Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Of course not,” ses the gal. “There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

  She let ‘er mother and Ginger persuade ‘er arter a time, and then she went upstairs to clean herself, and put on a little silver brooch that Ginger said he ‘ad picked up coming along.

  She took about three-quarters of an hour to get ready, but when she came down, Ginger felt that it was quite worth it. He couldn’t take ‘is eyes off ‘er, as the saying goes, and ‘e sat by ‘er side on the top of the omnibus like a man in a dream.

  “This is better than being at sea,” he ses at last.

  “Don’t you like the sea?” ses the gal. “I should like to go to sea myself.”

  “I shouldn’t mind the sea if you was there,” ses Ginger.

  Miss Gill turned her ‘ead away. “You mustn’t talk to me like that,” she ses in a soft voice. “Still—”

  “Still wot?” ses Ginger, arter waiting a long time.

  “I mean, if I did go to sea, it would be nice to have a friend on board,” she ses. “I suppose you ain’t afraid of storms, are you?”

  “I like ’em,” ses Ginger.

  “You look as if you would,” ses the gal, giving ‘im a little look under ‘er eyelashes. “It must be nice to be a man and be brave. I wish I was a man.”

  “I don’t,” ses Ginger.

  “Why not?” ses the gal, turning her ‘ead away agin.

  Ginger didn’t answer, he gave ‘er elbow a little squeeze instead. She took it away at once, and Ginger was just wishing he ‘adn’t been so foolish, when it came back agin, and they sat for a long time without speaking a word.

  “The sea is all right for some things,” ses Ginger at last, “but suppose a man married!”

  The gal shook her ‘ead. “It would be hard on ‘is wife,” she ses, with another little look at ‘im, “but — but — —”

  Ginger pinched ‘er elbow agin.

  “But p’r’aps he could get a job ashore,” she ses, “and then he could take his wife out for a bus-ride every day.”

  They ‘ad to change buses arter a time, and they got on a wrong bus and went miles out o’ their way, but neither of ’em seemed to mind. Ginger said he was thinking of something else, and the gal said she was too. They got to the Zoological Gardens at last, and Ginger said he ‘ad never enjoyed himself so much. When the lions roared she squeezed his arm, and when they ‘ad an elephant ride she was holding on to ‘im with both ‘ands.

  “I am enjoying myself,” she ses, as Ginger ‘elped her down and said “whoa” to the elephant. “I know it’s wicked, but I can’t ‘elp it, and wot’s more, I’m afraid I don’t want to ‘elp it.”

  She let Ginger take ‘er arm when she nearly tripped up over a peppermint ball some kid ‘ad dropped; and, arter a little persuasion, she ‘ad a bottle of lemonade and six bath-buns at a refreshment stall for dinner.

  She was as nice as she could be to him, but by the time they started for ‘ome, she ‘ad turned so quiet that Ginger began to think ‘e must ‘ave offended ‘er in some way.

  “Are you tired?” he ses.

  “No,” ses the gal, shaking her ‘ead, “I’ve enjoyed myself very much.”

  “I thought you seemed a bit tired,” ses Ginger, arter waiting a long time.

  “I’m not tired,” ses the gal, giving ‘im a sad sort o’ little smile, “but I’m a little bit worried, that’s all.”

  “Worried?” ses Ginger, very tender. “Wot’s worrying you?”

  “Oh, I can’t tell you,” ses Miss Gill. “It doesn’t matter; I’ll try and cheer up. Wot a lovely day it is, isn’t it? I shall remember it all my life.”

  “Wot is it worrying you?” ses Ginger, in a determined voice. “Can’t you tell me?”

  “No,” ses the gal, shaking her ‘ead, “I can’t tell you because you might want to ‘elp me, and I couldn’t allow that.”

  “Why shouldn’t I ‘elp you?” ses Ginger. “It’s wot we was put ‘ere for: to ‘elp one another.”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” ses the gal, just dabbing at’er eyes — with a lace pocket-’ankercher about one and a ‘arf times the size of ‘er nose.

  “Not if I ask you to?” ses Ginger.

  Miss Gill shook ‘er ‘ead, and then she tried her ‘ardest to turn the conversation. She talked about the weather, and the monkey-’ouse, and a gal in ‘er street whose ‘air changed from red to black in a single night; but it was all no good, Ginger wouldn’t be put off, and at last she ses —

  “Well,” she ses, “if you must know, I’m in a difficulty; I ‘ave got to get three pounds, and where to get it I don’t know any more than the man in the moon. Now let’s talk about something else.”

