“That’s all very well for us,” he ses; “but wot about other people? That’s wot I want to know. I’ll go and ‘ave a drink, and see whether anybody spots me.”
Afore I could stop ‘im he started off to the Bull’s Head and went in, while I stood outside and watched ‘im.
“‘Arf a pint o’ four ale,” he ses, smacking down a penny.
I see the landlord draw the beer and give it to ‘im, but ‘e didn’t seem to take no notice of ‘im. Then, just to open ‘is eyes a bit, I walked in and put down a penny and asked for a ‘arf-pint.
The landlord was just wiping down the counter at the time, and when I gave my order he looked up and stood staring at me with the wet cloth ‘eld up in the air. He didn’t say a word — not a single word. He stood there for a moment smiling at us foolish-like, and then ‘e let go o’ the beer-injin, wot ‘e was ‘olding in ‘is left hand, and sat down heavy on the bar floor. We both put our ‘eads over the counter to see wot had ‘appened to ‘im, and ‘e started making the most ‘orrible noise I ‘ave ever heard in my life. I wonder it didn’t bring the fire-injins. The actor-chap bolted out as if he’d been shot, and I was just thinking of follering ‘im when the landlord’s wife and ‘is two daughters came rushing out and asking me wot I ‘ad done to him.
“There — there — was two of ‘im!” ses the landlord, trembling and holding on to ‘is wife’s arm, as they helped ‘im up and got ‘im in the chair. “Two of ‘im!”
“Two of wot?” ses his wife.
“Two — two watchmen,” ses the landlord; “both exac’ly alike and both asking for ‘arf a pint o’ four ale.”
“Yes, yes,” ses ‘is wife.
“You come and lay down, pa,” ses the gals. “I tell you there was,” ses the landlord, getting ‘is colour back, with temper.
“Yes, yes; I know all about it,” ses ‘is wife. “You come inside for a bit; and, Gertie, you bring your father in a soda — a large soda.”
They got ‘im in arter a lot o’ trouble; but three times ‘e came back as far as the door, ‘olding on to them, and taking a little peep at me. The last time he shook his ‘ead at me, and said if I did it agin I could go and get my ‘arf-pints somewhere else.
I finished the beer wot the actor ‘ad left, and, arter telling the landlord I ‘oped his eyesight ‘ud be better in the morning, I went outside, and arter a careful look round walked back to the wharf.
I pushed the wicket open a little way and peeped in. The actor was standing just by the fust crane talking to two of the hands off of the Saltram. He’d got ‘is back to the light, but ‘ow it was they didn’t twig his voice I can’t think.
They was so busy talking that I crept along by the side of the wall and got to the office without their seeing me. I went into the private office and turned out the gas there, and sat down to wait for ‘im. Then I ‘eard a noise outside that took me to the door agin and kept me there, ‘olding on to the door-post and gasping for my breath. The cook of the Saltram was sitting on a paraffin-cask playing the mouth-orgin, and the actor, with ‘is arms folded across his stummick, was dancing a horn-pipe as if he’d gorn mad.
I never saw anything so ridikerlous in my life, and when I recollected that they thought it was me, I thought I should ha’ dropped.
A night-watchman can’t be too careful, and I knew that it ‘ud be all over Wapping next morning that I ‘ad been dancing to a tuppenny-ha’penny mouth-orgin played by a ship’s cook. A man that does ‘is dooty always has a lot of people ready to believe the worst of ‘im.
I went back into the dark office and waited, and by and by I ‘eard them coming along to the gate and patting ‘im on the back and saying he ought to be in a pantermime instead o’ wasting ‘is time night-watching. He left ’em at the gate, and then ‘e came into the office smiling as if he’d done something clever.
“Wot d’ye think of me for a understudy?” he ses, laughing. “They all thought it was you. There wasn’t one of ’em ‘ad the slightest suspicion — not one.”
“And wot about my character?” I ses, folding my arms acrost my chest and looking at him.
“Character?” he ses, staring. “Why, there’s no ‘arm in dancing; it’s a innercent enjoyment.”
“It ain’t one o’ my innercent enjoyments,” I ses, “and I don’t want to get the credit of it. If they hadn’t been sitting in a pub all the evening they’d ‘ave spotted you at once.”
“Oh!” he ses, very huffy. “How?”
