Light Freights

by W. W. Jacobs

  Mr. Sol Ketchmaid, landlord of the Ship, sat in his snug bar, risingoccasionally from his seat by the taps to minister to the wants of thecustomers who shared this pleasant retreat with him.

  Forty years at sea before the mast had made Mr. Ketchmaid an authorityon affairs maritime; five years in command of the Ship Inn, with thenearest other licensed house five miles off, had made him an autocrat.

  From his cushioned Windsor-chair he listened pompously to theconversation. Sometimes he joined in and took sides, and on theseoccasions it was a foregone conclusion that the side he espoused wouldwin. No matter how reasonable the opponent's argument or how gross hispersonalities, Mr. Ketchmaid, in his capacity of host, had one unfailingrejoinder--the man was drunk. When Mr. Ketchmaid had pronounced thatopinion the argument was at an end. A nervousness about hislicense--conspicuous at other times by its absence--would suddenlypossess him, and, opening the little wicket which gave admission to thebar, he would order the offender in scathing terms to withdraw.

  Twice recently had he found occasion to warn Mr. Ned Clark, the villageshoemaker, the strength of whose head had been a boast in the villagefor many years. On the third occasion the indignant shoemaker wasinterrupted in the middle of an impassioned harangue on free speech andbundled into the road by the ostler. After this nobody was safe.

  To-night Mr. Ketchmaid, meeting his eye as he entered the bar, noddedcurtly. The shoemaker had stayed away three days as a protest, and thelandlord was naturally indignant at such contumacy.

  "Good evening, Mr. Ketchmaid," said the shoemaker, screwing up hislittle black eyes; "just give me a small bottle o' lemonade, if youplease."

  Mr. Clark's cronies laughed, and Mr. Ketchmaid, after glancing at him tomake sure that he was in earnest, served him in silence.

  "There's one thing about lemonade," said the shoemaker, as he sipped itgingerly; "nobody could say you was drunk, not if you drank bucketsfulof it."

  There was an awkward silence, broken at last by Mr. Clark smacking hislips.

  "Any news since I've been away, chaps?" he inquired; "or 'ave you justbeen sitting round as usual listening to the extra-ordinary adventureswhat happened to Mr. Ketchmaid whilst a-foller-ing of the sea?"

  "Truth is stranger than fiction, Ned," said Mr. Peter Smith, the tailor,reprovingly.

  The shoemaker assented. "But I never thought so till I heard some o' thethings Mr. Ketchmaid 'as been through," he remarked.

  "Well, you know now," said the landlord, shortly.

  "And the truthfullest of your yarns are the most wonderful of the lot,to my mind," said Mr. Clark.

  "What do you mean by the truthfullest?" demanded the landlord, grippingthe arms of his chair.

  "Why, the strangest," grinned the shoemaker.

  "Ah, he's been through a lot, Mr. Ketchmaid has," said the tailor.

  "The truthfullest one to my mind," said the shoemaker, regarding thelandlord with spiteful interest, "is that one where Henry Wiggett, theboatswain's mate, 'ad his leg bit off saving Mr. Ketchmaid from theshark, and 'is shipmate, Sam Jones, the nigger cook, was wounded saving'im from the South Sea Highlanders."

  "I never get tired o' hearing that yarn," said the affable Mr. Smith.

  "I do," said Mr. Clark.

  Mr. Ketchmaid looked up from his pipe and eyed him darkly; the shoemakersmiled serenely.

  "Another small bottle o' lemonade, landlord," he said, slowly.

  "Go and get your lemonade somewhere else," said the bursting Mr.Ketchmaid.

  "I prefer to 'ave it here," rejoined the shoemaker, "and you've got toserve me, Ketchmaid. A licensed publican is compelled to serve peoplewhether he likes to or not, else he loses of 'is license."

  "Not when they're the worse for licker he ain't," said the landlord.

  "Certainly not," said the shoemaker; "that's why I'm sticking tolemonade, Ketchmaid."

  The indignant Mr. Ketchmaid, removing the wire from the cork, dischargedthe missile at the ceiling. The shoemaker took the glass from him andlooked round with offensive slyness.

  "Here's the 'ealth of Henry Wiggett what lost 'is leg to save Mr.Ketchmaid's life," he said, unctuously. "Also the 'ealth of Sam Jones,who let hisself be speared through the chest for the same noble purpose.Likewise the health of Captain Peters, who nursed Mr. Ketchmaid like 'isown son when he got knocked up doing the work of five men as wasdrowned; likewise the health o' Dick Lee, who helped Mr. Ketchmaidcapture a Chinese junk full of pirates and killed the whole seventeen of'em by--'Ow did you say you killed'em, Ketchmaid?"

