Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  JOE (offended). Ho! I thought there might be other reasons.

  COOK. Other reasons?

  JOE. Gals’ reasons.

  (He nods contentedly and exits. The angry voice of SMITH is heard off. He comes down the companion-ladder.)

  SMITH. What’s that fo’c’sle hand doing down aft? Did you invite him?

  COOK (glibly). Me, sir? No, sir. He just came to bring me a bob wot I dropped.

  SMITH. Next time let him wait till you go on deck. COOK. Yessir.

  SMITH. And give the cabin a good clean up afore you go ashore, and see my state-room’s tidied up. COOK. Ay, ay, sir.

  SMITH. And give the stove a rub up, and sweep the floor.

  COOK. Ay, ay, sir.

  (SMITH regards him with a scowl and then goes off into the state-room. The COOK shrugs his shoulders, sweeps the floor by flicking it with his handkerchief and polishes the cabin-table with his coat-sleeve. BRADD is seen descending the companion-ladder.)

  BRADD. What are you doing?

  COOK. Mate’s orders, sir.

  BRADD. Ha! Well, thank goodness that’s all over.

  I wouldn’t ‘ave the last five days over ag’in for a fortune.

  COOK (shaking his head). I can’t think ‘ow you put up with it, sir. Fancy a skipper being ordered about by a mate. (He shudders.)

  BRADD. It was my fault, Cook. I persuaded ‘im to be mesmerized. If it ‘adn’t ha’ been for me he wouldn’t ‘ave made such a fool of ‘imself. I’ve ‘ad to keep reminding myself of that.

  COOK (slyly). I wondered sometimes that you didn’t knock ‘im down, sir.

  BRADD. Yes. I used to wonder myself, but I’m thankful I didn’t. I ‘ad no right to when it wasn’t ‘is fault.

  COOK. DO you think ‘e’ll ever come to ‘is right senses again, sir?

  BRADD. Yes, I think it’ll wear off gradual. If it don’t, and he wants to take the ship back to London, it’ll be a case for the police. But I think he’s getting quieter, already.

  (He goes into the state-room and closes the door behind him.

  A violent uproar is heard, SMITH’S bellowings dominating.

  The door is opened and BRADD is thrown violently into the cabin and falls on the floor.)

  SMITH. YOU come into my state-room again and I’ll boil you first and eat you afterwards.

  (SMITH slams the door.)

  COOK (helping BRADD up and dusting Mm down). Seems to be wearing off very slow, sir.

  BRADD (panting). I — I — I COOK. Didn’t you know ‘e was in there, sir?

  BRADD (still breathing hard). I — forgot. Force of — habit. He’s raving mad, that’s what it is. He can’t ‘ave any idea what he’s doing.

  (The COOK helps him to the left locker and he seats himself.) He’s dangerous.

  (Steps are heard on the companion-ladder. JOE appears.)

  JOE. Mrs. Bradd is just coming along the quay, sir. BRADD. All right. All right.

  (JOE disappears.)

  What business is it of his?

  COOK. Well, sir, I s’pose he’s excited. We’ve just been putting our ‘eads together in the fo’c’sle, talking it over like, and wondering wot’s goin’ to ‘appen. BRADD. What’s going to ‘appen!

  COOK. Yes, sir, about Mrs. Bradd, sir.

  BRADD. What are you talking about?

  COOK. Well, sir, we ‘ad an argyment. Bill says that as the mate think’s that ‘e is the cap’n he’ll naturally think as ‘ow Mrs. Bradd is his wife, but Joe and me —

  BRADD (throwing his arms up and yelling). Wah!

  (He dashes off to meet his wife.)

  COOK (looking after BRADD). And ‘e’s been married five years. Well, well!

  (He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and going on his knees polishes the stove. The state-room door opens and SMITH enters with a stiff collar in his hand.)

  SMITH. Here. See whether you can fasten this for me.

  (The COOK wipes his hands on his handkerchief, attends to his nose with it and then starts to fasten the collar.)

  I didn t tell you to choke me — and keep your claws out o my throat.

  COOK. Yes, sir.

  (He goes on fastening the collar. SMITH squints down at his hand.)

  SMITH. I tell you to fasten my collar and — look at your hands. Look at ’em.

  (The COOK looks, moistens the tips of his fingers with his lips and dries them on his coat. SMITH thrusts him violently aside.)

  (Advancing on him.) Get out; afore I kill you.

