Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “I stepped out into the road and watched ‘im out o’ sight. Then I told Mrs. Pratt to pick up ‘er bag and foller me.

  “As it ‘appened there was a big pile of empties in the corner of the ware’ouse wall, just opposite the Eastern Monarch’s berth. It might ha’ been made for the job, and, arter I ‘ad tucked her away behind and given ‘er a box to sit on, I picked up my broom and began to make up for lost time.

  “She sat there as quiet as a cat watching a mouse’ole, and I was going on with my work, stopping every now and then to look and see whether the Monarch was in sight, when I ‘appened to turn round and see the office- boy standing on the edge of the wharf with his back to the empties, looking down at the water. I nearly dropped my broom.

  “‘‘Ullo!’ I ses, going up to ‘im. ‘I thought you ‘ad gorn ‘ome.’

  “‘I was going,’ he ses, with a nasty oily little smile, ‘and then it struck me all of a sudden ‘ow lonely it was for you all alone ‘ere, and I come back to keep you company.’

  “He winked at something acrost the river as ‘e spoke, and I stood there thinking my ‘ardest wot was the best thing to be done. I couldn’t get Mrs. Pratt away while ‘e was there; besides which I felt quite sartain she wouldn’t go. The only ‘ope I ‘ad was that he’d get tired of spying on me and go away before he found out she was ‘iding on the wharf.

  “I walked off in a unconcerned way — not too far — and, with one eye on ‘im and the other on where Mrs. Pratt was ‘iding, went on with my work. There’s nothing like ‘ard work when a man is worried, and I was a’most forgetting my troubles, when I looked up and saw the Monarch coming up the river.

  “She turned to come into ‘er berth, with the skipper shouting away on the bridge and making as much fuss as if ‘e was berthing a liner. I helped to make ‘er fast, and the skipper, arter ‘e had ‘ad a good look round to see wot ‘e could find fault with, went below to clean ‘imself.

  “He was up agin in about ten minutes, with a clean collar and a clean face, and a blue neck-tie that looked as though it ‘ad got yeller measles. Good temper ‘e was in, too, and arter pulling the office-boy’s ear, gentle, as ‘e was passing, he stopped for a moment to ‘ave a word with ‘im.

  “‘Bit late, ain’t you?’ he ses.

  “‘I’ve been keeping a eye on the watchman,’ ses the boy. ‘He works better when ‘e knows there’s somebody watching ‘im.’

  “‘Look ‘ere!’ I ses. ‘You take yourself off; I’ve had about enough of you. You take your little face ‘ome and ask your mother to wipe its nose. Strickly speaking, you’ve no right to be on the wharf at all at this time.’

  “‘I’ve as much right as other people,’ he ses, giving me a wicked look. ‘I’ve got more right than some people, p’r’aps.’

  “He stooped down deliberate and, picking up a bit o’ coke from the ‘eap by the crane, pitched it over at the empties.

  “‘Stop that!’ I ses, shouting at ‘im.

  “‘What for?’ ‘e ses, shying another piece. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  “‘Cos I won’t ‘ave it,’ I ses. ‘D’ye hear? Stop it!’

  “I rushed at ‘im as he sent another piece over, and for the next two or three minutes ‘e was dodging me and chucking coke at the empties, with the fool of a skipper standing by laughing, and two or three of the crew leaning over the side and cheering ‘im on.

  “‘All right,’ he ses, at last, dusting ‘is hands together. ‘I’ve finished. There’s no need to make such a fuss over a bit of coke.’

  “‘You’ve wasted pretty near arf a ‘undered-weight,’ I ses. ‘I’ve a good mind to report you.’

  “‘Don’t do that, watchman!’ he ses, in a pitiful voice. ‘Don’t do that! ‘Ere, I tell you wot I’ll do. I’ll pick it all up agin.’

  “Afore I could move ‘and or foot he ‘ad shifted a couple o’ cases out of ‘is way and was in among the empties. I stood there dazed-like while two bits o’ coke came flying back past my ‘ed; then I ‘eard a loud whistle, and ‘e came out agin with ‘is eyes rolling and ‘is mouth wide open.

  “‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses the skipper, staring at ‘im.

  “‘I — I — I’m sorry, watchman,’ ses that beast of a boy, purtending ‘e was ‘ardly able to speak. ‘I’d no idea — —’

  “‘All right,’ I ses, very quick.