“Your voice,” I ses. “You try and mimic a poll-parrot, and think it’s like me. And, for another thing, you walk about as though you’re stuffed with sawdust.”
“I beg your pardon,” he ses; “the voice and the walk are exact. Exact.”
“Wot?” I ses, looking ‘im up and down. “You stand there and ‘ave the impudence to tell me that my voice is like that?”
“I do,” he ses.
“Then I’m sorry for you,” I ses. “I thought you’d got more sense.”
He stood looking at me and gnawing ‘is finger, and by and by he ses, “Are you married?” he ses.
“I am,” I ses, very short.
“Where do you live?” he ses.
I told ‘im.
“Very good,” he ses; “p’r’aps I’ll be able to convince you arter all. By the way, wot do you call your wife? Missis?”
“Yes,” I ses, staring at him. “But wot’s it got to do with you?”
“Nothing,” he ses. “Nothing. Only I’m going to try the poll-parrot voice and the sawdust walk on her, that’s all. If I can deceive ‘er that’ll settle it.”
“Deceive her?” I ses. “Do you think I’m going to let you go round to my ‘ouse and get me into trouble with the missis like that? Why, you must be crazy; that dancing must ‘ave got into your ‘ead.”
“Where’s the ‘arm?” he ses, very sulky.
“‘Arm?” I ses. “I won’t ‘ave it, that’s all; and if you knew my missis you’d know without any telling.”
“I’ll bet you a pound to a sixpence she wouldn’t know me,” he ses, very earnest.
“She won’t ‘ave the chance,” I ses, “so that’s all about it.”
He stood there argufying for about ten minutes; but I was as firm as a rock. I wouldn’t move an inch, and at last, arter we was both on the point of losing our tempers, he picked up his bag and said as ‘ow he must be getting off ‘ome.
“But ain’t you going to take those things off fust?” I ses.
“No,” he ses, smiling. “I’ll wait till I get ‘ome. Ta-ta.”
He put ‘is bag on ‘is shoulder and walked to the gate, with me follering of ‘im.
“I expect I shall see a cab soon,” he ses. “Good-bye.”
“Wot are you laughing at?” I ses.
“On’y thoughts,” he ses.
“‘Ave you got far to go?’ I ses.
“No; just about the same distance as you ‘ave,” he ses, and he went off spluttering like a soda-water bottle.
I took the broom and ‘ad a good sweep-up arter he ‘ad gorn, and I was just in the middle of it when the cook and the other two chaps from the Saltram came back, with three other sailormen and a brewer’s drayman they ‘ad brought to see me DANCE!
“Same as you did a little while ago, Bill,” ses the cook, taking out ‘is beastly mouth-orgin and wiping it on ‘is sleeve. “Wot toon would you like?”
I couldn’t get away from ’em, and when I told them I ‘ad never danced in my life the cook asked me where I expected to go to. He told the drayman that I’d been dancing like a fairy in sea-boots, and they all got in front of me and wouldn’t let me pass. I lost my temper at last, and, arter they ‘ad taken the broom away from me and the drayman and one o’ the sailormen ‘ad said wot they’d do to me if I was on’y fifty years younger, they sheered off.
I locked the gate arter ’em and went back to the office, and I ‘adn’t been there above ‘arf an hour when somebody started ringing the gate-bell as if they was mad
. I thought it was the cook’s lot come back at fust, so I opened the wicket just a trifle and peeped out. There was a ‘ansom-cab standing outside, and I ‘ad hardly got my nose to the crack when the actor-chap, still in my clothes, pushed the door open and nipped in.
“You’ve lost,” he ses, pushing the door to and smiling all over. “Where’s your sixpence?”
“Lost?” I ses, hardly able to speak. “D’ye mean to tell me you’ve been to my wife arter all — arter all I said to you?”
“I do,” he ses, nodding, and smiling agin. “They were both deceived as easy as easy.”
“Both?” I ses, staring at ‘im. “Both wot? ‘Ow many wives d’ye think I’ve got? Wot d’ye mean by it?”
“Arter I left you,” he ses, giving me a little poke in the ribs, “I picked up a cab and, fust leaving my bag at Aldgate, I drove on to your ‘ouse and knocked at the door. I knocked twice, and then an angry-looking woman opened it and asked me wot I wanted.
“‘It’s all right, missis,’ I ses. ‘I’ve got ‘arf an hour off, and I’ve come to take you out for a walk.’