  “Do you owe it?” ses Ginger.

  “I can’t tell you any more,” ses Miss Gill, “and I wouldn’t ‘ave told you that only you asked me, and somehow I feel as though I ‘ave to tell you things, when you want me to.”

  “Three pounds ain’t much,” ses pore Ginger, wot ‘ad just been paid off arter a long v’y’ge. “I can let you ‘ave it and welcome.”

  Miss Gill started away from ‘im as though she ‘ad been stung, and it took ‘im all his time to talk ‘er round agin. When he ‘ad she begged ‘is pardon and said he was the most generous man she ‘ad ever met, but it couldn’t be.

  “I don’t know when I could pay it back,” she ses, “but I thank you all the same for offering it.”

  “Pay it back when you like,” ses Ginger, “and if you never pay it back, it don’t matter.”

  He offered ‘er the money four or five times, but she wouldn’t take it, but at last just as they got near her ‘ouse he forced it in her ‘and, and put his own ‘ands in his pockets when she tried to make ‘im take it back.

  “You are good to me,” she ses arter they ‘ad gone inside and ‘er mother ‘ad gone upstairs arter giving Ginger a bottle o’ beer to amuse ‘imself with; “I shall never forget you. Never.”

  “I ‘ope not,” ses Ginger, starting. “Are you coming out agin to-morrow?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” ses Miss Gill, shaking her ‘ead and looking sorrowful.

  “Not with me?” ses Ginger, sitting down beside her on the sofa and putting ‘is arm so that she could lean against it if she wanted to.

  “I don’t think I can,” ses the gal, leaning back very gentle.

  “Think agin,” ses Ginger, squeezing ‘er waist a little.

  Miss Gill shook her ‘ead, and then turned and looked at ‘im. Her face was so close to his, that, thinking that she ‘ad put it there a-purpose, he kissed it, and the next moment ‘e got a clout that made his ‘ead ring.

  “‘Ow dare you!” she ses, jumping up with a scream. “‘Ow dare you! ‘Ow dare — —”

  “Wot’s the matter?” ses her mother, coming downstairs like a runaway barrel of treacle.

  “He — he’s insulted me,” ses Miss Gill, taking out her little ‘ankercher and sobbing. “He — k-kissed me!”

  “WOT!” ses Mrs. Gill. “Well, I’d never ‘ave believed it! Never! Why ‘e ought to be taken up. Wot d’ye mean by it?” she ses, turning on pore Ginger.

  Ginger tried to explain, but it was all no good, and two minutes arterwards ‘e was walking back to ‘is lodgings like a dog with its tail between its legs. His ‘ead was going round and round with astonishment, and ‘e was in such a temper that ‘e barged into a man twice as big as himself and then offered to knock his ‘ead off when ‘e objected. And when Sam and Peter asked him ‘ow he ‘ad got on, he was in such a state of mind it was all ‘e could do to answer ’em.

  “And I’ll trouble you for my ‘arf dollar, Peter,” he ses; “I’ve been out with ‘er all day, and I’ve won my bet.”

  Peter paid it over like a lamb, and then ‘e sat thinking ‘ard for a bit.

  “Are you going out with ‘er agin to-morrow, Ginger?” he ses, arter a time.

  “I don’t know,” ses Ginger, careless-like, “I ain’t made up my mind yet.”

  Peter
looked at ‘im and then ‘e looked at Sam and winked. “Let me ‘ave a try,” he ses; “I’ll bet you another ‘arf dollar that I take ‘er out. P’r’aps I shall come ‘ome in a better temper than wot you ‘ave.”

  Old Sam said it wasn’t right to play with a gal’s ‘art in that way, but arter a lot o’ talking and telling Sam to shut up, Ginger took the bet. He was quite certain in his own mind that Miss Gill would slam the door in Peter’s face, and arter he ‘ad started off next morning, Ginger and Sam waited in to ‘ave the pleasure of laughing in ‘is face.

  They got tired of waiting at last, and went out to enjoy themselves, and breathe the fresh air in a pub down Poplar way. They got back at seven o’clock, and ten minutes arterwards Peter came in and sat down on his bed and began to smoke without a word.

  “Had a good time?” ses Ginger.

