Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “‘P’r’aps he wouldn’t,’ ses Sam, afore Ginger could open his mouth. ‘I’ve just got about enough to last myself; I ‘aven’t got any to lend. Sailormen wot turns on their best friends and makes them sleep on the cold ‘ard floor while their new pal is in his bed don’t get money lent to ’em. My neck is so stiff it creaks every time I move it, and I’ve got the rheumatics in my legs something cruel.’

  “He began to ‘um a song, and putting on ‘is cap went out to get some brekfuss. He went to a little eating-’ouse near by, where they was in the ‘abit of going, and ‘ad just started on a plate of eggs and bacon when Ginger Dick and Peter came into the place with a pocket-’ankercher of ‘is wot they ‘ad found in the fender.

  “‘We thought you might want it, Sam,’ ses Peter.

  “‘So we brought it along,’ ses Ginger. ‘I ‘ope you’re enjoying of your brekfuss, Sam.’

  “Sam took the ‘ankercher and thanked ’em very perlite, and arter standing there for a minute or two as if they wanted to say something they couldn’t remember, they sheered off. When Sam left the place ‘arf-an-hour afterwards they was still hanging about, and as Sam passed Ginger asked ‘im if he was going for a walk.

  “‘Walk?’ ses Sam. ‘Cert’nly not. I’m going to bed; I didn’t ‘ave a good night’s rest like you and your lodger.’

  “He went back ‘ome, and arter taking off ‘is coat and boots got into bed and slept like a top till one o’clock, when he woke up to find Ginger shaking ‘im by the shoulders.

  “‘Wot’s the matter?’ he ses. ‘Wot are you up to?’

  “‘It’s dinner-time,’ ses Ginger. ‘I thought p’r’aps you’d like to know, in case you missed it.’

  “‘You leave me alone,’ ses Sam, cuddling into the clothes agin. ‘I don’t want no dinner. You go and look arter your own dinners.’

  “He stayed in bed for another ‘arf-hour, listening to Peter and Ginger telling each other in loud whispers ‘ow hungry they was, and then he got up and put ‘is things on and went to the door.

  “‘I’m going to get a bit o’ dinner,’ he ses. ‘And mind, I’ve got my pocket ‘ankercher.’

  “He went out and ‘ad a steak and onions and a pint o’ beer, but, although he kept looking up sudden from ‘is plate, he didn’t see Peter or Ginger. It spoilt ‘is dinner a bit, but arter he got outside ‘e saw them standing at the corner, and, pretending not to see them, he went off for a walk down the Mile End Road.

  “He walked as far as Bow with them follering’im, and then he jumped on a bus and rode back as far as Whitechapel. There was no sign of ’em when he got off, and, feeling a bit lonesome, he stood about looking in shop-windows until ‘e see them coming along as hard as they could come.

  “‘Why, halloa!’ he ses. ‘Where did you spring from?’

  “‘We — we — we’ve been — for a bit of a walk,’ ses Ginger Dick, puffing and blowing like a grampus.

  “‘To-keep down the ‘unger,’ ses Peter Russet.

  “Old Sam looked at ’em very stern for a moment, then he beckoned ’em to foller ‘im, and, stopping at a little public-’ouse, he went in and ordered a pint o’ bitter.

  “‘And give them two pore fellers a crust o’ bread and cheese and ‘arf-a-pint of four ale each,’ he ses to the barmaid.

  “Ginger and Peter looked at each other, but they was so hungry they didn’t say a word; they just stood waiting.

  “‘Put that inside you my pore fellers,’ ses Sam, with a oily smile. ‘I can’t bear to see people suffering for want o’ food,’ he ses to the barmaid, as he chucked down a sovereign on the counter.

  “The barmaid, a very nice gal with black ‘air and her fingers covered all over with rings, said that it did ‘im credit, and they stood there talking about tramps and beggars and such-like till Peter and Ginger nearly choked. He stood there watching ’em and smoking a threepenny cigar, and when they ‘ad finished he told the barmaid to give ’em a sausage-roll each, and went off.

  “Peter and Ginger snatched up their sausage-rolls and follered ‘im, and at last Ginger swallowed his pride and walked up to ‘im and asked ‘im to lend them some money.

  “‘You’ll get it back agin,’ he ses. ‘You know that well enough.’