“‘Wot?’ she ses, drawing back with a start.
“‘Just a little turn round to see the shops,’ I ses; ‘and if there’s anything particler you’d like and it don’t cost too much, you shall ‘ave it.’
“I thought at fust, from the way she took it, she wasn’t used to you giving ‘er things.
“‘Ow dare you!’ she ses. ‘I’ll ‘ave you locked up. ‘Ow dare you insult a respectable married woman! You wait till my ‘usband comes ‘ome.’
“‘But I am your ‘usband,’ I ses. ‘Don’t you know me, my pretty? Don’t you know your pet sailor-boy?’
“She gave a screech like a steam-injin, and then she went next door and began knocking away like mad. Then I see that I ‘ad gorn to number twelve instead of number fourteen. Your wife, your real wife, came out of number fourteen — and she was worse than the other. But they both thought it was you — there’s no doubt of that. They chased me all the way up the road, and if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for this cab that was just passing I don’t know wot would ‘ave ‘appened to me.”
He shook his ‘ead and smiled agin, and, arter opening the wicket a trifle and telling the cabman he shouldn’t be long, he turned to me and asked me for the sixpence, to wear on his watch-chain.
“Sixpence!” I ses. “SIXPENCE! Wot do you think is going to ‘appen to me when I go ‘ome?”
“Oh, I ‘adn’t thought o’ that,” he ses. “Yes, o’ course.”
“Wot about my wife’s jealousy?” I ses. “Wot about the other, and her ‘usband, a cooper as big as a ‘ouse?”
“Well, well,” he ses, “one can’t think of everything. It’ll be all the same a hundred years hence.”
“Look ‘ere,” I ses, taking ‘is shoulder in a grip of iron. “You come back with me now in that cab and explain. D’ye see? That’s wot you’ve got to do.”
“All right,” he ses; “certainly. Is — is the husband bad-tempered?”
“You’ll see,” I ses; “but that’s your business. Come along.”
“With pleasure,” he ses, ‘elping me in. “‘Arf a mo’ while I tell the cabby where to drive to.”
He went to the back o’ the cab, and afore I knew wot had ‘appened the ‘orse had got a flick over the head with the whip and was going along at a gallop. I kept putting the little flap up and telling the cabby to stop, but he didn’t take the slightest notice. Arter I’d done it three times he kept it down so as I couldn’t open it.
There was a crowd round my door when the cab drove up, and in the middle of it was my missis, the woman next door, and ‘er husband, wot ‘ad just come ‘ome. ‘Arf a dozen of ’em helped me out, and afore I could say a word the cabman drove off and left me there.
I dream of it now sometimes: standing there explaining and explaining, until, just as I feel I can’t bear it any longer, two policemen come up and ‘elp me indoors. If they had ‘elped my missis outside it would be a easier dream to have.
DEEP WATERS
CONTENTS
SHAREHOLDERS
PAYING OFF
MADE TO MEASURE
SAM’S GHOST
BEDRIDDEN
THE CONVERT
HUSBANDRY
FAMILY CARES
THE WINTER OFFENSIVE
THE SUBSTITUTE
STRIKING HARD
DIRTY WORK
SHAREHOLDERS
Sailor man — said the night-watchman, musingly — a sailorman is like a fish he is safest when ‘e is at sea. When a fish comes ashore it is in for trouble, and so is sailorman. One poor chap I knew ‘ardly ever came ashore without getting married; and he was found out there was no less than six wimmen in the court all taking away ‘is character at once. And when he spoke up Solomon the magistrate pretty near bit ‘is ‘ead off.
Then look at the trouble they get in with their money! They come ashore from a long trip, smelling of it a’most, and they go from port to port like a lord. Everybody has got their eye on that money — everybody except the sailorman, that is — and afore he knows wot’s ‘appened, and who ‘as got it, he’s looking for a ship agin. When he ain’t robbed of ‘is money, he wastes it; and when ‘e don’t do either, he loses it.
I knew one chap who hid ‘is money. He’d been away ten months, and, knowing ‘ow easy money goes, ‘e made up sixteen pounds in a nice little parcel and hid it where nobody could find it. That’s wot he said, and p’r’aps ‘e was right. All I know is, he never found it. I did the same thing myself once with a couple o’ quid I ran acrost unexpected, on’y, unfortunately for me, I hid it the day afore my missus started ‘er spring-cleaning.
