Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

“But!” said the mystified Mr. Mott.

  “You told me — —”

  “You tell her that,” said the other.

  Mr. Mott stood for a few seconds staring at him, and then without a word turned on his heel and went upstairs. Left to himself, Mr. Hurst walked nervously up and down the room, and, catching sight of his face in the old-fashioned glass on the mantel-piece, heightened its colour by a few pinches. The minutes seemed inter-minable, but at last he heard the steps of Mr. Mott on the stairs again.

  “She’s coming down to see you herself,” said the latter, solemnly.

  Mr. Hurst nodded, and, turning to the window, tried in vain to take an interest in passing events. A light step sounded on the stairs, the door creaked, and he turned to find himself con-fronted by Miss Garland.

  “Uncle told me!” she began, coldly. Mr. Hurst bowed.

  “I am sorry to have caused you so much trouble,” he said, trying to control his voice, “but you see my position, don’t you?”

  “No,” said the girl.

  “Well, I wanted to make sure,” said Mr. Hurst. “It’s best for all of us, isn’t it? Best for you, best for me, and, of course, for my young lady.”

  “You never said anything about her before,” said Miss Garland, her eyes darkening.

  “Of course not,” said Mr. Hurst. “How could I? I was engaged to you, and then she wasn’t my young lady; but, of course, as soon as you broke it off—”

  “Who is she?” inquired Miss Garland, in a casual voice.

  “You don’t know her,” said Mr. Hurst.

  “What is she like?”

  “I can’t describe her very well,” said Mr. Hurst. “I can only say she’s the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I think that’s what made me take to her. And she’s easily pleased. She liked the things I have been buying for the house tremendously.”

  “Did she?” said Miss Garland, with a gasp.

  “All except that pair of vases you chose,” continued the veracious Mr. Hurst. “She says they are in bad taste, but she can give them to the charwoman.”

  “Oh!” said the girl. “Oh, indeed! Very kind of her. Isn’t there anything else she doesn’t like?”

  Mr. Hurst stood considering.

  “She doesn’t like the upholstering of the best chairs,” he said at last. “She thinks they are too showy, so she’s going to put covers over them.”

  There was a long pause, during which Mr. Mott, taking his niece gently by the arm, assisted her to a chair.

  “Otherwise she is quite satisfied,” concluded Mr. Hurst.

  Miss Garland took a deep breath, but made no reply.

  “I have got to satisfy her that I am free,” said the young man, after another pause. “I suppose that I can do so?”

  “I — I’ll think it over,” said Miss Garland, in a low voice. “I am not sure what is the right thing to do. I don’t want to see you made miserable for life. It’s nothing to me, of course, but still—”

  She got up and, shaking off the proffered assistance of her uncle, went slowly and languidly up to her room. Mr. Mott followed her as far as the door, and then turned indignantly upon Mr. Hurst.

  “You — you’ve broke her heart,” he said, solemnly.

  “That’s all right,” said Mr. Hurst, with a delighted wink. “I’ll mend it again.”

  SAM’S GHOST

  Yes, I know, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully, as he sat with a cold pipe in his mouth gazing across the river. I’ve ‘eard it afore. People tell me they don’t believe in ghosts and make a laugh of ’em, and all I say is: let them take on a night-watchman’s job. Let ’em sit ‘ere all alone of a night with the water lapping against the posts and the wind moaning in the corners; especially if a pal of theirs has slipped overboard, and there is little nasty bills stuck up just outside in the High Street offering a reward for the body. Twice men ‘ave fallen overboard from this jetty, and I’ve ‘ad to stand my watch here the same night, and not a farthing more for it.

  One of the worst and artfullest ghosts I ever ‘ad anything to do with was Sam Bullet. He was a waterman at the stairs near by ‘ere; the sort o’ man that ‘ud get you to pay for drinks, and drink yours up by mistake arter he ‘ad finished his own. The sort of man that ‘ad always left his baccy-box at ‘ome, but always ‘ad a big pipe in ‘is pocket.

  He fell overboard off of a lighter one evening, and all that his mates could save was ‘is cap. It was on’y two nights afore that he ‘ad knocked down an old man and bit a policeman’s little finger to the bone, so that, as they pointed out to the widder, p’r’aps he was taken for a wise purpose. P’r’aps he was ‘appier where he was than doing six months.

  “He was the sort o’ chap that’ll make himself ‘appy anywhere,” ses one of ’em, comforting-like.

