“If you don’t stop laughing, I’ll break your bloody head open,” he said.
The Controleur mopped his face. He swallowed a mouthful of beer. He sighed and groaned because his sides were hurting him.
“He’s thanking you for having respected the virtue of Miss Jones,” he spluttered at last.
“Me?” cried Ginger Ted.
The thought took quite a long time to travel through his head, but when at last he got it he flew into a violent rage. There flowed from his mouth such a stream of blasphemous obscenities as would have startled a marine.
“That old cow,” he finished. “What does he take me for?”
“You have the reputation of being rather hot stuff with the girls, Ginger,” giggled the little Controleur.
“I wouldn’t touch her with the fag-end of a barge-pole. It never entered my head. The nerve. I’ll wring his blasted neck. Look here, give me my money, I’m going to get drunk.”
“I don’t blame you,” said the Controleur.
“That old cow,” repeated Ginger Ted. “That old cow.”
He was shocked and outraged. The suggestion really shattered his sense of decency.
The Controleur had the money at hand and having got Ginger Ted to sign the necessary papers gave it to him.
“Go and get drunk, Ginger Ted,” he said, “but I warn you, if you get into mischief it’ll be twelve months next time.”
“I shan’t get into mischief,” said Ginger Ted sombrely. He was suffering from a sense of injury. “It’s an insult,” he shouted at the Controleur. “That’s what it is, it’s a bloody insult.”
He lurched out of the house, and as he went he muttered to himself: “Dirty swine, dirty swine.” Ginger Ted remained drunk for a week. Mr Jones went to see the Controleur again.
“I’m very sorry to hear that poor fellow has taken up his evil course again,” he said. “My sister and I are dreadfully disappointed. I’m afraid it wasn’t very wise to give him so much money at once.”
“It was his own money. I had no right to keep it back.”
“Not a legal right, perhaps, but surely a moral right.”
He told the Controleur the story of that fearful night on the island. With her feminine instinct, Miss Jones had realized that the man, inflamed with lust, was determined to take advantage of her, and, resolved to defend herself to the last, had armed herself with a scalpel. He told the Controleur how she had prayed and wept and how she had hidden herself. Her agony was indescribable, and she knew that she could never have survived the shame. She rocked to and fro and every moment she thought he was coming. And there was no help anywhere and at last she had fallen asleep; she was tired out, poor thing, she had undergone more than any human being could stand, and then when she awoke she found that he had covered her with copra sacks. He had found her asleep, and surely it was her innocence, her very helplessness that had moved him, he hadn’t the heart to touch her; he covered her gently with two copra sacks and crept silently away.
“It shows you that deep down in him there is something sterling. My sister feels it’s our duty to save him. We must do something for him.”
“Well, in your place I wouldn’t try till he’s got through all his money,” said the Controleur, “and then if he’s not in jail you can do what you like.”
But Ginger Ted didn’t want to be saved. About a fortnight after his release from prison he was sitting on a stool outside a Chinaman’s shop looking vacantly down the street when he saw Miss Jones coming along. He stared at her for a minute and once more amazement seized him. He muttered to himself and there can be little doubt that his mutterings were disrespectful. But then he noticed that Miss Jones had seen him and he quickly turned his head away; he was conscious, notwithstanding, that she was looking at him. She was walking briskly, but she sensibly diminished her pace as she approached him. He thought she was going to stop and speak to him. He got up quickly and went into the shop. He did not venture to come out for at least five minutes. Half an hour later Mr Jones himself came along and he went straight up to Ginger Ted with outstretched hand.
“How do you do, Mr Edward? My sister told me I should find you here.”
Ginger Ted gave him a surly look and did not take the proffered hand. He made no answer.
“We’d be so very glad if you’d come to dinner with us next Sunday. My sister’s a capital cook and she’ll make you a real Australian dinner.”
“Go to hell,” said Ginger Ted.
“That’s not very gracious,” said the missionary, but with a little laugh to show that he was not affronted. “You go and see the Controleur from time to time, why shouldn’t you come and see us? It’s pleasant to talk to white people now and then. Won’t you let bygones be bygones? I can assure you of a very cordial welcome.”
“I haven’t got clothes fit to go out in,” said Ginger Ted sulkily.
“Oh, never mind about that. Come as you are.”
“I won’t.”
“Why not? You must have a reason.”
Ginger Ted was a blunt man. He had no hesitation in saying what we should all like to when we receive unwelcome invitations. “I don’t want to.”
“I’m sorry. My sister will be very disappointed.”
Mr Jones, determined to show that he was not in the least offended, gave him a breezy nod and walked on. Forty-eight hours later there mysteriously arrived at the house in which Ginger Ted lodged a parcel containing a suit of ducks, a tennis shirt, a pair of socks, and some shoes. He was unaccustomed to receiving presents and next time he saw the Controleur asked him if it was he who had sent the things.
“Not on your life,” replied the Controleur. “I’m perfectly indifferent to the state of your wardrobe.”
“Well, then, who the hell can have?”
“Search me.”