  “‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses the skipper agin; and as ‘e spoke it came over me like a flash wot a false persition I was in, and wot a nasty-tempered man ‘e could be when ‘e liked.

  “‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d got a lady-friend there?’ ses the boy, shaking his ‘ed at me. ‘Why, I might ‘ave hit ‘er with a bit o’ coke, and never forgiven myself!’

  “‘Lady-friend!’ ses the skipper, with a start. ‘Oh, Bill, I am surprised!’

  “My throat was so dry I couldn’t ‘ardly speak. ‘It’s my missis,’ I ses, at last.

  “‘Your missis?’ ses the skipper. ‘Woes she ‘iding behind there for?’

  “‘She — she’s shy,’ I ses. ‘Always was, all ‘er life. She can’t bear other people. She likes to be alone with me.’

  “‘Oh, watchman!’ ses the boy. ‘I wonder where you expect to go to?’

  “‘Missis my grandmother!’ ses the skipper, with a wink. ‘I’m going to ‘ave a peep.’

  “‘Stand back!’ I ses, pushing ‘im off. ‘I don’t spy on you, and I don’t want you to come spying on me. You get off! D’ye hear me? Get off!’

  “We had a bit of a struggle, till my foot slipped, and while I was waving my arms and trying to get my balance back ‘e made a dash for the empties. Next moment he was roaring like a mad bull that ‘ad sat down in a sorsepan of boiling water, and rushing back agin to kill me.

  “I believe that if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for a couple o’ lightermen wot ‘ad just come on to the jetty from their skiff, and two of his own ‘ands, he’d ha’ done it. Crazy with passion ‘e was, and it was all the four of ’em could do to hold ‘im. Every now and then he’d get a yard nearer to me, and then they’d pull ‘im back a couple o’ yards and beg of ‘im to listen to reason and ‘ear wot I ‘ad to say. And as soon as I started and began to tell ’em about ‘is lady-friend he broke out worse than ever. People acrost the river must ha’ wondered wot was ‘appening. There was two lightermen, two sailormen, me and the skipper, and Mrs. Pratt all talking at once, and nobody listening but the office-boy. And in the middle of it all the wicket was pushed open and the ‘ed of the lady wot all the trouble was about peeped in, and drew back agin.

  “‘There you are!’ I ses, shouting my ‘ardest. ‘There she is. That’s the lady I was telling you about. Now, then: put ’em face to face and clear my character. Don’t let ‘er escape.’

  “One o’ the lightermen let go o’ the skipper and went arter ‘er, and, just as I was giving the other three a helping ‘and, ‘e came back with ‘er. Mrs. Pratt caught ‘er breath, and as for the skipper, ‘e didn’t know where to look, as the saying is. I just saw the lady give ‘im one quick look, and then afore I could dream of wot was coming, she rushes up to me and flings ‘er long, bony arms round my neck.

  “‘Why, William!’ she ses, ‘wot’s the matter? Why didn’t you meet me? Didn’t you get my letter? Or ‘ave you ceased to care for me?”

  “‘Let go!’ I ses, struggling. ‘Let go! D’ye ‘ear? Wot d’ye mean by it? You’ve got ‘old of the wrong one.’

  “‘Oh, ‘William!’ she ses, arf strangling me. ‘‘Ow can you talk to me like that? Where’s your ‘art?’

  “I never knew a woman so strong. I don’t suppose she’d ever ‘ad the chance of getting ‘er arms round a man’s neck afore, and she hung on to me as if she’d never let go. And all the time I was trying to explain things to them over ‘er shoulder I could see they didn’t believe a word I was saying. One o’ the lightermen said I was a ‘wonder,’ and the other said I was a ‘fair cough-drop.’ Me!

  “She got tired of it at last, but by t
hat time I was so done up I couldn’t say a word. I just dropped on to a box and sat there getting my breath back while the skipper forgave ‘is wife for ‘er unjust suspicions of ‘im — but told ‘er not to do it agin — and the office-boy was saying I’d surprised even ‘im. The last I saw of the lady-friend, the two lightermen was helping ‘er to walk to the gate, and the two sailormen was follering ‘er up behind, carrying ‘er pocket-’ankercher and upberella.”

