Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “And why couldn’t you say so before?” demanded Mr. Porter, sternly. “Now, you go to the sink and give yourself a thorough good wash. And mind you come straight home from school. There’s work to be done.”

  He did some of it himself after the children had gone, and finished up the afternoon with a little shopping, in the course of which he twice changed his grocer and was threatened with an action for slander by his fishmonger. He returned home with his clothes bulging, although a couple of eggs in the left-hand coat-pocket had done their best to accommodate themselves to his figure.

  He went to bed at eleven o’clock, and at a quarter past, clad all too lightly for the job, sped rapidly downstairs to admit his wife.

  “Some ‘usbands would ‘ave let you sleep on the doorstep all night,” he said, crisply.

  “I know they would,” returned his wife, cheerfully. “That’s why I married you. I remember the first time I let you come ‘ome with me, mother ses: ‘There ain’t much of ‘im, Susan,’ she ses; ‘still, arf a loaf is better than—’”

  The bedroom-door slammed behind the indignant Mr. Porter, and the three lumps and a depression which had once been a bed received his quivering frame again. With the sheet obstinately drawn over his head he turned a deaf ear to his wife’s panegyrics on striking and her heartfelt tribute to the end of a perfect day. Even when standing on the cold floor while she remade the bed he maintained an attitude of unbending dignity, only relaxing when she smote him light-heartedly with the bolster. In a few ill-chosen words he expressed his opinion of her mother and her deplorable methods of bringing up her daughters.

  He rose early next morning, and, after getting his own breakfast, put on his cap and went out, closing the street-door with a bang that awoke the entire family and caused the somnolent Mrs. Porter to open one eye for the purpose of winking with it. Slowly, as became a man of leisure, he strolled down to the works, and, moving from knot to knot of his colleagues, discussed the prospects of victory. Later on, with a little natural diffidence, he drew Mr. Bert Robinson apart and asked his advice upon a situation which was growing more and more difficult.

  “I’ve got my hands pretty full as it is, you know,” said Mr. Robinson, hastily.

  “I know you ‘ave, Bert,” murmured the other. “But, you see, she told me last night she’s going to try and get some of the other chaps’ wives to join ‘er, so I thought I ought to tell you.”

  Mr. Robinson started. “Have you tried giving her a hiding?” he inquired.

  Mr. Porter shook his head. “I daren’t trust myself,” he replied. “I might go too far, once I started.”

  “What about appealing to her better nature?” inquired the other.

  “She ain’t got one,” said the unfortunate. “Well, I’m sorry for you,” said Mr. Robinson, “but I’m busy. I’ve got to see a Labour-leader this afternoon, and two reporters, and this evening there’s the meeting. Try kindness first, and if that don’t do, lock her up in her bedroom and keep her on bread and water.”

  He moved off to confer with his supporters, and Mr. Porter, after wandering aimlessly about for an hour or two, returned home at mid-day with a faint hope that his wife might have seen the error of her ways and provided dinner for him. He found the house empty and the beds unmade. The remains of breakfast stood on the kitchen-table, and a puddle of cold tea decorated the floor. The arrival of the children from school, hungry and eager, completed his discomfiture.

  For several days he wrestled grimly with the situation, while Mrs. Porter, who had planned out her week into four days of charing, two of amusement, and Sunday in bed, looked on with smiling approval. She even offered to give him a little instruction — verbal — in scrubbing the kitchen-floor.

  Mr. Porter, who was on his knees at the time, rose slowly to his full height, and, with a superb gesture, emptied the bucket, which also contained a scrubbing-brush and lump of soap, into the back-yard. Then he set off down the street in quest of a staff.

  He found it in the person of Maudie Stevens, aged fourteen, who lived a few doors lower down. Fresh from school the week before, she cheerfully undertook to do the housework and cooking, and to act as nursemaid in her spare time. Her father, on his part, cheerfully under-took to take care of her wages for her, the first week’s, payable in advance, being banked the same evening at the Lord Nelson.

  It was another mouth to feed, but the strike-pay was coming in very well, and Mr. Porter, relieved from his unmanly tasks, walked the streets a free man. Beds were made without his interference, meals were ready (roughly) at the appointed hour, and for the first time since the strike he experienced satisfaction in finding fault with the cook. The children’s content was not so great, Maudie possessing a faith in the virtues of soap and water that they made no attempt to share. They were greatly relieved when their mother returned home after spending a couple of days with Aunt Jane.