It was necessary from time to time for Miss Jones to see Mr Gruyter on business and shortly after this she came to see him one morning in his office. She was a capable woman and though she generally wanted him to do something he had no mind to, she did not waste his time. He was a little surprised then to discover that she had come on a very trivial errand. When he told her that he could not take cognizance of the matter in question, she did not as was her habit try to convince him, but accepted his refusal as definite. She got up to go and then as though it were an afterthought said:
“Oh, Mr Gruyter, my brother is very anxious that we should have the man they call Ginger Ted to supper with us and I’ve written him a little note inviting him for the day after tomorrow. I think he’s rather shy, and I wonder if you’d come with him.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“My brother feels that we ought to do something for the poor fellow.”
“A woman’s influence and all that sort of thing,” said the Controleur demurely.
“Will you persuade him to come? I’m sure he will if you make a point of it, and when he knows the way he’ll come again. It seems such a pity to let a young man like that go to pieces altogether.”
The Controleur looked up at her. She was several inches taller than he. He thought her very unattractive. She reminded him strangely of wet linen hung on a clothes-line to dry. His eyes twinkled, but he kept a straight face.
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
“How old is he?” she asked.
“According to his passport he’s thirty-one.”
“And what is his real name?”
“Wilson.”
“Edward Wilson,” she said softly.
“It’s astonishing that after the life he’s led he should be so strong,” murmured the Controleur. “He has the strength of an ox.”
“Those red-headed men sometimes are very powerful,” said Miss Jones, but spoke as though she were choking.
“Quite so,” said the Controleur.
Then for no obvious reason Miss Jones blushed. She hurriedly said goodbye to the Controleur and left his office.
“Godverdomme!” said the Contr
oleur.
He knew now who had sent Ginger Ted the new clothes.
He met him during the course of the day and asked him whether he had heard from Miss Jones. Ginger Ted took a crumpled ball of paper out of his pocket and gave it to him. It was the invitation. It ran as follows:
Dear Mr Wilson
My brother and I would be so very glad if you would come and have supper with us next Thursday at 7.30. The Controleur has kindly promised to come. We have some new records from Australia which I am sure you will like. I am afraid I was not very nice to you last time we met, but I did not know you so well then, and I am big enough to admit it when I have committed an error. I hope you will forgive me and let me be your friend,
Yours sincerely, Martha Jones
The Controleur noticed that she addressed him as Mr Wilson and referred to his own promise to go, so that when she told him she had already invited Ginger Ted she had a little anticipated the truth.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not going, if that’s what you mean. Damned nerve.”
“You must answer the letter.”
“Well, I won’t.”
“Now look here, Ginger, you put on those new clothes and you come as a favour to me. I’ve got to go and, damn it all, you can’t leave me in the lurch. It won’t hurt you just once.”
Ginger Ted looked at the Controleur suspiciously, but his face was serious and his manner sincere: he could not guess that within him the Dutchman bubbled with laughter.
“What the devil do they want me for?”
“I don’t know. The pleasure of your society, I suppose.”
“Will there be any booze?”
“No, but come up to my house at seven, and we’ll have a tiddly before we go.”
“Oh, all right,” said Ginger Ted sulkily.
The Controleur rubbed his little fat hands with joy. He was expecting a great deal of amusement from the party. But when Thursday came and seven o’clock, Ginger Ted was dead drunk and Mr Gruyter had to go alone. He told the missionary and his sister the plain truth. Mr Jones shook his head.
“I’m afraid it’s no good, Martha, the man’s hopeless.”
For a moment Miss Jones was silent and the Controleur saw two tears trickle down her long thin nose. She bit her lip.
“No one is hopeless. Everyone has some good in him. I shall pray for him every night. It would be wicked to doubt the power of God.”
Perhaps Miss Jones was right in this, but the divine providence took a very funny way of effecting its ends. Ginger Ted began to drink more heavily than ever. He was so troublesome that even Mr Gruyter lost patience with him. He made up his mind that he could not have the fellow on the island any more and resolved to deport him on the next boat that touched at Baru. Then a man died under mysterious circumstances after having been for a trip to one of the islands and the Controleur learnt that there had been several deaths on the same island. He sent the Chinese who was the official doctor of the group to look into the matter, and very soon received intelligence that the deaths were due to cholera. Two more took place at Baru and the certainty was forced upon him that there was an epidemic.
The Controleur cursed freely. He cursed in Dutch, he cursed in English, and he cursed in Malay. Then he drank a bottle of beer and smoked a cigar. After that he took thought. He knew the Chinese doctor would be useless. He was a nervous little man from Java and the natives would refuse to obey his orders. The Controleur was efficient and knew pretty well what must be done, but he could not do everything single-handed. He did not like Mr Jones, but just then he was thankful that he was at hand, and he sent for him at once. He was accompanied by his sister.
“You know what I want to see you about, Mr Jones,” he said abruptly.
“Yes. I’ve been expecting a message from you. That is why my sister has come with me. We are ready to put all our resources at your disposal. I need not tell you that my sister is as competent as a man.”
“I know. I shall be very glad of her assistance.”