  The landlord, who was busy with the taps, affected not to hear.

  "Killed the whole seventeen of 'em by first telling 'em yarns till theyfell asleep and then choking 'em with Henry Wiggett's wooden leg,"resumed the shoemaker.

  "Kee--hee," said a hapless listener, explosively. "Kee--hee--kee----"

  He checked himself suddenly, and assumed an air of great solemnity asthe landlord looked his way.

  "You'd better go 'ome, Jem Summers," said the fuming Mr. Ketchmaid."You're the worse for liker."

  "I'm not," said Mr. Summers, stoutly.

  "Out you go," said Mr. Ketchmaid, briefly. "You know my rules. I keep arespectable house, and them as can't drink in moderation are bestoutside."

  "You should stick to lemonade, Jem," said Mr. Clark. "You can say whatyou like then."

  Mr. Summers looked round for support, and then, seeing no pity in thelandlord's eye, departed, wondering inwardly how he was to spend theremainder of the evening. The company in the bar gazed at each othersoberly and exchanged whispers.

  "Understand, Ned Clark," said the indignant Mr. Ketchmaid, "I don't wantyour money in this public-house. Take it somewhere else."

  "Thank'ee, but I prefer to come here," said the shoemaker,ostentatiously sipping his lemonade. "I like to listen to your tales ofthe sea. In a quiet way I get a lot of amusement out of 'em."

  "Do you disbelieve my word?" demanded Mr. Ketchmaid, hotly.

  "Why, o' course I do," replied the shoemaker; "we all do. You'd see howsilly they are yourself if you only stopped to think. You and yoursharks!--no shark would want to eat you unless it was blind."

  Mr. Ketchmaid allowed this gross reflection on his personal appearanceto pass unnoticed, and for the first time of many evenings sat listeningin torment as the shoemaker began the narration of a series of eventswhich he claimed had happened to a seafaring nephew. Many of these borea striking resemblance to Mr. Ketchmaid's own experiences, the onlydifference being that the nephew had no eye at all for theprobabilities.

  In this fell work Mr. Clark was ably assisted by the offended Mr.Summers. Side by side they sat and quaffed lemonade, and burlesqued thelandlord's autobiography, the only consolation afforded to Mr. Ketchmaidconsisting in the reflection that they were losing a harmless pleasurein good liquor. Once, and once only, they succumbed to the superiorattractions of alcohol, and Mr. Ketchmaid, returning from a visit to hisbrewer at the large seaport of Burnsea, heard from the ostler thedetails of a carouse with which he had been utterly unable to cope.

  The couple returned to lemonade the following night, and remainedfaithful to that beverage until an event transpired which renderedfurther self-denial a mere foolishness.

  It was about a week later, Mr. Ketchmaid had just resumed his seat afterserving a customer, when the attention of all present was attracted byan odd and regular tapping on the brick-paved passage outside. Itstopped at the tap-room, and a murmur of voices escaped at the opendoor. Then the door was closed, and a loud, penetrating voice called onthe name of Sol Ketchmaid.

  "Good Heavens!" said the amazed landlord, half-rising from his seat andfalling back again, "I ought to know that voice."

  "Sol Ketchmaid," bellowed the voice again; "where are you, shipmate?"

  "Hennery Wiggett!" gasped the landlord, as a small man with raggedwhiskers appeared at the wicket, "it can't be!"

  The new-comer regarded him tenderly for a moment without a word, andthen, kicking open the door with an unmistak
able wooden leg, stumpedinto the bar, and grasping his outstretched hand shook it fervently.

  "I met Cap'n Peters in Melbourne," said the stranger, as his friendpushed him into his own chair, and questioned him breathlessly. "He toldme where you was."

  "The sight o' you, Hennery Wiggett, is better to me than diamonds," saidMr. Ketchmaid, ecstatically. "How did you get here?"

  "A friend of his, Cap'n Jones, of the barque Venus, gave me a passage toLondon," said Mr. Wiggett, "and I've tramped down from there without apenny in my pocket."

  "And Sol Ketchmaid's glad to see you, sir," said Mr. Smith, who, withthe rest of the company, had been looking on in a state of greatadmiration. "He's never tired of telling us 'ow you saved him from theshark and 'ad your leg bit off in so doing."