  “Rippin’,” ses Peter, holding ‘is pipe tight between ‘is teeth. “You owe me ‘arf a dollar, Ginger.”

  “Where’d you go?” ses Ginger, passing it over.

  “Crystal Pallis,” ses Peter.

  “Are you going to take ‘er out to-morrow?” ses Sam.

  “I don’t think so,” ses Peter, taking ‘is pipe out of ‘is mouth and yawning. “She’s rather too young for me; I like talking to gals wot’s a bit older. I won’t stand in Ginger’s way.”

  “I found ‘er a bit young too,” ses Ginger. “P’r’aps we’d better let Sam’s nevy ‘ave ‘er. Arter all it’s a bit rough on ‘im when you come to think of it.”

  “You’re quite right,” ses Peter, jumping up. “It’s Sam’s business, and why we should go out of our way and inconvenience ourselves to do ‘im a good turn, I don’t know.”

  “It’s Sam all over,” ses Ginger; “he’s always been like that, and the more you try to oblige ‘im, the more you may.”

  They went on abusing Sam till he got sick and tired of it, and arter telling ’em wot he thought of ’em he slammed the door and went out and spent the evening by ‘imself. He would ‘ardly speak to them next day, but arter tea he brightened up a bit and they went off together as if nothing ‘ad happened, and the fust thing they saw as they turned out of their street was Sam’s nevy coming along smiling till it made their faces ache to look at him.

  “I was just coming to see you,” he ses.

  “We’re just off on business,” ses Ginger.

  “I wasn’t going to stop,” ses the nevy; “my young lady just told me to step along and show uncle wot she has bought me. A silver watch and chain and a gold ring. Look at it!”

  He held his ‘and under Ginger’s nose, and Ginger stood there looking at it and opening and shutting ‘is mouth like a dying fish. Then he took Peter by the arm and led’im away while the nevy was opening ‘is new watch and showing Sam the works.

  “‘Ow much did she get out of you, Peter?” ses Ginger, looking at ‘im very hard. “I don’t want any lies.”

  “Three quid,” ses Peter, staring at ‘im.

  “Same ‘ere,” ses Ginger, grinding his teeth. “Did she give you a smack on the side of your face?”

  “Wot — are — you — talking about, Ginger?” ses Peter.

  “Did she smack your face too?” ses Ginger.

  “Yes,” ses Peter.

  HIS OTHER SELF

  They’re as like as two peas, him and ‘is brother,” said the night-watchman, gazing blandly at the indignant face of the lighterman on the barge below; “and the on’y way I know this one is Sam is because Bill don’t use bad langwidge. Twins they are, but the likeness is only outside; Bill’s ‘art is as white as snow.”

  He cut off a plug of tobacco, and, placing it in his cheek, waited expectantly.

  “White as snow,” he repeated.

  “That’s me,” said the lighterman, as he pushed his unwieldy craft from the jetty. “I’ll tell Sam your opinion of ‘im. So long.”

  The watchman went a shade redder than usual. That’s twins all over, he said, sourly, always deceiving people. It’s Bill arter all, and, instead of hurting ‘is feelings, I’ve just been flattering of ‘im up.

  It ain’t the fust time I’ve ‘ad trouble over a likeness. I’ve been a twin myself in a manner o’ speaking. It didn’t last long, but it lasted long enough for me to always be sorry for twins, and to make a lot of allowance for them. It must be very ‘ard to have another man going about with your face on ‘is shoulders, and getting it into trouble.

  It was a year or two ago now. I was sitting one evening at the gate, smoking a pipe and looking at a newspaper I ‘ad found in the office, when I see a gentleman coming along from the swing-bridge. Well-dressed, clean-shaved chap ‘e was, smoking a cigarette. He was walking slow and looking about ‘im casual-like, until his eyes fell on me, when he gave a perfect jump of surprise, and, arter looking at me very ‘ard, walked on a little way and then turned back. He did it twice, and I was just going to say something to ‘im, something that I ‘ad been getting ready for ‘im, when he spoke to me.

  “Good evening,” he ses.

  “Good evening,” I ses, folding the paper over and looking at ‘im rather severe.

  “I hope you’ll excuse me staring,” he ses, very perlite; “but I’ve never seen such a face and figger as yours in all my life — never.”

  “Ah, you ought to ha’ seen me a few years ago,” I ses. “I’m like everybody else — I’m getting on.”