  “What’s all this?” she demanded, as she entered the kitchen, followed by a lady-friend.

  “What’s all what?” inquired Mr. Porter, who was sitting at dinner with the family.

  “That,” said his wife, pointing at the cook-general.

  Mr. Porter put down his knife and fork. “Got ‘er in to help,” he replied, uneasily.

  “Do you hear that?” demanded his wife, turning to her friend, Mrs. Gorman. “Oh, these masters!”

  “Ah!” said her friend, vaguely.

  “A strike-breaker!” said Mrs. Porter, rolling her eyes.

  “Shame!” said Mrs. Gorman, beginning to understand.

  “Coming after my job, and taking the bread out of my mouth,” continued Mrs. Porter, fluently. “Underselling me too, I’ll be bound. That’s what comes of not having pickets.”

  “Unskilled labour,” said Mrs. Gorman, tightening her lips and shaking her head.

  “A scab!” cried Mrs. Porter, wildly. “A scab!”

  “Put her out,” counselled her friend.

  “Put her out!” repeated Mrs. Porter, in a terrible voice. “Put her out! I’ll tear her limb from limb! I’ll put her in the copper and boil her!”

  Her voice was so loud and her appearance so alarming that the unfortunate Maudie, emitting three piercing shrieks, rose hastily from the table and looked around for a way of escape. The road to the front-door was barred, and with a final yelp that set her employer’s teeth on edge she dashed into the yard and went home via the back-fences. Housewives busy in their kitchens looked up in amazement at the spectacle of a pair of thin black legs descending one fence, scudding across the yard to the accompaniment of a terrified moaning, and scrambling madly over the other. At her own back-door Maudie collapsed on the step, and, to the intense discomfort and annoyance of her father, had her first fit of hysterics.

  “And the next scab that comes into my house won’t get off so easy,” said Mrs. Porter to her husband. “D’you understand?”

  “If you ‘ad some husbands—” began Mr. Porter, trembling with rage.

  “Yes, I know,” said his wife, nodding. “Don’t cry, Jemmy,” she added, taking the youngest on her knee. “Mother’s only having a little game. She and dad are both on strike for more pay and less work.”

  Mr. Porter got up, and without going through the formality of saying good-bye to the hard-featured Mrs. Gorman, put on his cap and went out. Over a couple of half-pints taken as a sedative, he realized the growing seriousness of his position.

  In a dull resigned fashion he took up his household duties again, made harder now than before by the scandalous gossip of the aggrieved Mr. Stevens. The anonymous present of a much-worn apron put the finishing touch to his discomfiture; and the well-meant offer of a fair neighbour to teach him how to shake a mat without choking himself met with a reception that took her breath away.

  It was a surprise to him one afternoon to find that his wife had so far unbent as to tidy up the parlour. Ornaments had been dusted and polished and the carpet swept. She had even altered the position of the furniture. The table had been pu
shed against the wall, and the easy- chair, with its back to the window, stood stiffly confronting six or seven assorted chairs, two of which at least had been promoted from a lower sphere.

  “It’s for the meeting,” said Muriel, peeping in.

  “Meeting?” repeated her father, in a dazed voice.

  “Strike-meetings,” was the reply. “Mrs. Gorman and some other ladies are coming at four o’clock. Didn’t mother tell you?”

  Mr. Porter, staring helplessly at the row of chairs, shook his head.

  “Mrs. Evans is coming,” continued Muriel, in a hushed voice— “the lady what punched Mr. Brown because he kept Bobbie Evans in one day. He ain’t been kept in since. I wish you — —”

  She stopped suddenly, and, held by her father’s gaze, backed slowly out of the room. Mr. Porter, left with the chairs, stood regarding them thoughtfully. Their emptiness made an appeal that no right-minded man could ignore. He put his hand over his mouth and his eyes watered.

  He spent the next half-hour in issuing invitations, and at half-past three every chair was filled by fellow-strikers. Three cans of beer, clay pipes, and a paper of shag stood on the table. Mr. Benjamin Todd, an obese, fresh-coloured gentleman of middle age, took the easy-chair. Glasses and teacups were filled.