  "I'd 'ave my other bit off for 'im, too," said Mr. Wiggett, as thelandlord patted him affectionately on the shoulder and thrust a glass ofspirits into his hands. "Cheerful, I would. The kindest-'earted and thebravest man that ever breathed, is old Sol Ketchmaid."

  He took the landlord's hand again, and, squeezing it affectionately,looked round the comfortable bar with much approval. They began toconverse in the low tones of confidence, and names which had figured inmany of the landlord's stories fell continuously on the listeners' ears.

  "You never 'eard anything more o' pore Sam Jones, I s'pose?" said Mr.Ketchmaid.

  Mr. Wiggett put down his glass.

  "I ran up agin a man in Rio Janeiro two years ago," he said, mournfully."Pore old Sam died in 'is arms with your name upon 'is honest blacklips."

  "Enough to kill any man," muttered the discomfited Mr. Clark, lookinground defiantly upon his murmuring friends.

  "Who is this putty-faced swab, Sol?" demanded Mr. Wiggett, turning afierce glance in the shoemaker's direction.

  "He's our cobbler," said the landlord, "but you don't want to take nonotice of 'im. Nobody else does. He's a man who as good as told me I'm aliar."

  "Wot!" said Mr. Wiggett, rising and stumping across the bar; "take itback, mate. I've only got one leg, but nobody shall run down Sol while Ican draw breath. The finest sailor-man that ever trod a deck is Sol, andthe best-'earted."

  "Hear, hear," said Mr. Smith; "own up as you're in the wrong, Ned."

  "When I was laying in my bunk in the fo'c's'le being nursed back tolife," continued Mr. Wiggett, enthusiastically, "who was it that set bymy side 'olding my 'and and telling me to live for his sake?--why, SolKetchmaid. Who was it that said that he'd stick to me for life?--why SolKetchmaid. Who was it said that so long as 'e 'ad a crust I should havefirst bite at it, and so long as 'e 'ad a bed I should 'ave first halfof it?--why, Sol Ketchmaid!"

  He paused to take breath, and a flattering murmur arose from hislisteners, while the subject of his discourse looked at him as thoughhis eloquence was in something of the nature of a surprise even to him.

  "In my old age and on my beam-ends," continued Mr. Wiggett, "Iremembered them words of old Sol, and I knew if I could only find 'im mytroubles were over. I knew that I could creep into 'is little harbourand lay snug. I knew that what Sol said he meant. I lost my leg saving'is life, and he is grateful."

  "So he ought to be," said Mr. Clark, "and I'm proud to shake 'ands witha hero."

  He gripped Mr. Wiggett's hand, and the others followed suit. Thewooden-legged man wound up with Mr. Ketchmaid, and, disdaining to noticethat that veracious mariner's grasp was somewhat limp, sank into hischair again, and asked for a cigar.

  "Lend me the box, Sol," he said, jovially, as he took it from him. "I'mgoing to 'and 'em round. This is my treat, mates. Pore old HenryWig-gett's treat."

  He passed the box round, Mr. Ketchmaid watching in helpless indignationas the customers, discarding their pipes, thanked Mr. Wiggett warmly,and helped themselves to a threepenny cigar apiece. Mr. Clark was soparticular that he spoilt at least two by undue pinching before he couldfind one to his satisfaction.

  Closing time came all too soon, Mr. Wiggett, whose popularity was neverfor a moment in doubt, developing gifts to which his friend had nevereven alluded. He sang comic songs in a voice which made the glassesrattle on the shelves, asked some really clever riddles, and wound upwith a conjuring trick which consisted in borrowing half a crown fromMr. Ketchmaid and making it pass into the pocket of Mr. Peter Smith.This last was perhaps not quite so satisfactory, as the utmost effortsof the tailor failed to discover the coin, and he went home under acloud of suspicion which nearly drove him frantic.

  "I 'ope you're satisfied," said Mr. Wiggett, as the landlord, havingshot the bolts of the front door, returned to the bar.

  "You went a bit too far," said Mr. Ketchmaid, shortly; "you should ha'been content with doing what I told you to do. And who asked you to 'andmy cigars round?"

  "I got a bit excited," pleaded the other.

  "And you forgot to tell 'em you're going to start to-morrow to live withthat niece of yours in New Zealand," added the landlord.

  "So I did," said Mr. Wiggett, smiting his forehead; "so I did. I'm verysorry; I'll tell 'em tomorrow night."

  "Mention it casual like, to-morrow morning," commanded Mr. Ketchmaid,"and get off in the arternoon, then I'll give you some dinner besidesthe five shillings as arranged."