  “Not without me,” ses Mrs. Bullet, sobbing, and wiping her eyes on something she used for a pocket-hankercher. “He never could bear to be away from me. Was there no last words?”

  “On’y one,” ses one o’ the chaps, Joe Peel by name.

  “As ‘e fell overboard,” ses the other.

  Mrs. Bullet began to cry agin, and say wot a good ‘usband he ‘ad been. “Seventeen years come Michaelmas,” she ses, “and never a cross word. Nothing was too good for me. Nothing. I ‘ad only to ask to ‘ave.”

  “Well, he’s gorn now,” ses Joe, “and we thought we ought to come round and tell you.”

  “So as you can tell the police,” ses the other chap.

  That was ‘ow I came to hear of it fust; a policeman told me that night as I stood outside the gate ‘aving a quiet pipe. He wasn’t shedding tears; his only idea was that Sam ‘ad got off too easy.

  “Well, well,” I ses, trying to pacify ‘im, “he won’t bite no more fingers; there’s no policemen where he’s gorn to.”

  He went off grumbling and telling me to be careful, and I put my pipe out and walked up and down the wharf thinking. On’y a month afore I ‘ad lent Sam fifteen shillings on a gold watch and chain wot he said an uncle ‘ad left ‘im. I wasn’t wearing it because ‘e said ‘is uncle wouldn’t like it, but I ‘ad it in my pocket, and I took it out under one of the lamps and wondered wot I ought to do.

  My fust idea was to take it to Mrs. Bullet, and then, all of a sudden, the thought struck me: “Suppose he ‘adn’t come by it honest?”

  I walked up and down agin, thinking. If he ‘adn’t, and it was found out, it would blacken his good name and break ‘is pore wife’s ‘art. That’s the way I looked at it, and for his sake and ‘er sake I determined to stick to it.

  I felt ‘appier in my mind when I ‘ad decided on that, and I went round to the Bear’s Head and ‘ad a pint. Arter that I ‘ad another, and then I come back to the wharf and put the watch and chain on and went on with my work.

  Every time I looked down at the chain on my waistcoat it reminded me of Sam. I looked on to the river and thought of ‘im going down on the ebb. Then I got a sort o’ lonesome feeling standing on the end of the jetty all alone, and I went back to the Bear’s Head and ‘ad another pint.

  They didn’t find the body, and I was a’most forgetting about Sam when one evening, as I was sitting on a box waiting to get my breath back to ‘ave another go at sweeping, Joe Peel, Sam’s mate, came on to the wharf to see me.

  He came in a mysterious sort o’ way that I didn’t like: looking be’ind ‘im as though he was afraid of being follered, and speaking in a whisper as if ‘e was afraid of being heard. He wasn’t a man I liked, and I was glad that the watch and chain was stowed safe away in my trowsis-pocket.

  “I’ve ‘ad a shock, watchman,” he ses.

  “Oh!” I ses.

  “A shock wot’s shook me all up,” he ses, working up a shiver. “I’ve seen something wot I thought people never could see, and wot I never want to see agin. I’ve seen Sam!”

  I thought a bit afore I spoke. “Why, I thought he was drownded,” I ses.

  “So ‘e is,” ses Joe. “When I say I’ve see
n ‘im I mean that I ‘ave seen his ghost!”

  He began to shiver agin, all over.

  “Wot was it like?” I ses, very calm.

  “Like Sam,” he ses, rather short.

  “When was it?” I ses.

  “Last night at a quarter to twelve,” he ses. “It was standing at my front door waiting for me.”

  “And ‘ave you been shivering like that ever since?” I ses.

  “Worse than that,” ses Joe, looking at me very ‘ard. “It’s wearing off now. The ghost gave me a message for you.”

  I put my ‘and in my trowsis-pocket and looked at ‘im. Then I walked very slow, towards the gate.

  “It gave me a message for you,” ses Joe, walking beside me. “‘We was always pals, Joe,’” it ses, “‘you and me, and I want you to pay up fifteen bob for me wot I borrowed off of Bill the watchman. I can’t rest until it’s paid,’ it ses. So here’s the fifteen bob, watchman.”

  He put his ‘and in ‘is pocket and takes out fifteen bob and ‘olds it out to me.

  “No, no,” I ses. “I can’t take your money, Joe Peel. It wouldn’t be right. Pore Sam is welcome to the fifteen bob — I don’t want it.”

