed a successful stroke of business, walked homewards.

  Little Molton is a small town and news travels fast, but it did not travel faster than Mr. Smithson as soon as he had heard it. He burst into Mr. Clarkson’s room like the proverbial hurricane, and, gasping for breath, leaned against the table and pointed at him an incriminating finger.

  “You you’ve been running,” said Mr. Clarkson, uneasily.

  “What — what — what do you — mean by it?” gasped Mr. Smithson. “After all my trouble. After our — bargain.”

  “I altered my mind,” said Mr. Clarkson, with dignity.

  “Pah!” said the other.

  “Just in time,” said Mr. Clarkson, speaking rapidly. “Another day and I believe I should ha’ been too late. It took me pretty near an hour to talk her over. Said I’d been neglecting her, and all that sort of thing; said that she was beginning to think I didn’t want her. As hard a job as ever I had in my life.”

  “But you didn’t want her,” said the amazed Mr. Smithson. “You told me so.”

  “You misunderstood me,” said Mr. Clarkson, coughing. “You jump at conclusions.”

  Mr. Smithson sat staring at him. “I heard,” he said at last, with an effort... “I heard that Digson was paying her attentions.”

  Mr. Clarkson spoke without thought. “Ha, he was only after her money,” he said, severely. “Good heavens! What’s the matter?”

  Mr. Smithson, who had sprung to his feet, made no reply, but stood for some time incapable of speech.

  “What — is — the — matter?” repeated Mr. Clarkson. “Ain’t you well?”

  Mr. Smithson swayed a little, and sank slowly back into his chair again.

  “Room’s too hot,” said his astonished host.

  Mr. Smithson, staring straight before him, nodded.

  “As I was saying,” resumed Mr. Clarkson, in the low tones of confidence, “Digson was after her money. Of course her money don’t make any difference to me, although, perhaps, I may be able to do something for friends like you. It’s from an uncle in America on her mother’s—”

  Mr. Smithson made a strange moaning noise, and, snatching his hat from the table, clapped it on his head and made for the door. Mr. Clarkson flung his arms around him and dragged him back by main force.

  “What are you carrying on like that for?” he demanded. “What do you mean by it?”

  “Fancy!” returned Mr. Smithson, with intense bitterness. “I thought Digson was the biggest fool in the place, and I find I’ve made a mistake. So have you. Good-night.”

  He opened the door and dashed out. Mr. Clarkson, with a strange sinking at his heart, watched him up the road.

  THE GUARDIAN ANGEL

  The night-watchman shook his head. “I never met any of these phil — philantherpists, as you call ’em,” he said, decidedly. “If I ‘ad they wouldn’t ‘ave got away from me in a hurry, I can tell you. I don’t say I don’t believe in ’em; I only say I never met any of ’em. If people do you a kindness it’s generally because they want to get something out of you; same as a man once — a perfick stranger — wot stood me eight ‘arf-pints becos I reminded ‘im of his dead brother, and then borrered five bob off of me.

  “O’ course, there must be some kind-’arted people in the world — all men who get married must ‘ave a soft spot somewhere, if it’s only in the ‘ead — but they don’t often give things away. Kind-’artedness is often only another name for artfulness
, same as Sam Small’s kindness to Ginger Dick and Peter Russet.

  “It started with a row. They was just back from a v’y’ge and ‘ad taken a nice room together in Wapping, and for the fust day or two, wot with ‘aving plenty o’ money to spend and nothing to do, they was like three brothers. Then, in a little, old-fashioned public-’ouse down Poplar way, one night they fell out over a little joke Ginger played on Sam.

  “It was the fust drink that evening, and Sam ‘ad just ordered a pot o’ beer and three glasses, when Ginger winked at the landlord and offered to bet Sam a level ‘arf-dollar that ‘e wouldn’t drink off that pot o’ beer without taking breath. The landlord held the money, and old Sam, with a ‘appy smile on ‘is face, ‘ad just taken up the mug, when he noticed the odd way in which they was all watching him. Twice he took the mug up and put it down agin without starting and asked ’em wot the little game was, but they on’y laughed. He took it up the third time and started, and he ‘ad just got about ‘arf-way through when Ginger turns to the landlord and ses —

  “‘Did you catch it in the mouse-trap,’ he ses, ‘or did it die of poison?’

  “Pore Sam started as though he ‘ad been shot, and, arter getting rid of the beer in ‘is mouth, stood there ‘olding the mug away from ‘im and making such ‘orrible faces that they was a’most frightened.