  STRIKING HARD

  You’ve what?” demanded Mrs. Porter, placing the hot iron carefully on its stand and turning a heated face on the head of the family.

  “Struck,” repeated Mr. Porter; “and the only wonder to me is we’ve stood it so long as we have. If I was to tell you all we’ve ‘ad to put up with I don’t suppose you’d believe me.”

  “Very likely,” was the reply. “You can keep your fairy-tales for them that like ’em. They’re no good to me.”

  “We stood it till flesh and blood could stand it no longer,” declared her husband, “and at last we came out, shoulder to shoulder, singing. The people cheered us, and one of our leaders made ’em a speech.”

  “I should have liked to ‘ave heard the singing,” remarked his wife. “If they all sang like you, it must ha’ been as good as a pantermime! Do you remember the last time you went on strike?”

  “This is different,” said Mr. Porter, with dignity.

  “All our things went, bit by bit,” pursued his wife, “all the money we had put by for a rainy day, and we ‘ad to begin all over again. What are we going to live on? O’ course, you might earn something by singing in the street; people who like funny faces might give you something! Why not go upstairs and put your ‘ead under the bed-clothes and practise a bit?”

  Mr. Porter coughed. “It’ll be all right,” he said, confidently. “Our committee knows what it’s about; Bert Robinson is one of the best speakers I’ve ever ‘eard. If we don’t all get five bob a week more I’ll eat my ‘ead.”

  “It’s the best thing you could do with it,” snapped his wife. She took up her iron again, and turning an obstinate back to his remarks resumed her work.

  Mr. Porter lay long next morning, and, dressing with comfortable slowness, noticed with pleasure that the sun was shining. Visions of a good breakfast and a digestive pipe, followed by a walk in the fresh air, passed before his eyes as he laced his boots. Whistling cheerfully he went briskly downstairs.

  It was an October morning, but despite the invigorating chill in the air the kitchen-grate was cold and dull. Herring-bones and a disorderly collection of dirty cups and platters graced the table. Perplexed and angry, he looked around for his wife, and then, opening the back-door, stood gaping with astonishment. The wife of his bosom, who should have had a bright fire and a good breakfast waiting for him, was sitting on a box in the sunshine, elbows on knees and puffing laboriously at a cigarette.

  “Susan!” he exclaimed.

  Mrs. Porter turned, and, puffing out her lips, blew an immense volume of smoke. “Halloa!” she said, carelessly.

  “Wot — wot does this mean?” demanded her husband.

  Mrs. Porter smiled with conscious pride. “I made it come out of my nose just now,” she replied. “At least, some of it did, and I swallowed the rest. Will it hurt me?”

  “Where’s my breakfast?” inquired the other, hotly. “Why ain’t the kitchen-fire alight? Wot do you think you’re doing of?”

  “I’m not doing anything,” said his wife, with an aggrieved air. “I’m on strike.”

  Mr. Porter reeled against the door-post. “Wot!” he stammered. “On strike? Nonsense! You can’t be.”

  “O, yes, I can,” retorted Mrs. Porter, closing one eye and ministering to it hastily with the corner of her apron. “Not ‘aving no Bert Robinson to do it for me, I made a little speech all to myself, and here I am.”

  She dropped her apron, replaced the cigarette, and, with her hands on her plump knees, eyes him steadily.

  “But — but this ain’t a factory,” objected the dismayed man; “and, besides — I won’t ‘ave it!”

  Mrs. Porter laughed — a fat, comfortable laugh, but with a touch of hardness in it.

  “All right, mate,” she said, comfortably. “What are you out on strike for?”

  “Shorter hours and more money,” said Mr. Porter, glaring at her.

  His wife nodded. “So am I,” she said. “I wonder who gets it first?”

  She smiled agreeably at the bewildered Mr. Porter, and, extracting a paper packet of cigarettes from her pocket, lit a fresh one at the stub of the first.

  “That’s the worst of a woman,” said her husband, avoiding her eye and addressing a sanitary dustbin of severe aspect; “they do things without thinking first. That’s why men are superior; before they do a thing they look at it all round, and upside down, and — and — make sure it can be done. Now, you get up in a temper this morning, and the first thing you do — not even waiting to get my breakfast ready first — is to go on strike. If you’d thought for two minutes you’d see as ‘ow it’s impossible for you to go on strike for more than a couple of hours or so.”