  “You must take it,” ses Joe. “The ghost said if you didn’t it would come to me agin and agin till you did, and I can’t stand any more of it.”

  “I can’t ‘elp your troubles,” I ses.

  “You must,” ses Joe. “‘Give Bill the fifteen bob,’ it ses, ‘and he’ll give you a gold watch and chain wot I gave ‘im to mind till it was paid.’”

  I see his little game then. “Gold watch and chain,” I ses, laughing. “You must ha’ misunderstood it, Joe.”

  “I understood it right enough,” ses Joe, getting a bit closer to me as I stepped outside the gate. “Here’s your fifteen bob; are you going to give me that watch and chain?”

  “Sartainly not,” I ses. “I don’t know wot you mean by a watch and chain. If I ‘ad it and I gave it to anybody, I should give it to Sam’s widder, not to you.”

  “It’s nothing to do with ‘er,” ses Joe, very quick. “Sam was most pertikler about that.”

  “I expect you dreamt it all,” I ses. “Where would pore Sam get a gold watch and chain from? And why should ‘e go to you about it? Why didn’t ‘e come to me? If ‘e thinks I ‘ave got it let ‘im come to me.”

  “All right, I’ll go to the police-station,” ses Joe.

  “I’ll come with you,” I ses. “But ‘ere’s a policeman coming along. Let’s go to ‘im.”

  I moved towards ‘im, but Joe hung back, and, arter using one or two words that would ha’ made any ghost ashamed to know ‘im, he sheered off. I ‘ad a word or two with the policeman about the weather, and then I went inside and locked the gate.

  My idea was that Sam ‘ad told Joe about the watch and chain afore he fell overboard. Joe was a nasty customer, and I could see that I should ‘ave to be a bit careful. Some men might ha’ told the police about it — but I never cared much for them. They’re like kids in a way, always asking questions — most of which you can’t answer.

  It was a little bit creepy all alone on the wharf that night. I don’t deny it. Twice I thought I ‘eard something coming up on tip-toe behind me. The second time I was so nervous that I began to sing to keep my spirits up, and I went on singing till three of the hands of the Susan Emily, wot was lying alongside, came up from the fo’c’sle and offered to fight me. I was thankful when daylight came.

  Five nights arterwards I ‘ad the shock of my life. It was the fust night for some time that there was no craft up. A dark night, and a nasty moaning sort of a wind. I ‘ad just lighted the lamp at the corner of the warehouse, wot ‘ad blown out, and was sitting down to rest afore putting the ladder away, when I ‘appened to look along the jetty and saw a head coming up over the edge of it. In the light of the lamp I saw the dead white face of Sam Bullet’s ghost making faces at me.

  I just caught my breath, sharp like, and then turned and ran for the gate like a race-horse. I ‘ad left the key in the padlock, in case of anything happening, and I just gave it one turn, flung the wicket open and slammed it in the ghost’s face, and tumbled out into the road.

  I ran slap into the arms of a young policeman wot was passing. Nasty, short-tempered chap he was, but I don’t think I was more glad to see anybody in my life. I hugged ‘im till ‘e nearly lost ‘is breath, and then he sat me down on the kerb-stone and asked me wot I meant by it.

  Wot with the excitement and the running I couldn’t speak at fust, and when I did he said I was trying to deceive ‘im.

  “There ain’t no such thing as ghosts,” he ses; “you’ve been drinking.”

  “It came up out o’ the river and run arter me like the wind,” I ses.

  “Why didn’t it catch you, then?” he ses, looking me up and down and all round about. “Talk sense.”

  He went up to the gate and peeped in, and, arter watching a moment, stepped inside and walked down the wharf, with me follering. It was my dooty; besides, I didn’t like being left all alone by myself.

  Twice we walked up and down and all over the wharf. He flashed his lantern into all the dark corners, into empty barrels and boxes, and then he turned and flashed it right into my face and shook his ‘ead at me.

  “You’ve been having a bit of a lark with me,” he ses, “and for two pins I’d take you. Mind, if you say a word about this to anybody, I will.”

  He stalked off with his ‘ead in the air, and left me all alone in charge of a wharf with a ghost on it. I stayed outside in the street, of course, but every now and then I fancied I heard something moving about the other side of the gate, and once it was so distinct that I run along to the Bear’s Head and knocked ’em up and asked them for a little brandy, for illness.