One o’ the worst men I ever knew for getting into trouble when he came ashore was old Sam Small. If he couldn’t find it by ‘imself, Ginger Dick and Peter Russet would help ‘im look for it. Generally speaking they found it without straining their eyesight.
I remember one time they was home, arter being away pretty near a year, and when they was paid off they felt like walking gold-mines. They went about smiling all over with good-temper and ‘appiness, and for the first three days they was like brothers. That didn’t last, of course, and on the fourth day Sam Small, arter saying wot ‘e would do to Ginger and Peter if it wasn’t for the police, went off by ‘imself.
His temper passed off arter a time, and ‘e began to look cheerful agin. It was a lovely morning, and, having nothing to do and plenty in ‘is pocket to do it with, he went along like a schoolboy with a ‘arf holiday. He went as far as Stratford on the top of a tram for a mouthful o’ fresh air, and came back to his favourite coffee-shop with a fine appetite for dinner. There was a very nice gentlemanly chap sitting opposite ‘im, and the way he begged Sam’s pardon for splashing gravy over ‘im made Sam take a liking to him at once. Nicely dressed he was, with a gold pin in ‘is tie, and a fine gold watch-chain acrost his weskit; and Sam could see he ‘ad been brought up well by the way he used ‘is knife and fork. He kept looking at Sam in a thoughtful kind o’ way, and at last he said wot a beautiful morning it was, and wot a fine day it must be in the country. In a little while they began to talk like a couple of old friends, and he told Sam all about ‘is father, wot was a clergyman in the country, and Sam talked about a father of his as was living private on three ‘undred a year.
“Ah, money’s a useful thing,” ses the man.
“It ain’t everything,” ses Sam. “It won’t give you ‘appiness. I’ve run through a lot in my time, so I ought to know.”
“I expect you’ve got a bit left, though,” ses the man, with a wink.
Sam laughed and smacked ‘is pocket. “I’ve got a trifle to go on with,” he ses, winking back. “I never feel comfortable without a pound or two in my pocket.”
“You look as though you’re just back from a vy’ge,” ses the man, looking at ‘im very hard.
“I am,” ses Sam, nodding. “Just back arter ten months, and I’m going to spend a
bit o’ money afore I sign on agin, I can tell you.”
“That’s wot it was given to us for,” ses the man, nodding at him.
They both got up to go at the same time and walked out into the street together, and, when Sam asked ‘im whether he might have the pleasure of standing ‘im a drink, he said he might. He talked about the different kinds of drink as they walked along till Sam, wot was looking for a high- class pub, got such a raging thirst on ‘im he hardly knew wot to do with ‘imself. He passed several pubs, and walked on as fast as he could to the Three Widders.
“Do you want to go in there partikler?” ses the man, stopping at the door.
“No,” ses Sam, staring.
“‘Cos I know a place where they sell the best glass o’ port wine in London,” ses the man.
He took Sam up two or three turnings, and then led him into a quiet little pub in a back street. There was a cosy little saloon bar with nobody in it, and, arter Sam had ‘ad two port wines for the look of the thing, he ‘ad a pint o’ six-ale because he liked it. His new pal had one too, and he ‘ad just taken a pull at it and wiped his mouth, when ‘e noticed a little bill pinned up at the back of the bar.
“Lost, between — the Mint and — Tower Stairs,” he ses, leaning forward and reading very slow, “a gold — locket — set with — diamonds. Whoever will — return — the same to — Mr. Smith — Orange Villa — Barnet — will receive — thirty pounds — reward.”
“‘Ow much?” ses Sam, starting. “Thirty pounds,” ses the man. “Must be a good locket. Where’d you get that?” he ses, turning to the barmaid.
“Gentleman came in an hour ago,” ses the gal, “and, arter he had ‘ad two or three drinks with the guv’nor, he asks ‘im to stick it up. ‘Arf crying he was — said ‘it ‘ad belonged to his old woman wot died.”
She went off to serve a customer at the other end of the bar wot was making little dents in it with his pot, and the man came back and sat down by Sam agin, and began to talk about horse-racing. At least, he tried to, but Sam couldn’t talk of nothing but that locket, and wot a nice steady sailorman could do with thirty pounds.
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 261