  “Rubbish!” he ses. “You couldn’t be better if you tried. It’s marvellous! Wonderful! It’s the very thing I’ve been looking for. Why, if you’d been made to order you couldn’t ha’ been better.”

  I thought at fust he was by way of trying to get a drink out o’ me — I’ve been played that game afore — but instead o’ that he asked me whether I’d do ‘im the pleasure of ‘aving one with ‘im.

  We went over to the Albion, and I believe I could have ‘ad it in a pail if I’d on’y liked to say the word. And all the time I was drinking he was looking me up and down, till I didn’t know where to look, as the saying is.

  “I came down ‘ere to look for somebody like you,” he ses, “but I never dreamt I should have such luck as this. I’m an actor, and I’ve got to play the part of a sailor, and I’ve been worried some time ‘ow to make up for the part. D’ye understand?”

  “No,” I ses, looking at ‘im.

  “I want to look the real thing,” he ses, speaking low so the landlord shouldn’t hear. “I want to make myself the living image of you. If that don’t fetch ’em I’ll give up the stage and grow cabbages.”

  “Make yourself like me?” I ses. “Why, you’re no more like me than I’m like a sea-sick monkey.”

  “Not so much,” he ses. “That’s where the art comes in.”

  He stood me another drink, and then, taking my arm in a cuddling sort o’ way, and calling me “Dear boy,” ‘e led me back to the wharf and explained. He said ‘e would come round next evening with wot ‘e called his make-up box, and paint ‘is face and make ‘imself up till people wouldn’t know one from the other.

  “And wot about your figger?” I ses, looking at ‘im.

  “A cushion,” he ses, winking, “or maybe a couple. And what about clothes? You’ll ‘ave to sell me those you’ve got on. Hat and all. And boots.”

  I put a price on ’em that I thought would ‘ave finished ‘im then and there, but it didn’t. And at last, arter paying me so many more compliments that they began to get into my ‘ead, he fixed up a meeting for the next night and went off.

  “And mind,” he ses, coming back, “not a word to a living soul!”

  He went off agin, and, arter going to the Bull’s Head and ‘aving a pint to clear my ‘ead, I went and sat down in the office and thought it over. It seemed all right to me as far as I could see; but p’r’aps the pint didn’t clear my ‘ead enough — p’r’aps I ought to ‘ave ‘ad two pints.

  I lay awake best part of next day thinking it over, and when I got up I ‘ad made up my mind. I put my clothes in a sack, and then I put on
some others as much like ’em as possible, on’y p’r’aps a bit older, in case the missis should get asking questions; and then I sat wondering ‘ow to get out with the sack without ‘er noticing it. She’s got a very inquiring mind, and I wasn’t going to tell her any lies about it. Besides which I couldn’t think of one.

  I got out at last by playing a game on her. I pertended to drop ‘arf a dollar in the washus, and while she was busy on ‘er hands and knees I went off as comfortable as you please.

  I got into the office with it all right, and, just as it was getting dark, a cab drove up to the wharf and the actor-chap jumped out with a big leather bag. I took ‘im into the private office, and ‘e was so ready with ‘is money for the clothes that I offered to throw the sack in.

  He changed into my clothes fust of all, and then, asking me to sit down in front of ‘im, he took a looking-glass and a box out of ‘is bag and began to alter ‘is face. Wot with sticks of coloured paint, and false eyebrows, and a beard stuck on with gum and trimmed with a pair o’ scissors, it was more like a conjuring trick than anything else. Then ‘e took a wig out of ‘is bag and pressed it on his ‘ead, put on the cap, put some black stuff on ‘is teeth, and there he was. We both looked into the glass together while ‘e gave the finishing touches, and then he clapped me on the back and said I was the handsomest sailorman in England.

  “I shall have to make up a bit ‘eavier when I’m behind the floats,” he ses; “but this is enough for ‘ere. Wot do you think of the imitation of your voice? I think I’ve got it exact.”

  “If you ask me,” I ses, “it sounds like a poll-parrot with a cold in the ‘ead.”

  “And now for your walk,” he ses, looking as pleased as if I’d said something else. “Come to the door and see me go up the wharf.”

  I didn’t like to hurt ‘is feelings, but I thought I should ha’ bust. He walked up that wharf like a dancing-bear in a pair of trousers too tight for it, but ‘e was so pleased with ‘imself that I didn’t like to tell ‘im so. He went up and down two or three times, and I never saw anything so ridikerlous in my life.