by W. W. Jacobs
Produced by David Widger
NIGHT WATCHES
by W.W. Jacobs
STEPPING BACKWARDS
"Wonderful improvement," said Mr. Jack Mills. "Show 'em to me again."
Mr. Simpson took his pipe from his mouth and, parting his lips, revealedhis new teeth.
"And you talk better," said Mr. Mills, taking his glass from the counterand emptying it; "you ain't got that silly lisp you used to have. Whatdoes your missis think of 'em?"
"She hasn't seen 'em yet," said the other. "I had 'em put in at dinner-time. I ate my dinner with 'em."
Mr. Mills expressed his admiration. "If it wasn't for your white hairand whiskers you'd look thirty again," he said, slowly. "How old areyou?"
"Fifty-three," said his friend. "If it wasn't for being laughed at I'veoften thought of having my whiskers shaved off and my hair dyed black.People think I'm sixty."
"Or seventy," continued Mr. Mills. "What does it matter, peoplelaughing? You've got a splendid head of 'air, and it would dyebeautiful."
Mr. Simpson shook his head and, ordering a couple of glasses of bitter,attacked his in silence.
"It might be done gradual," he said, after a long interval. "It don'tdo anybody good at the warehouse to look old."
"Make a clean job of it," counselled Mr. Mills, who was very fond of alittle cheap excitement. "Get it over and done with. You've got goodfeatures, and you'd look splendid clean-shaved." Mr. Simpson smiledfaintly. "Only on Wednesday the barmaid here was asking after you,"pursued Mr. Mills. Mr. Simpson smiled again. "She says to me, 'Where'sGran'pa?' she says, and when I says, haughty like, 'Who do you mean?'she says, 'Father Christmas!' If you was to tell her that you are onlyfifty-three, she'd laugh in your face."
"Let her laugh," said the other, sourly.
"Come out and get it off," said Mr. Mills, earnestly. "There's abarber's in Bird Street; you could go in the little back room, where hecharges a penny more, and get it done without anybody being a bit thewiser."
He put his hand on Mr. Simpson's shoulder, and that gentleman, with aglare in the direction of the fair but unconscious offender, rose in ahypnotized fashion and followed him out. Twice on the way to BirdStreet Mr. Simpson paused and said he had altered his mind, and twicedid the propulsion of Mr. Mills's right hand, and his flatteringargument, make him alter it again.
It was a matter of relief to Mr. Simpson that the barber took hisinstructions without any show of surprise. It appeared, indeed, that anelderly man of seventy-eight had enlisted his services for a similarpurpose not two months before, and had got married six weeks afterwards.Age of the bride given as twenty-four, but said to have looked older.
A snip of the scissors, and six inches of white beard fell to the floor.For the first time in thirty years Mr. Simpson felt a razor on his face.Then his hair was cut and shampooed; and an hour later he sat gazing ata dark-haired, clean-shaven man in the glass who gazed back at him withwondering eyes--a lean-jawed, good-looking man, who, in a favourablelight, might pass for forty. He turned and met the admiring eyes of Mr.Mills.
"What did I tell you?" inquired the latter. "You look young enough tobe your own son."
"Or grandson," said the barber, with professional pride.
Mr. Simpson got up slowly from the chair and, accompanied by theadmiring Mr. Mills, passed out into the street. The evening was young,and, at his friend's suggestion, they returned to the Plume of Feathers.
"You give the order," said Mr. Mills, "and see whether she recognizesyou."
Mr. Simpson obeyed.
"Don't you know him?" inquired Mr. Mills, as the barmaid turned away.
"I don't think I have that pleasure," said the girl, simpering.
"Gran'pa's eldest boy," said Mr. Mills.
"Oh!" said the girl. "Well, I hope he's a better man than his father,then?"
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Mr. Simpson, painfully consciousof his friend's regards.
"Nothing," said the girl, "nothing. Only we can all be better, can'twe? He's a nice old gentleman; so simple."
"Don't know you from Adam," said Mr. Mills, as she turned away. "Now,if you ask me, I don't believe as your own missis will recognize you."
"Rubbish," said Mr. Simpson. "My wife would know me anywhere. We'vebeen married over thirty years. Thirty years of sunshine and shadowtogether. You're a single man, and don't understand these things."
"P'r'aps you're right," said his friend. "But it'll be a bit of a shockto her, anyway. What do you say to me stepping round and breaking thenews to her? It's a bit sudden, you know. She's expecting a white-haired old gentleman, not a black-haired boy."
Mr. Simpson looked a bit uneasy. "P'r'aps I ought to have told herfirst," he murmured, craning his neck to look in the glass at the backof the bar.
"I'll go and put it right for you," said his friend. "You stay here andsmoke your pipe."
He stepped out briskly, but his pace slackened as he drew near thehouse.
"I--I--came--to see you about your husband," he faltered, as Mrs.Simpson opened the door and stood regarding him.
"What's the matter?" she exclaimed, with a faint cry. "What's happenedto him?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Mills, hastily. "Nothing serious, that is. I justcame round to warn you so that you will be able to know it's him."
Mrs. Simpson let off a shriek that set his ears tingling. Then,steadying herself by the wall, she tottered into the front room,followed by the discomfited Mr. Mills, and sank into a chair.
"He's dead!" she sobbed. "He's dead!"
"He is not," said Mr. Mills.
"Is he much hurt? Is he dying?" gasped Mrs. Simpson.
"Only his hair," said Mr. Mills, clutching at the opening. "He is nothurt at all."
Mrs. Simpson dabbed at her eyes-and sat regarding him in bewilderment.Her twin chins were still quivering with emotion, but her eyes werebeginning to harden. "What are you talking about?" she inquired, in araspy voice.
"He's been to a hairdresser's," said Mr. Mills. "He's 'ad all his whitewhiskers cut off, and his hair cut short and dyed black. And, what withthat and his new teeth, I thought--he thought--p'r'aps you mightn't knowhim when he came home."
"Dyed?" cried Mrs. Simpson, starting to her feet.
Mr. Mills nodded. "He looks twenty years younger," he said, with asmile. "He'd pass for his own son anywhere."
Mrs. Simpson's eyes snapped. "Perhaps he'd pass for my son," sheremarked.
"Yes, easy," said the tactful Mr. Mills. "You can't think what adifference it's made to him. That's why I came to see you--so youshouldn't be startled."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Simpson. "I'm much obliged. But you might havespared yourself the trouble. I should know my husband anywhere."
"Ah, that's what you think," retorted Mr. Mills, with a smile; "but thebarmaid at the Plume didn't. That's what made me come to you."
Mrs. Simpson gazed at him.
"I says to myself," continued Mr. Mills, "'If she don't know him, I'mcertain his missis won't, and I'd better----'"
"You'd better go," interrupted his hostess.
Mr. Mills started, and then, with much dignity, stalked after her to thedoor.
"As to your story, I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Simpson."Whatever else my husband is, he isn't a fool, and he'd no more think ofcutting off his whiskers and dyeing his hair than you would of tellingthe truth."
"Seeing is believing," said the offended Mr. Mills, darkly.
"I'll wait till I do see, and then I sha'n't believe," was the reply."It is a put-up job between you and some other precious idiot, I expect.But you can't deceive me. If your black-haired friend comes here, he'llget it, I can tell you."
She sla
mmed the door on his protests and, returning to the parlour,gazed fiercely into the glass on the mantelpiece. It reflected sixteenstone of honest English womanhood, a thin wisp of