  “‘Cert’nly not,’ ses Sam; ‘and I’m surprised at you asking. Why, a child could rob you. It’s ‘ard enough as it is for a pore man like me to ‘ave to keep a couple o’ hulking sailormen, but I’m not going to give you money to chuck away on lodgers. No more sleeping on the floor for me! Now I don’t want none o’ your langwidge, and I don’t want you follering me like a couple o’ cats arter a meat-barrer. I shall be ‘aving a cup o’ tea at Brown’s coffee-shop by and by, and if you’re there at five sharp I’ll see wot I can do for you. Wot did you call me?’

  “Ginger told ‘im three times, and then Peter Russet dragged ‘im away. They turned up outside Brown’s at a quarter to five, and at ten past six Sam Small strolled up smoking a cigar, and, arter telling them that he ‘ad forgot all about ’em, took ’em inside and paid for their teas. He told Mr. Brown ‘e was paying for ’em, and ‘e told the gal wot served ’em ‘e was paying for ’em, and it was all pore Ginger could do to stop ‘imself from throwing his plate in ‘is face.

  “Sam went off by ‘imself, and arter walking about all the evening without a ha’penny in their pockets, Ginger Dick and Peter went off ‘ome to bed and went to sleep till twelve o’clock, when Sam came in and woke ’em up to tell ’em about a music-’all he ‘ad been to, and ‘ow many pints he had ‘ad. He sat up in bed till past one o’clock talking about ‘imself, and twice Peter Russet woke Ginger up to listen and got punched for ‘is trouble.

  “They both said they’d get a ship next morning, and then old Sam turned round and wouldn’t ‘ear of it. The airs he gave ‘imself was awful. He said he’d tell ’em when they was to get a ship, and if they went and did things without asking ‘im he’d let ’em starve.

  “He kept ’em with ‘im all that day for fear of losing ’em and having to give ’em their money when ‘e met ’em agin instead of spending it on ’em and getting praised for it. They ‘ad their dinner with ‘im at Brown’s, and nothing they could do pleased him. He spoke to Peter Russet out loud about making a noise while he was eating, and directly arterwards he told Ginger to use his pocket ‘ankercher. Pore Ginger sat there looking at ‘im and swelling and swelling until he nearly bust, and Sam told ‘im if he couldn’t keep ‘is temper when people was trying to do ‘im a kindness he’d better go and get somebody else to keep him.

  “He took ’em to a music-’all that night, but he spoilt it all for ’em by taking ’em into the little public-’ouse in Whitechapel Road fust and standing ’em a drink. He told the barmaid ‘e was keeping ’em till they could find a job, and arter she ‘ad told him he was too soft-’arted and would only be took advantage of, she brought another barmaid up to look at ’em and ask ’em wot they could do, and why they didn’t do it.

  “Sam served ’em like that for over a week, and he ‘ad so much praise from Mr. Brown and other people that it nearly turned his ‘ead. For once in his life he ‘ad it pretty near all ‘is own way. Twice Ginger Dick slipped off and tried to get a ship and came back sulky and hungry, and once Peter Russet sprained his thumb trying to get a job at the docks.

  “They gave it up then and kept to Sam like a couple o’ shadders, only giving ‘im back-answers when they felt as if something ‘ud give way inside if they didn’t. For the fust time in their lives they began to count the days till their boat was ready for sea. Then something happened.

  “They was all coming ‘ome late one night along the Minories, when Ginger Dick gave a shout and, suddenly bolting up a little street arter a man that ‘ad turned up there, fust of all sent ‘im flying with a heavy punch of ‘is fist, and then knelt on ‘im.

  “‘Now then Ginger,’ ses Sam bustling up with Peter Russet, ‘wot’s all this? Wot yer doing?’

  “‘It’s the thief,’ ses Gi
nger. ‘It’s our lodger. You keep still!’ he ses shaking the man. ‘D’ye hear?’

  “Peter gave a shout of joy, and stood by to help.

  “‘Nonsense!’ ses old Sam, turning pale. ‘You’ve been drinking, Ginger. This comes of standing you ‘arf-pints.’

  “‘It’s him right enough,’ ses Ginger. ‘I’d know ‘is ugly face anywhere.’

  “‘You come off ‘ome at once,’ ses Sam, very sharp, but his voice trembling. ‘At once. D’ye hear me?’

  “‘Fetch a policeman, Peter,’ ses Ginger.

  “‘Let the pore feller go, I tell you,’ ses Sam, stamping his foot. ‘‘Ow would you like to be locked up? ‘Ow would you like to be torn away from your wife and little ones? ‘Ow would you—’

  “‘Fetch a policeman, Peter,’ ses Ginger agin. ‘D’ye hear?’