  Mr. Wiggett thanked him warmly, and, taking a candle, withdrew to theunwonted luxury of clean sheets and a soft bed. For some time he layawake in deep thought and then, smothering a laugh with the bed-clothes,he gave a sigh of content and fell asleep.

  To the landlord's great annoyance his guest went for a walk next morningand did not return until the evening, when he explained that he hadwalked too far for his crippled condition and was unable to get back.Much sympathy was manifested for him in the bar, but in all theconversation that ensued Mr. Ketchmaid listened in vain for any hint ofhis departure. Signals were of no use, Mr. Wiggett merely noddingamiably and raising his glass in response; and when, by considerablestrategy, he brought the conversation from pig-killing to nieces, Mr.Wiggett deftly transferred it to uncles and discoursed on pawn-broking.

  The helpless Mr. Ketchmaid suffered in silence, with his eye on theclock, and almost danced with impatience at the tardiness of hisdeparting guests. He accompanied the last man to the door, and then,crimson with rage, returned to the bar to talk to Mr. Wiggett.

  "Wot d'y'r mean by it?" he thundered.

  "Mean by what, Sol?" inquired Mr. Wiggett, looking up in surprise.

  "Don't you call me Sol, 'cos I won't have it," vociferated the landlord,standing over him with his fist clenched. "First thing to-morrow morningoff you go."

  "Off?" repeated the other in amazement. "Off? Whereto?"

  "Anywhere," said the overwrought landlord; "so long as you get out ofhere, I don't care where you go."

  Mr. Wiggett, who was smoking a cigar, the third that evening, laid itcarefully on the table by his side, and regarded him with tenderreproach.

  "You ain't yourself, Sol," he said, with conviction; "don't say anotherword else you might say things you'll be sorry for."

  His forebodings were more than justified, Mr. Ketchmaid indulging in afew remarks about his birth, parentage, and character which would haveshocked an East-end policeman.

  "First thing to-morrow morning you go," he concluded, fiercely. "I've agood mind to turn you out now. You know the arrangement I made withyou."

  "Arrangement!" said the mystified Mr. Wiggett; "what arrangements? Why,I ain't seen you for ten years and more. If it 'adn't been for meetingCap'n Peters--"

  He was interrupted by frenzied and incoherent exclamations from Mr.Ketchmaid.

  "Sol Ketchmaid," he said, with dignity, "I 'ope you're drunk. I 'opeit's the drink and not Sol Ketchmaid, wot I saved from the shark by'aving my leg bit off, talking. I saved your life, Sol, an' I 'ave comeinto your little harbour and let go my little anchor to stay there tillI go aloft to join poor Sam Jones wot died with your name on 'is lips."

  He sprang suddenly erect as Mr. Ketchmaid, with a loud cry, snatched upa bottle and made as though to brain h
im with it.

  "You rascal," said the landlord, in a stifled voice. "You infernalrascal. I never set eyes on you till I saw you the other day on the quayat Burnsea, and, just for an innercent little joke like with Ned Clark,asked you to come in and pretend."

  "Pretend!" repeated Mr. Wiggett, in a horror-stricken voice. "Pretend!Have you forgotten me pushing you out of the way and saying, 'Saveyourself, Sol,' as the shark's jaw clashed together over my leg? Haveyou forgotten 'ow--?"

  "Look 'ere," said Mr. Ketchmaid, thrusting an infuriated face close tohis, "there never was a Henery Wiggett; there never was a shark; therenever was a Sam Jones!"

  "Never--was--a--Sam Jones!" said the dazed Mr. Wiggett, sinking into hischair. "Ain't you got a spark o' proper feeling left, Sol?"

  He fumbled in his pocket, and producing the remains of a dirtyhandkerchief wiped his eyes to the memory of the faithful black.

  "Look here," said Mr. Ketchmaid, putting down the bottle and regardinghim intently, "you've got me fair. Now, will you go for a pound?"

  "Got you?" said Mr. Wiggett, severely; "I'm ashamed of you, Sol. Go tobed and sleep off the drink, and in the morning you can take HenryWiggett's 'and, but not before."

  He took a box of matches from the bar and, relighting the stump of hiscigar, contemplated Mr. Ketchmaid for some time in silence, and then,with a serious shake of his head, stumped off to bed. Mr. Ketchmaidremained below, and for at least an hour sat thinking of ways and meansout of the dilemma into which his ingenuity had led him.