  I didn’t get it, of course; I didn’t expect to; but I ‘ad a little conversation with the landlord from ‘is bedroom-winder that did me more good than the brandy would ha’ done. Once or twice I thought he would ‘ave fallen out, and many a man has ‘ad his licence taken away for less than a quarter of wot ‘e said to me that night. Arter he thought he ‘ad finished and was going back to bed agin, I pointed’ out to ‘im that he ‘adn’t kissed me “good night,” and if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for ‘is missis and two grown-up daughters and the potman I believe he’d ha’ talked to me till daylight.

  ‘Ow I got through the rest of the night I don’t know. It seemed to be twenty nights instead of one, but the day came at last, and when the hands came on at six o’clock they found the gate open and me on dooty same as usual.

  I slept like a tired child when I got ‘ome, and arter a steak and onions for dinner I sat down and lit my pipe and tried to think wot was to be done. One thing I was quite certain about: I wasn’t going to spend another night on that wharf alone.

  I went out arter a bit, as far as the Clarendon Arms, for a breath of fresh air, and I ‘ad just finished a pint and was wondering whether I ought to ‘ave another, when Ted Dennis came in, and my mind was made up. He ‘ad been in the Army all ‘is life, and, so far, he ‘ad never seen anything that ‘ad frightened ‘im. I’ve seen him myself take on men twice ‘is size just for the love of the thing, and, arter knocking them silly, stand ’em a pint out of ‘is own pocket. When I asked ‘im whether he was afraid of ghosts he laughed so ‘ard that the landlord came from the other end of the bar to see wot was the matter.

  I stood Ted a pint, and arter he ‘ad finished it I told ‘im just how things was. I didn’t say anything about the watch and chain, because there was no need to, and when we came outside agin I ‘ad engaged an assistant-watchman for ninepence a night.

  “All you’ve got to do,” I ses, “is to keep me company. You needn’t turn up till eight o’clock of a night, and you can leave ‘arf an hour afore me in the morning.”

  “Right-o!” ses Ted. “And if I see the ghost I’ll make it wish it ‘ad never been born.”

  It was a load off my mind, and I went ‘ome and ate a te
a that made my missis talk about the work-’ouse, and orstritches in ‘uman shape wot would eat a woman out of ‘ouse and ‘ome if she would let ’em.

  I got to the wharf just as it was striking six, and at a quarter to seven the wicket was pushed open gentle and the ugly ‘ead of Mr. Joe Peel was shoved inside.

  “Hullo!” I ses. “Wot do you want?”

  “I want to save your life,” he ses, in a solemn voice. “You was within a inch of death last night, watchman.”

  “Oh!” I ses, careless-like. “‘Ow do you know!”

  “The ghost o’ Sam Bullet told me,” ses Joe. “Arter it ‘ad chased you up the wharf screaming for ‘elp, it came round and told me all about it.”

  “It seems fond of you,” I ses. “I wonder why?”

  “It was in a terrible temper,” ses Joe, “and its face was awful to look at. ‘Tell the watchman,’ it ses, ‘that if he don’t give you the watch and chain I shall appear to ‘im agin and kill ‘im.’”

  “All right,” I ses, looking behind me to where three of the ‘ands of the Daisy was sitting on the fo’c’sle smoking. “I’ve got plenty of company to-night.”

  “Company won’t save you,” ses Joe. “For the last time, are you going to give me that watch and chain, or not? Here’s your fifteen bob.”

  “No,” I ses; “even if I ‘ad got it I shouldn’t give it to you; and it’s no use giving’ it to the ghost, because, being made of air, he ‘asn’t got anywhere to put it.”

  “Very good,” ses Joe, giving me a black look. “I’ve done all I can to save you, but if you won’t listen to sense, you won’t. You’ll see Sam Bullet agin, and you’ll not on’y lose the watch and chain but your life as well.”

  “All right,” I ses, “and thank you kindly, but I’ve got an assistant, as it ‘appens — a man wot wants to see a ghost.”

  “An’ assistant?” ses Joe, staring.

  “An old soldier,” I ses. “A man wot likes trouble and danger. His idea is to shoot the ghost and see wot ‘appens.”

  “Shoot!” ses Joe. “Shoot a pore ‘armless ghost. Does he want to be ‘ung? Ain’t it enough for a pore man to be drownded, but wot you must try and shoot ‘im arterwards? Why, you ought to be ashamed o’ yourself. Where’s your ‘art?”