  (The COOK turns, bolts out and dashes up the companion-ladder. SMITH goes into the state-room and returns with a small glass in which he inspects the damage to his collar. A woman’s voice is heard off. He dashes into the state-room and stands listening with his head projecting. He pulls the door to gently, but without closing it, as MRS. BRADD enters followed by BRADD.)

  MRS. BRADD (impatiently). Yes. I know all about it. I met Bill.

  BRADD. But ‘e’s mad. He’s got to be humoured. MRS. BRADD. All right. I’ll humour him. You run away.

  (The door of the state-room opens a little wider. SMITH is seen listening.)

  BRADD. I can’t leave you here alone with ‘im. It ain’t safe.

  MRS. BRADD. YOU get up on deck; I’m all right. I shall try and bring him round gently and slowly. BRADD. But he thinks ‘e’s your husband.

  MRS. BRADD. All the better.

  BRADD. Oh, is it? Now —

  MRS. BRADD (firmly). You go on deck.

  (BRADD goes, grumbling. MRS. BRADD seats herself on the right locker.)

  (Calling.) Ben.

  BRADD (hastily reappearing). Hullo.

  MRS. BRADD (with annoyance). Not you. I mean the other Ben.

  (She waves him away. BRADD goes on deck.) (Loudly.) BEN! BEN!!

  (The state-room door opens and SMITH emerges very slowly. All the snap has gone out of him.)

  Had a good trip, Ben?

  SMITH (moistening his lips with his tongue). Fa-fairish. MRS. BRADD. Yes. Might have been better I suppose. But you never will listen to me.

  SMITH (nervously). I — I was listening.

  MRS. BRADD. I mean about the mate. I’ve told you over and over again that George Smith is no good. Haven’t I?

  SMITH. I — don’t remember.

  MRS. BRADD. YOU mean you won’t remember. I’ve told you scores of times. Look at the last trip when he turned up late and made you miss the tide.

  SMITH (gulping). Wasn’t his fault, poor chap. (Warmly.) There’s many a worse mate than him, I can tell you.

  MRS. BRADD. They’d want some finding. Any news?

  SMITH. NO — no. None as I know of.

  MRS. BRADD. Well, I’ve got some; the damp is coming in the back bedroom ceiling, where I told you it would, Cissie has got a bad cold and little Jimmie’s boots are almost off his feet.

  SMITH (nervously). You don’t say so.

  MRS. BRADD. I do say so, but I can soon put that right. Uncle Dick gave me a five-pound note. I want you to change it for me. (She produces a note from her bag.)

  SMITH (briefly). Can’t do it.

  MRS. BRADD. Show me what you’ve got.

  (She leans forward as SMITH pulls out his purse and looks into it. Calmly she takes it from him and takes out the contents.)

  Only two pounds. Well, I’ll take that to go on with. I’ll give you the fiver when I get the rest.

  (She places the notes in her bag and gazes serenely at the perturbed SMITH.)

  SMITH (wildly). No. No. I want the money myself. (He puts his hands to his head and reels to and fro.) Ah! What’s the matter? — What’s happening? — Where am I? — What am I doing? — My ‘ead’s bursting! — I can see fireworks.

  (BRADD dashes in at the door.)

  BRADD. George!

  MRS. BRADD. Don’t worry him. Let him look at the fireworks.

  BRADD (ecstatically). He’s come round. Oh, George, you ‘ave been playing the fool. Don’t you know what you’ve been doing?

  SMITH (dully). Doi
ng?

  BRADD. Don’t you remember Cap’n Zingall mesmerizing you, and telling you that you was me?

  SMITH (gaping). Telling me I was you?

  BRADD. Yes, and you’ve been cap’n of this ship ever since. Don’t you remember shoving me out of my own state-room?

  SMITH (with a bewildered air, rubbing his eyes and blinking). I don’t know wot you are talking about. I can’t remember anything. My mind’s a perfect blank.

  MRS. BRADD. Don’t worry him, Ben. He can’t remember anything, poor fellow. His mind is — a — perfect — blank.

  (She smiles cheerfully at SMITH and pats her bag.)

  BRADD. It’s the most extraordinary case I ever heard of.

  MRS. BRADD. SO it is, and, what’s more extraordinary still, Ben, you’re coming to church with me to-morrow, and you are going to put two pounds in the plate.

  (SMITH sinks on to a locker, a picture of misery. MRS.

  BRADD shepherds BRADD to the door — smiling at SMITH over her shoulder.)

  BRADD (stuttering). Two — two — two —

  SMITH (sepulchrally). Pounds —

  CURTAIN.