  “‘Wot’s the matter with him? I’ve never seen ‘im carry on like that over a drop of beer before,’ ses Ginger, staring.

  “‘He usually likes it,’ ses Peter Russet.

  “‘Not with a dead mouse in it,’ ses Sam, trembling with passion.

  “‘Mouse?’ ses Ginger, innercent-like. ‘Mouse? Why, I didn’t say it was in your beer, Sam. Wotever put that into your ‘ead?’

  “‘And made you lose your bet,’ ses Peter.

  “Then old Sam see ‘ow he’d been done, and the way he carried on when the landlord gave Ginger the ‘arf-dollar, and said it was won fair and honest, was a disgrace. He ‘opped about that bar ‘arf crazy, until at last the landlord and ‘is brother, and a couple o’ soldiers, and a helpless cripple wot wos selling matches, put ‘im outside and told ‘im to stop there.

  “He stopped there till Ginger and Peter came out, and then, drawing ‘imself up in a proud way, he told ’em their characters and wot he thought about ’em. And he said ‘e never wanted to see wot they called their faces agin as long as he lived.

  “‘I’ve done with you,’ he ses, ‘both of you, for ever.’

  “‘All right,’ ses Ginger moving off. ‘Ta-ta for the present. Let’s ‘ope he’ll come ‘ome in a better temper, Peter.’

  “‘Ome?’ ses Sam, with a nasty laugh, “‘ome? D’ye think I’m coming back to breathe the same air as you, Ginger? D’ye think I want to be suffocated?’

  “He held his ‘ead up very ‘igh, and, arter looking at them as if they was dirt, he turned round and walked off with his nose in the air to spend the evening by ‘imself.

  “His temper kept him up for a time, but arter a while he ‘ad to own up to ‘imself that it was very dull, and the later it got the more he thought of ‘is nice warm bed. The more ‘e thought of it the nicer and warmer it seemed, and, arter a struggle between his pride and a few ‘arf-pints, he got ‘is good temper back agin and went off ‘ome smiling.

  “The room was dark when ‘e got there, and, arter standing listening a moment to Ginger and Peter snoring, he took off ‘is coat and sat down on ‘is bed to take ‘is boots off. He only sat down for a flash, and then he bent down and hit his ‘ead an awful smack against another ‘ead wot ‘ad just started up to see wot it was sitting on its legs.

  “He thought it was Peter or Ginger in the wrong bed at fust, but afore he could make it out Ginger ‘ad got out of ‘is own bed and lit the candle. Then ‘e saw it was a stranger in ‘is bed, and without saying a word he laid ‘old of him by the ‘air and began dragging him out.

  “‘Here, stop that!’ ses Ginger catching hold of ‘im. ‘Lend a hand ‘ere, Peter.’

  “Peter lent a hand and screwed it into the back o’ Sam’s neck till he made ‘im leave go, and then the stranger, a nasty-looking little chap with a yellow face and a little dark moustache, told Sam wot he’d like to do to him.

  “‘Who are you?’ ses Sam, ‘and wot are you a-doing of in my bed?’

  “‘It’s our lodger,’ ses Ginger.

  “‘Your wot?’ ses Sam, ‘ardly able to believe his ears.

  “‘Our lodger,’ ses Peter Russet. ‘We’ve let ‘im the bed you said you didn’t want for sixpence a night. Now you take yourself off.’

  “Old Sam couldn’t speak for a minute; there was no words that he knew bad enough, but at last he licks ‘is lips and he ses, ‘I’ve paid for that bed up to Saturday, and I’m going to have it.’

  “He rushed at the lodger, but Peter and Ginger got hold of ‘im agin and put ‘im down on the floor and sat on ‘im till he promised to be’ave himself. They let ‘im get up at last, and then, arter calling themselves names for their kind-’artedness, they said if he was very good he might sleep on the floor.

  “Sam looked at ’em for a moment, and then, without a word, he took off ‘is boots and put on ‘is coat and went up in a corner to be out of the draught, but, wot with the cold and ‘is temper, and the hardness of the floor, it was a long time afore ‘e could get to sleep. He dropped off at last, and it seemed to ‘im that he ‘ad only just closed ‘is eyes when it was daylight. He opened one eye and was just going to open the other when he saw something as made ‘im screw ’em both up sharp and peep through ‘is eyelashes. The lodger was standing at the foot o’ Ginger’s bed, going through ‘is pockets, and then, arter waiting a moment and ‘aving a look round, he went through Peter Russet’s. Sam lay still mouse while the lodger tip-toed out o’ the room with ‘is boots in his ‘and, and then, springing up, follered him downstairs.