  “Gentlemen,” said Mr. Todd, lighting his pipe, “afore we get on to the business of this meeting I want to remind you that there is another meeting, of ladies, at four o’clock; so we’ve got to hurry up. O’ course, if it should happen that we ain’t finished — —”

  “Go on, Bennie!” said a delighted admirer. “I see a female ‘ead peeping in at the winder already,” said a voice.

  “Let ’em peep,” said Mr. Todd, benignly. “Then p’r’aps they’ll be able to see how to run a meeting.”

  “There’s two more ‘eads,” said the other. “Oh, Lord, I know I sha’n’t be able to keep a straight face!”

  “H’sh!” commanded Mr. Todd, sternly, as the street-door was heard to open. “Be’ave yourself. As I was saying, the thing we’ve got to consider about this strike — —”

  The door opened, and six ladies, headed by Mrs. Porter, entered the room in single file and ranged themselves silently along the wall.

  “Strike,” proceeded Mr. Todd, who found himself gazing uneasily into the eyes of Mrs. Gorman — — “strike — er — strike — —”

  “He said that before,” said a stout lady, in a loud whisper; “I’m sure he did.”

  “Is,” continued Mr. Todd, “that we have got to keep this — this — er—”

  “Strike,” prompted the same voice.

  Mr. Todd paused, and, wiping his mouth with a red pocket-handkerchief, sat staring straight before him.

  “I move,” said Mrs. Evans, her sharp features twitching with excitement, “that Mrs. Gorman takes the chair.”

  “‘Ow can I take it when he’s sitting in it?” demanded that lady.

  “She’s a lady that knows what she wants and how to get it,” pursued Mrs. Evans, unheeding. “She understands men—”

  “I’ve buried two ‘usbands,” murmured Mrs. Gorman, nodding.

  “And how to manage them,” continued Mrs. Evans. “I move that Mrs. Gorman takes the chair. Those in favour—”

  Mr. Todd, leaning back in his chair and gripping the arms, gazed defiantly at a row of palms.

  “Carried unanimously!” snapped Mrs. Evans.

  Mrs. Gorman, tall and bony, advanced and stood over Mr. Todd. Strong men held their breath.

  “It’s my chair,” she said, gruffly. “I’ve been moved into it.”

  “Possession,” said Mr. Todd, in as firm a voice as he could manage, “is nine points of the law. I’m here and—”

  Mrs. Gorman turned, and, without the slightest warning, sat down suddenly and heavily in his lap. A hum of admiration greeted the achievement.

  “Get up!” shouted the horrified Mr. Todd. “Get up!”

  Mrs. Gorman settled herself more firmly.

  “Let me get up,” said Mr. Todd, panting.

  Mrs. Gorman rose, but remained in a hovering position, between which and the chair Mr. Todd, flushed and dishevelled, extricated himself in all haste. A shrill titter of laughter and a clapping of hands greeted his appearance. He turned furiously on the pallid Mr. Porter.

  “What d’you mean by it?” he demanded. “Are you the master, or ain’t you? A man what can’t keep order in his own house ain’t fit to be called a man. If my wife was carrying on like this — —”

  “I wish I was your wife,” said Mrs. Gorman, moistening her lips.

  Mr. Todd turned slowly and surveyed her.

  “I don’t,” he said, simply, and, being by this time near the door, faded gently from the room.

  “Order!” cried Mrs. Gorman, thumping the arm of her chair with a large, hard-working fist. “Take your seats, ladies.”

  A strange thrill passed through the bodies of her companions and communicated itself to the men in the chairs. There was a moment’s tense pause, and then the end man, muttering something about “going to see what had happened to poor old Ben Todd,” rose slowly and went out. His companions, with heads erect and a look of cold disdain upon their faces, followed him.

  It was Mr. Porter’s last meeting, but his wife had several more. They lasted, in fact, until the day, a fortnight later, when he came in with flushed face and sparkling eyes to announce that the strike was over and the men victorious.

  “Six bob a week more!” he said, with enthusiasm. “You see, I was right to strike, after all.”

  Mrs. Porter eyed him. “I am out for four bob a week more,” she said, calmly.

  Her husband swallowed. “You — you don’t understand ‘ow these things are done,” he said, at last. “It takes time. We ought to ne — negotiate.”

  “All right,” said Mrs. Porter, readily. “Seven shillings a week, then.”