  “Why?” inquired Mrs. Porter.

  “Kids,” replied her husband, triumphantly. “They’ll be coming ‘ome from school soon, won’t they? And they’ll be wanting their dinner, won’t they?”

  “That’s all right,” murmured the other, vaguely.

  “After which, when night comes,” pursued Mr. Porter, “they’ll ‘ave to be put to bed. In the morning they’ll ‘ave to be got up and washed and dressed and given their breakfast and sent off to school. Then there’s shopping wot must be done, and beds wot must be made.”

  “I’ll make ours,” said his wife, decidedly. “For my own sake.”

  “And wot about the others?” inquired Mr. Porter.

  “The others’ll be made by the same party as washes the children, and cooks their dinner for ’em, and puts ’em to bed, and cleans the ‘ouse,” was the reply.

  “I’m not going to have your mother ‘ere,” exclaimed Mr. Porter, with sudden heat. “Mind that!”

  “I don’t want her,” said Mrs. Porter. “It’s a job for a strong, healthy man, not a pore old thing with swelled legs and short in the breath.”

  “Strong— ‘ealthy — man!” repeated her husband, in a dazed voice. “Strong— ‘eal —— Wot are you talking about?”

  Mrs. Porter beamed on him. “You,” she said, sweetly.

  There was a long silence, broken at last by a firework display of expletives. Mrs. Porter, still smiling, sat unmoved.

  “You may smile!” raved the indignant Mr. Porter. “You may sit there smiling and smoking like a — like a man, but if you think that I’m going to get the meals ready, and soil my ‘ands with making beds and washing-up, you’re mistook. There’s some ‘usbands I know as would set about you!”

  Mrs. Porter rose. “Well, I can’t sit here gossiping with you all day,” she said, entering the house.

  “Wot are you going to do?” demanded her husband, following her.

  “Going to see Aunt Jane and ‘ave a bit o’ dinner with her,” was the reply. “And after that I think I shall go to the ‘pictures.’ If you ‘ave bloaters for dinner be very careful with little Jemmy and the bones.”

  “I forbid you to leave this ‘ouse!” said Mr. Porter, in a thrilling voice. “If you do you won’t find nothing done when you come home, and all the kids dirty and starving.”

  “Cheerio!” said Mrs. Porter.

  Arrayed in her Sunday best she left the house half an hour later. A glance over her shoulder revealed her husband huddled up in a chair in the dirty kitchen, gazing straight before him at the empty grate.

  He made a hearty breakfast at a neighbouring coffee-shop, and, returning home, lit the fire and sat before it, smoking. The return of the four children from school, soon after midday, found him still wrestling with the difficulties of the situation. His announcement that their mother was out and that there would be no
dinner was received at first in stupefied silence. Then Jemmy, opening his mouth to its widest extent, acted as conductor to an all-too-willing chorus.

  The noise was unbearable, and Mr. Porter said so. Pleased with the tribute, the choir re-doubled its efforts, and Mr. Porter, vociferating orders for silence, saw only too clearly the base advantage his wife had taken of his affection for his children. He took some money from his pocket and sent the leading treble out marketing, after which, with the assistance of a soprano aged eight, he washed up the breakfast things and placed one of them in the dustbin.

  The entire family stood at his elbow as he cooked the dinner, and watched, with bated breath, his frantic efforts to recover a sausage which had fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire. A fourfold sigh of relief heralded its return to the pan.

  “Mother always—” began the eldest boy.

  Mr. Porter took his scorched fingers out of his mouth and smacked the critic’s head.

  The dinner was not a success. Portions of half-cooked sausages returned to the pan, and coming back in the guise of cinders failed to find their rightful owners.

  “Last time we had sausages,” said the eight-year-old Muriel, “they melted in your mouth.” Mr. Porter glowered at her.

  “Instead of in the fire,” said the eldest boy, with a mournful snigger.

  “If I get up to you, my lad,” said the harassed Mr. Porter, “you’ll know it! Pity you don’t keep your sharpness for your lessons! Wot country is Africa in?”

  “Why, Africa’s a continent!” said the startled youth.

  “Jes so,” said his father; “but wot I’m asking you is: wot country is it in?”

  “Asia,” said the reckless one, with a side-glance at Muriel.