They set to without further delay to discuss the steps that must be taken. Hospital huts would have to be erected and quarantine stations. The inhabitants of the various villages on the islands must be forced to take proper precautions. In a good many cases the infected villages drew their water from the same well as the uninfected, and in each case this difficulty would have to be dealt with according to circumstances. It was necessary to send round people to give orders and make sure that they were carried out. Negligence must be ruthlessly punished. The worst of it was that the natives would not obey other natives, and orders given by native policemen, themselves unconvinced of their efficacy, would certainly be disregarded. It was advisable for Mr Jones to stay at Baru, where the population was largest and his medical attention most wanted; and what with the official duties that forced him to keep in touch with headquarters, it was impossible for Mr Gruyter to visit all the other islands himself. Miss Jones must go; but the natives of some of the outlying islands were wild and treacherous; the Controleur had had a good deal of trouble with them. He did not like the idea of exposing her to danger.
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
“I daresay. But if you have your throat cut I shall get into trouble, and besides, we’re so short-handed I don’t want to risk losing your help.”
“Then let Mr Wilson come with me. He knows the natives better than anyone and can speak all their dialects.”
“Ginger Ted?” The Controleur stared at her. “He’s just getting over an attack of D.T.s.”
“I know,” she answered.
“You know a great deal, Miss Jones.”
Even though the moment was so serious Mr Gruyter could not but smile. He gave her a sharp look, but she met it coolly.
“There’s nothing like responsibility for bringing out what there is in a man, and I think something like this may be the making of him.”
“Do you think it would be wise to trust yourself for days at a time to a man of such infamous character?” said the missionary.
“I put my trust in God,” she answered gravely.
“Do you think he’d be any use?” asked the Controleur. “You know what he is.”
“I’m convinced of it.” Then she blushed. “After all, no one knows better than I that he’s capable of self-control.”
The Controleur bit his lip.
“Let’s send for him.”
He gave a message to the sergeant and in a few minutes Ginger Ted stood before them. He looked ill. He had evidently been much shaken by his recent attack and his nerves were all to pieces. He was in rags and he had not shaved for a week. No one could have looked more disreputable.
“Look here, Ginger,” said the Controleur, “it’s about this cholera business. We’ve got to force the natives to take precautions and we want you to help us.”
“Why the hell should I?”
“No reason at all. Except philanthropy.”
“Nothing doing, Controleur. I’m not a philanthropist.”
“That settles that. That was all. You can go.”
But as Ginger Ted turned to the door Miss Jones stopped him.
“It was my suggestion, Mr Wilson. You see, they want me to go to Labobo and Sakunchi, and the natives there are so funny I was afraid to go alone. I thought if you came I should be safer.”
He gave her a look of extreme distaste.
“What do you suppose I care if they cut your throat?”
Miss Jones looked at him and her eyes filled with tears. She began to cry. He stood and watched her stupidly.
“There’s no reason why you should.” She pulled herself together and dried her eyes. “I’m being silly. I shall be all right. I’ll go alone.”
“It’s damned foolishness for a woman to go to Labobo.”
She gave him a little smile.
“I daresay it is, but you see, it’s my job and I can’t help myself. I’m sorry if I offended you by asking you. You must forget about it. I
daresay it wasn’t quite fair to ask you to take such a risk.”
For quite a minute Ginger Ted stood and looked at her. He shifted from one foot to the other. His surly face seemed to grow black.
“Oh, hell, have it your own way,” he said at last. “I’ll come with you. When d’you want to start?”
They set out next day, with drugs and disinfectants, in the Government launch. Mr Gruyter as soon as he had put the necessary work in order was to start off in a prahu in the other direction. For four months the epidemic raged. Though everything possible was done to localize it, one island after another was attacked. The Controleur was busy from morning to night. He had no sooner got back to Baru from one or other of the islands to do what was necessary there than he had to set off again. He distributed food and medicine. He cheered the terrified people. He supervised everything. He worked like a dog. He saw nothing of Ginger Ted, but he heard from Mr Jones that the experiment was working out beyond all hopes. The scamp was behaving himself. He had a way with the natives; and by cajolery, firmness, and on occasion the use of his fist, managed to make them take the steps necessary for their own safety. Miss Jones could congratulate herself on the success of the scheme. But the Controleur was too tired to be amused. When the epidemic had run its course he rejoiced because out of a population of eight thousand only six hundred had died.
Finally he was able to give the district a clean bill of health.
One evening he was sitting in his sarong on the veranda of his house and he read a French novel with the happy consciousness that once more he could take things easy. His head boy came in and told him that Ginger Ted wished to see him. He got up from his chair and shouted to him to come in. Company was just what he wanted. It had crossed the Controleur’s mind that it would be pleasant to get drunk that night, but it is dull to get drunk alone, and he had regretfully put the thought aside. And heaven had sent Ginger Ted in the nick of time. By God, they would make a night of it. After four months they deserved a bit of fun. Ginger Ted entered. He was wearing a clean suit of white ducks. He was shaved. He looked another man.
The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham Page 48