  He went to bed with the puzzle still unsolved, and the morning yieldedno solution. Mr. Wiggett appeared to have forgotten the previous night'sproceedings altogether, and steadfastly declined to take umbrage at amanner which would have chilled a rhinoceros. He told several freshanecdotes of himself and Sam Jones that evening; anecdotes which, at theimmediate risk of choking, Mr. Ketchmaid was obliged to indorse.

  A week passed, and Mr. Wiggett still graced with his presence the bar ofthe Ship. The landlord lost flesh, and began seriously to consider theadvisability of making a clean breast of the whole affair. Mr. Wiggettwatched him anxiously, and with a skill born of a life-long study ofhumanity, realised that his visit was drawing to an end. At last, oneday, Mr. Ketchmaid put the matter bluntly.

  "I shall tell the chaps to-night that it was a little joke on my part,"he announced, with grim decision; "then I shall take you by the collarand kick you into the road."

  Mr. Wiggett sighed and shook his head.

  "It'll be a terrible show-up for you," he said, softly. "You'd bettermake it worth my while, and I'll tell 'em this evening that I'm going toNew Zealand to live with a niece of mine there, and that you've paid mypassage for me. I don't like telling any more lies, but, seeing it's foryou, I'll do it for a couple of pounds."

  "Five shillings," snarled Mr. Ketchmaid.

  Mr. Wiggett smiled comfortably and shook his head. Mr. Ketchmaid raisedhis offer to ten shillings, to a pound, and finally, after a few remarkswhich prompted Mr. Wiggett to state that hard words broke no bones,flung into the bar and fetched the money.

  The news of Mr. Wiggett's departure went round the village at once, thelandlord himself breaking the news to the next customer, and an overflowmeeting assembled that evening to bid the emigrant farewell.

  The landlord noted with pleasure that business was brisk. Severalgentlemen stood drink to Mr. Wiggett, and in return he put his hand inhis own pocket and ordered glasses round. Mr. Ketchmaid, in a state ofsome uneasiness, took the order, and then Mr. Wiggett, with the air ofone conferring inestimable benefits, produced a lucky halfpenny, whichhad once belonged to Sam Jones, and insisted upon his keeping it.

  "This is my last night, mates," he said, mournfully, as he acknowledgedthe drinking of his health. "In many ports I've been, and many snug pubsI 'ave visited, but I never in all my days come across a nicer,kinder-'earted lot o' men than wot you are."

  "Hear, hear," said Mr. Clark.

  Mr. Wiggett paused, and, taking a sip from his glass to hide hisemotion, resumed.

  "In my lonely pilgrimage through life, crippled and 'aving to beg mybread," he said, tearfully, "I shall think o' this 'appy bar and thesefriendly faces. When I am wrestlin' with the pangs of 'unger and beingmoved on by the 'eartless police, I shall think of you as I last sawyou."

  "But," said Mr. Smith, voicing the general consternation, "you're goingto your niece in New Zealand?"

  Mr. Wiggett shook his head and smiled a sad, sweet smile.

  "I 'ave no niece," he said, simply; "I'm alone in the world."

  At these touching words his audience put their glasses down and staredin amaze at Mr. Ketchmaid, while that gentleman in his turn gazed at Mr.Wiggett as though he had suddenly developed horns and a tail.

  "Ketchmaid told me hisself as he'd paid your passage to New Zealand,"said the shoemaker; "he said as 'e'd pressed you to stay, but that yousaid as blood was thicker even than friendship."

  "All lies," said Mr. Wiggett, sadly. "I'll stay with pleasure if he'llgive the word. I'll stay even now if 'e wishes it."

  He paused a moment as though to give his bewildered victim time toaccept this offer, and then addressed the scandalised Mr. Clark again.

  "He don't like my being 'ere," he said, in a low voice. "He grudges thelittle bit I eat, I s'pose. He told me I'd got to go, and that for thelook o' things 'e was going to pretend I was going to New Zealand. I wastoo broke-'earted at the time to care wot he said--I 'ave no wish tosponge on no man--but, seeing your 'onest faces round me, I couldn't gowith a lie on my lips--Sol Ketchmaid, old shipmate--good-bye."

  He turned to the speechless landlord, made as though to shake hands withhim, thought better of it, and then, with a wave of his hand full ofchastened dignity, withdrew. His stump rang with pathetic insistenceupon the brick-paved passage, paused at the door, and then, tapping onthe hard road, died slowly away in the distance. Inside the Ship theshoemaker gave an ominous order for lemonade.

  A MARKED MAN