  “‘Don’t do that, guv’nor,’ ses the lodger. ‘You got your money back. Wot’s the good o’ putting me away?’

  “‘Got our wot back?’ ses Ginger, shaking ‘im agin. ‘Don’t you try and be funny with me, else I’ll tear you into little pieces.’

  “‘But he took it back,’ ses the man, trying to sit up and pointing at Sam. ‘He follered me downstairs and took it all away from me. Your ticker as well.’

  “‘Wot?’ ses Ginger and Peter both together.

  “Strue as I’m ‘ere,’ ses the lodger. ‘You turn ‘is pockets out and see. Look out! He’s going off!’

  “Ginger turned his ‘ead just in time to see old Sam nipping round the corner. He pulled the lodger up like a flash, and, telling Peter to take hold of the other side of him, they set off arter Sam.

  “‘Little-joke-o’ mine-Ginger,’ ses Sam, when they caught ‘im. ‘I was going to tell you about it to-night. It ain’t often I get the chance of a joke agin you Ginger; you’re too sharp for a old man like me.’

  “Ginger Dick didn’t say anything. He kept ‘old o’ Sam’s arm with one hand and the lodger’s neck with the other, and marched ’em off to his lodgings.

  “He shut the door when ‘e got in, and arter Peter ‘ad lit the candle they took hold o’ Sam and went through ‘im, and arter trying to find pockets where he ‘adn’t got any, they took off ‘is belt and found Ginger’s watch, seventeen pounds five shillings, and a few coppers.

  “‘We ‘ad over nine quid each, me and Peter,’ ses Ginger. ‘Where’s the rest?’

  “‘It’s all I’ve got left,’ ses Sam; ‘every ha’penny.’

  “He ‘ad to undress and even take ‘is boots off afore they’d believe ‘im, and then Ginger took ‘is watch and he ses to Peter, ‘Lemme see; ‘arf of seventeen pounds is eight pounds ten; ‘arf of five shillings is ‘arf-a-crown; and ‘arf of fourpence is twopence.’

  “‘What about me Ginger old pal?’ ses Sam, in a kind voice. ‘We must divide it into threes.’

  “‘Threes?’ ses Ginger, staring at’im. ‘Whaffor?’

  “‘‘Cos part of it’s mine,’ ses Sam, struggling ‘ard to be perlite. ‘I’ve paid for everything for the last ten days, ain’t I?’

  “‘Yes,’ ses Ginger. ‘You ‘ave, and I thank you for it.’

  “‘So do I,’ ses Peter Russet. ‘Hearty I do.’

  “‘It was your kind-’artedness,’ ses Ginger, grinning like mad. ‘You gave it to us, and we wouldn’t dream of giving it to you back.’

  “‘Nothin’ o’ the kind,’ ses Sam, choking.

  “‘Oh, yes you did,’ ses Ginger, ‘and you didn’t forget to tell people neither. You told everybody. Now it’s our turn.’

  “He opened the door and kicked the lodger out. Leastways, he would ‘ave kicked ‘im, but the chap was too quick for ‘im. And then ‘e came back, and, putting his arm round Peter’s waist, danced a waltz round the room with ‘im, while pore old Sam got on to his bed to be out of the way. They danced for nearly ‘arf-an-hour, and then they undressed and sat on Peter’s bed and talked. They talked in whispers at fust, but at last Sam ‘eard Peter say: —

  “‘Threepence for ‘is brekfuss; sevenpence for ‘is dinner; threepence for ‘is tea; penny for beer and a penny for bacca. ‘Ow much is that, Ginger?’

  “‘One bob,’ ses Ginger.

  “Peter counted up to ‘imself. ‘I make it more than that, old pal,’ he ses, when he ‘ad finished.

  “‘Do you?’ ses Ginger, getting up. ‘Well, he won’t; not if he counts it twenty times over he won’t. Good-night, Peter. ‘Appy dreams.’”

  DUAL CONTROL

  “Never say ‘die,’ Bert,” said Mr. Culpepper, kindly; “I like you, and so do most other people who know what’s good for ’em; and if Florrie don’t like you she can keep single till she does.”

  Mr. Albert Sharp thanked him.

  “Come in more oftener,” said Mr. Culpepper. “If she don’t know a steady young man when she sees him, it’s her mistake.”

  “Nobody could be steadier than what I am,” sighed Mr. Sharp.

  Mr. Culpepper nodded. “The worst of it is, girls don’t like steady young men,” he said, rumpling his thin grey hair; “that’s the silly part of it.”

  “But you was always steady, and Mrs. Culpepper married you,” said the young man.