  “Let’s say four and have done with it,” exclaimed the other, hastily.

  And Mrs. Porter said it.

  DIRTY WORK

  It was nearly high-water, and the night-watchman, who had stepped aboard a lighter lying alongside the wharf to smoke a pipe, sat with half-closed eyes enjoying the summer evening. The bustle of the day was over, the wharves were deserted, and hardly a craft moved on the river. Perfumed clouds of shag, hovering for a time over the lighter, floated lazily towards the Surrey shore.

  “There’s one thing about my job,” said the night-watchman, slowly, “it’s done all alone by yourself. There’s no foreman a-hollering at you and offering you a penny for your thoughts, and no mates to run into you from behind with a loaded truck and then ask you why you didn’t look where you’re going to. From six o’clock in the evening to six o’clock next morning I’m my own master.”

  He rammed down the tobacco with an experienced forefinger and puffed contentedly.

  People like you ‘ud find it lonely (he continued, after a pause); I did at fust. I used to let people come and sit ‘ere with me of an evening talking, but I got tired of it arter a time, and when one chap fell overboard while ‘e was showing me ‘ow he put his wife’s mother in ‘er place, I gave it up altogether. There was three foot o’ mud in the dock at the time, and arter I ‘ad got ‘im out, he fainted in my arms.

  Arter that I kept myself to myself. Say wot you like, a man’s best friend is ‘imself. There’s nobody else’ll do as much for ‘im, or let ‘im off easier when he makes a mistake. If I felt a bit lonely I used to open the wicket in the gate and sit there watching the road, and p’r’aps pass a word or two with the policeman. Then something ‘appened one night that made me take quite a dislike to it for a time.

  I was sitting there with my feet outside, smoking a quiet pipe, when I ‘eard a bit of a noise in the distance. Then I ‘eard people running and shouts of “Stop, thief!” A man came along round the corner full pelt, and, just as I got up, dashed through the wicket and ran on to the wharf. I was arter ‘im like a shot and got up to ‘im just in time to see h
im throw something into the dock. And at the same moment I ‘eard the other people run past the gate.

  “Wot’s up?” I ses, collaring ‘im.

  “Nothing,” he ses, breathing ‘ard and struggling. “Let me go.”

  He was a little wisp of a man, and I shook ‘im like a dog shakes a rat. I remembered my own pocket being picked, and I nearly shook the breath out of ‘im.

  “And now I’m going to give you in charge,” I ses, pushing ‘im along towards the gate.

  “Wot for?” he ses, purtending to be surprised.

  “Stealing,” I ses.

  “You’ve made a mistake,” he ses; “you can search me if you like.”

  “More use to search the dock,” I ses. “I see you throw it in. Now you keep quiet, else you’ll get ‘urt. If you get five years I shall be all the more pleased.”

  I don’t know ‘ow he did it, but ‘e did. He seemed to sink away between my legs, and afore I knew wot was ‘appening, I was standing upside down with all the blood rushing to my ‘ead. As I rolled over he bolted through the wicket, and was off like a flash of lightning.

  A couple o’ minutes arterwards the people wot I ‘ad ‘eard run past came back agin. There was a big fat policeman with ’em — a man I’d seen afore on the beat — and, when they ‘ad gorn on, he stopped to ‘ave a word with me.

  “‘Ot work,” he ses, taking off his ‘elmet and wiping his bald ‘ead with a large red handkerchief. “I’ve lost all my puff.”

  “Been running?” I ses, very perlite.

  “Arter a pickpocket,” he ses. “He snatched a lady’s purse just as she was stepping aboard the French boat with her ‘usband. ‘Twelve pounds in it in gold, two peppermint lozenges, and a postage stamp.’”

  He shook his ‘ead, and put his ‘elmet on agin.

  “Holding it in her little ‘and as usual,” he ses. “Asking for trouble, I call it. I believe if a woman ‘ad one hand off and only a finger and thumb left on the other, she’d carry ‘er purse in it.”

  He knew a’most as much about wimmen as I do. When ‘is fust wife died, she said ‘er only wish was that she could take ‘im with her, and she made ‘im promise her faithful that ‘e’d never marry agin. His second wife, arter a long illness, passed away while he was playing hymns on the concertina to her, and ‘er mother, arter looking at ‘er very hard, went to the doctor and said she wanted an inquest.