  MATRIMONIAL OPENINGS

  A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

  SCENE. — MR. DAWSON’S Living-room.

  There is a door in the right of the back wall, opening on to the street; a window centre and another door in the left wall leading to the kitchen. The room is comfortably furnished. There is a fair-sized table in the centre of the room; two or three armchairs, small chairs, etc., etc. The right wall contains a fireplace: usual ornaments and pictures adorn the room.

  When the CURTAIN rises MRS. DAWSON is sitting in an armchair by the fire, sewing. There is a knock at the door. She moves up, opens it and the GIPSY steps inside.

  MRS. DAWSON (closing the door and whispering). Not yet. They are not in yet, except my husband, (pointing to the left door) and he is washing himself in the kitchen. We mustn’t be seen together. They might think something.

  GIPSY (turning to the door). All right. I’ll come back in a few minutes.

  MRS. DAWSON. Did that young Foss turn up to have his fortune told? He said he would.

  GIPSY (returning). He did. Said his name was Smith; but I knew him. I made it as hot as I could, but he laughed all the time.

  MRS. DAWSON (sharply). Oh, did he? We’ll make him laugh the other side of the face before we have done with him. Now, you remember all I told you what my daughter did?

  GIPSY (tapping her forehead). It’s all there, every word of it. I’ve got a wonderful memory.

  (They move up to the door.)

  It’s a gift.

  (There is a noise in the kitchen. MRS. DAWSON pushes her out, closes the door and resumes her seat. MR.

  DAWSON enters from the kitchen, fastening his collar.)

  MR. DAWSON. Ha! That’s better. Nothing like a good wash for blowing the cobwebs away. Where’s Flora? Ain’t she come in yet?

  MRS. DAWSON. NO.

  MR. DAWSON (moving down below the fire, lighting his pipe with a spill and speaking between the puffs). Ah! Love’s young dream and Charlie Foss, I expect. Well, we’re only young once. (He knocks the spill out on the hob.)

  MRS. DAWSON. Yes, you encourage her. Charlie Foss indeed! She’ll go and do the same as her sister Jenny done; marry a man and then ‘ave to work and slave herself to skin and bone to keep him.

  MR. DAWSON (leaning his back against the mantelpiece and ruminating). I see Jenny yesterday. Getting quite fat, she is.

  MRS. DAWSON (violently). That’s right! That’s right! The moment I say something you go and try and upset it.

  MR. DAWSON (hastily). Un’ealthy fat, p’raps. Don’t get enough exercise, I suppose.

  MRS. DAWSON (fiercely). Anybody who didn’t know you, Joe Dawson, would think you was doing it a-purpose!

  MR. DAWSON (removing his pipe and regarding her open-mouthed). Doing wot? I only said —

  MRS. DAWSON. I know what you said. Here I do my best from morning to night to make everybody ‘appy and comfortable — and what happens?

  MR. DAWSON (shaking his head in sympathy). Nothing — nothing.

  MRS. DAWSON (hotly). Anyway, Jenny ain’t married a fool; she’s got that consolation.

  MR. DAWSON. That’s right, Mother, look on the bright side o’ things a bit. If Jenny ‘ad married a better chap, I don’t suppose we should see half as much of her as wot we do.

  MRS. DAWSON. Oh, stop it before you send me crazy.

  (FLORA enters from the street, takes off her hat and coat, throws them on a chair and takes a seat by her mother.)

  FLORA. Father talking politics again?

  MRS. DAWSON (grimly). We were talking about you. One unfortunate marriage in the family is enough.

  FLORA. I’m not married. (She winks at her father.) It isn’t for the want of asking, either.

  MRS. DAWSON. I’ve no doubt, my gal. Why you can’t walk out with young Ben Lippet, who’ll be his own master when his father dies, instead of gadding about with that good-for-nothing Charlie Foss, I don’t know.

  MR. DAWSON (shaking his head). He’s so good-looking, is Charlie, that’s the worst of it. What with his dark eyes and his curly ‘air —— —

  MRS. DAWSON (passionately). Go on! Go on! Don’t mind me.

  (MR. DAWSON sits in the armchair below the fireplace, puffs at his pipe in a confused fashion and winks at his daughter.)

  FLORA (to her mother). You needn’t go on too fast, I haven’t made up my mind yet. Charlie’s looks are all right, but he isn’t over and above steady; and Ben is steady, but he ain’t much to look at.

  MR. DAWSON (leaning back in his chair — sentimentally). What does your ‘art say?

  (Both ladies sit upright and gaze at him frigidly.)