  Mr. Culpepper nodded again. “She thought I was, and that came to the same thing,” he said, composedly. “And it ain’t for me to say, but she had an idea that I was very good-looking in them days. I had chestnutty hair. She burnt a piece of it only the other day she’d kept for thirty years.”

  “Burnt it? What for?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

  “Words,” said the other, lowering his voice. “When I want one thing nowadays she generally wants another; and the things she wants ain’t the things I want.”

  Mr. Sharp shook his head and sighed again.

  “You ain’t talkative enough for Florrie, you know,” said Mr. Culpepper, regarding him.

  “I can talk all right as a rule,” retorted Mr. Sharp. “You ought to hear me at the debating society; but you can’t talk to a girl who doesn’t talk back.”

  “You’re far too humble,” continued the other. “You should cheek her a bit now and then. Let ‘er see you’ve got some spirit. Chaff ‘er.”

  “That’s no good,” said the young man, restlessly. “I’ve tried it. Only the other day I called her ‘a saucy little kipper,’ and the way she went on, anybody would have thought I’d insulted her. Can’t see a joke, I s’pose. Where is she now?”

  “Upstairs,” was the reply.

  “That’s because I’m here,” said Mr. Sharp. “If it had been Jack Butler she’d have been down fast enough.”

  “It couldn’t be him,” said Mr. Culpepper, “because I won’t have ‘im in the house. I’ve told him so; I’ve told her so, and I’ve told ‘er aunt so. And if she marries without my leave afore she’s thirty she loses the seven hundred pounds ‘er father left her. You’ve got plenty of time — ten years.”

  Mr. Sharp, sitting with his hands between his knees, gazed despondently at the floor. “There’s a lot o’ girls would jump at me,” he remarked. “I’ve only got to hold up my little finger and they’d jump.”

  “That’s because they’ve got sense,” said Mr. Culpepper. “They’ve got the sense to prefer steadiness and humdrumness to good looks and dash. A young fellow like you earning thirty-two-and-six a week can do without good looks, and if I’ve told Florrie so once I have told her fifty times.”

  “Looks are a matter of taste,” said Mr. Sharp, morosely. “Some of them girls I was speaking about just now—”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Culpepper, hastily. “Now, look here; you go on a different tack. Take a glass of ale like a man or a couple o’ glasses; smoke a cigarette or a pipe. Be like other young men. Cut a dash, and don’t be a namby-pamby. After you’re married you can be as miserable as you like.”

  Mr. Sharp, after a somewhat lengthy interval, thanked him.

  “It’s my birthday next Wednesday,” continued Mr. Culpepper, regarding him benevolently; “come round about seven, and I�
�ll ask you to stay to supper. That’ll give you a chance. Anybody’s allowed to step a bit over the mark on birthdays, and you might take a glass or two and make a speech, and be so happy and bright that they’d ‘ardly know you. If you want an excuse for calling, you could bring me a box of cigars for my birthday.”

  “Or come in to wish you ‘Many Happy Returns of the Day,’” said the thrifty Mr. Sharp.

  “And don’t forget to get above yourself,” said Mr. Culpepper, regarding him sternly; “in a gentlemanly way, of course. Have as many glasses as you like — there’s no stint about me.”

  “If it ever comes off,” said Mr. Sharp, rising— “if I get her through you, you shan’t have reason to repent it. I’ll look after that.”

  Mr. Culpepper, whose feelings were a trifle ruffled, said that he would “look after it too.” He had a faint idea that, even from his own point of view, he might have made a better selection for his niece’s hand.

  Mr. Sharp smoked his first cigarette the following morning, and, encouraged by the entire absence of any after-effects, purchased a pipe, which was taken up by a policeman the same evening for obstructing the public footpath in company with a metal tobacco-box three parts full.

  In the matter of ale he found less difficulty. Certainly the taste was unpleasant, but, treated as medicine and gulped down quickly, it was endurable. After a day or two he even began to be critical, and on Monday evening went so far as to complain of its flatness to the wide-eyed landlord of the “Royal George.”

  “Too much cellar-work,” he said, as he finished his glass and made for the door.

  “Too much! ‘Ere, come ‘ere,” said the landlord, thickly. “I want to speak to you.”

  The expert shook his head, and, passing out into, the street, changed colour as he saw Miss Garland approaching. In a blundering fashion he clutched at his hat and stammered out a “Good evening.”

  Miss Garland returned the greeting and, instead of passing on, stopped and, with a friendly smile, held out her hand. Mr. Sharp shook it convulsively.