  “He caught ‘im up just as he ‘ad undone the front door, and, catching hold of ‘im by the back o’ the neck, shook ‘im till ‘e was tired. Then he let go of ‘im and, holding his fist under ‘is nose, told ‘im to hand over the money, and look sharp about it.

  “‘Ye — ye — yes, sir,’ ses the lodger, who was ‘arf choked.

  “Sam held out his ‘and, and the lodger, arter saying it was only a little bit o’ fun on ‘is part, and telling ‘im wot a fancy he ‘ad taken to ‘im from the fust, put Ginger’s watch and chain into his ‘ands and eighteen pounds four shillings and sevenpence. Sam put it into his pocket, and, arter going through the lodger’s pockets to make sure he ‘adn’t forgot anything, opened the door and flung ‘im into the street. He stopped on the landing to put the money in a belt he was wearing under ‘is clothes, and then ‘e went back on tip-toe to ‘is corner and went to sleep with one eye open and the ‘appiest smile that had been on his face for years.

  “He shut both eyes when he ‘eard Ginger wake up, and he slept like a child through the ‘orrible noise that Peter and Ginger see fit to make when they started to put their clothes on. He got tired of it afore they did, and, arter opening ‘is eyes slowly and yawning, he asked Ginger wot he meant by it.

  “‘You’ll wake your lodger up if you ain’t careful, making that noise,’ he ses. ‘Wot’s the matter?’

  “‘Sam,’ ses Ginger, in a very different voice to wot he ‘ad used the night before, ‘Sam, old pal, he’s taken all our money and bolted.’

  “‘Wot?’ ses Sam, sitting up on the floor and blinking, ‘Nonsense!’

  “‘Robbed me and Peter,’ ses Ginger, in a trembling voice; ‘taken every penny we’ve got, and my watch and chain.’

  “‘You’re dreaming,’ ses Sam.

  “‘I wish I was,’ ses Ginger.

  “‘But surely, Ginger,’ ses Sam, standing up, ‘surely you didn’t take a lodger without a character?’

  “‘He seemed such a nice chap,’ ses Peter. ‘We was only saying wot a much nicer chap he was than — than — —’

  “‘Go on, Peter,’ ses Sam, very
perlite.

  “‘Than he might ha’ been,’ ses Ginger, very quick.

  “‘Well, I’ve ‘ad a wonderful escape,’ ses Sam. ‘If it hadn’t ha’ been for sleeping in my clothes I suppose he’d ha’ ‘ad my money as well.’

  “He felt in ‘is pockets anxious-like, then he smiled, and stood there letting ‘is money fall through ‘is fingers into his pocket over and over agin.

  “‘Pore chap,’ he ses; ‘pore chap; p’r’aps he’d got a starving wife and family. Who knows? It ain’t for us to judge ‘im, Ginger.’

  “He stood a little while longer chinking ‘is money, and when he took off his coat to wash Ginger Dick poured the water out for im and Peter Russet picked up the soap, which ‘ad fallen on the floor. Then they started pitying themselves, looking very ‘ard at the back of old Sam while they did it.

  “‘I s’pose we’ve got to starve, Peter,’ ses Ginger, in, a sad voice.

  “‘Looks like it,’ ses Peter, dressing hisself very slowly.

  “‘There’s nobody’ll mourn for me, that’s one comfort,’ ses Ginger.

  “‘Or me,’ ses Peter.

  “‘P’r’aps Sam’ll miss us a bit,’ ses Ginger, grinding ‘is teeth as old Sam went on washing as if he was deaf. ‘He’ss the only real pal we ever ‘ad.’

  “‘Wot are you talking about?’ ses Sam, turning round with the soap in his eyes, and feeling for the towel. ‘Wot d’ye want to starve for? Why don’t you get a ship?’

  “‘I thought we was all going to sign on in the Cheaspeake agin, Sam,’ ses Ginger, very mild.

  “‘She won’t be ready for sea for pretty near three weeks,’ ses Sam. ‘You know that.’

  “‘P’r’aps Sam would lend us a trifle to go on with, Ginger,’ ses Peter Russet. ‘Just enough to keep body and soul together, so as we can hold out and ‘ave the pleasure of sailing with ‘im agin.’