  MRS. DAWSON. Charlie Foss is too larky; it’s easy come and easy go with him. He’s just such another as your father’s cousin Bill — and look what ‘appened to (There is a loud knock at the door and a cheerful, piercing whistle.)

  (Waspishly.) There is my lord — anybody might think the ‘ouse belonged to him. And now he’s dancing on my clean doorstep.

  MR. DAWSON (going to the door). Might be only knocking the mud off afore coming in. I’ve noticed he’s been very careful since you made a remark about it the other day.

  (He opens the door and admits MR. FOSS.)

  MR. Foss (brightly). Good evening, everybody. How are we all? Appetite good, and sleeping well? No tired feeling?

  MR. DAWSON. Only of a morning, Charlie, just when I have to get up.

  MR. FOSS. Ah! we’re all like that.

  MRS. DAWSON. Speak for yourself, Mr. Foss.

  MR. FOSS (hastily coming down between the ladies). I don’t mean ladies; I mean workers. Like Mr. Dawson and me. People that have to swallow their breakfast in five minutes and turn out into the cold and wet.

  MRS. DAWSON (sharply). And who gets up and cooks the breakfast?

  FLORA. And washes up afterwards?

  MRS. DAWSON. And is working from morning to night?

  FLORA. Till they’re too tired to sleep?

  MRS. DAWSON. And getting no thanks for it?

  FLORA (shaking her head). Men are all alike.

  MR. FOSS (softly). Well, girls aren’t; there’s nobody like you, Flora. Nobody. After you were made the pattern was broke.

  MR. DAWSON (perplexed). Pat-tern? Pattern! There wasn’t no —

  MRS. DAWSON (hastily giving MR. DAWSON a sharp glance). That’ll do. That’ll do. I’ll thank Mr. Foss not to talk like that.

  MR. FOSS. Why, what have I done?

  MRS. DAWSON. Talk sensible — if you must talk.

  MR. FOSS (silting in an armchair). Well, I was going to tell you about having my fortune told, but I suppose you’ll say that ain’t sensible.

  MRS. DAWSON. It might be and it might not. There’s more in fortune-telling than a good many people suppose. I’ve heard of surprising things.

  MR. FOSS (with a look at MR. DAWSON). It was surprising, all rig
ht. Funny, too.

  MRS. DAWSON. Funny? Did you go to the old woman you said you was going to?

  MR. FOSS. I did; but I gave her a wrong name and address in case she might have heard of me, and, my word, she did make a mess of it — (laughing heartily) — I’ve been laughing ever since. Funny ain’t no word for it.

  MR. DAWSON. What did she say?

  MR. FOSS (smiling). Said I was a wrong ‘un and will bring my mother’s grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. I’m to have bad companions and take to drink. I’m to steal money to gamble with and, after all that, I’m to have five years for bigamy.

  FLORA. Oh!

  MR. FOSS (with relish). Five years. I told her I was disappointed I wasn’t going to be hung, and she said it would be a disappointment to a lot of other people, too. Nasty tongue she’d got — but I only laughed.

  MRS. DAWSON (frigidly). I don’t see nothing to laugh at.

  MR. DAWSON. I shouldn’t tell anybody, Charlie. Keep it a secret, my boy. (With a shrug of his shoulders.) After all, it’s your business.

  MR. FOSS (turning to MR. DAWSON, amazed). But you — you don’t believe it?

  MRS. DAWSON. It’s wonderful how some of these fortune-tellers can see into the future.

  MR. DAWSON (rising uneasily). I don’t believe in ’em, either — I should be very sorry if some things I’ve heard came true. It’s only co-co-incidence, of course; still, I remember I ‘ad my fortune told once when I was a boy and the old woman told me that I should marry the prettiest and the nicest and the sweetest-tempered gal in the world.

  MR. FOSS (triumphantly). Well, there you —

  (He turns, facing MRS. DAWSON, and stops in confusion.)

  MRS. DAWSON (icily). What was you about to remark?

  MR. FOSS. I was going to say — I was going to say — I had just got it on the tip of my tongue to say: “There you — you — you had all the luck, Mr. Dawson.”

  (He breathes with relief.)

  MRS. DAWSON (staring at him). Well, you took a long time to say it.

  MR. DAWSON (beaming at her). That’s the only one I know of that come true.

  MR. FOSS. Yes, o’ course — she only said all that because I made fun of her. I laugh at it.

  FLORA (solemnly). I don’t see anything to laugh at. Fancy five years for bigamy! Fancy the disgrace of it! Think of the poor wife!