Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Hist!” said the mate, in a whisper.

  The scratching ceased, and the mate, grinning broadly, resumed his dinner. He finished at last, and lighting his pipe sat back easily in the locker watching the door out of the corner of his eye.

  With hunger at his vitals the unfortunate skipper, hardly able to believe his ears, heard the cook come down and clear away. The smell of dinner gave way to that of tobacco, and the mate, having half finished his pipe, approached the door.

  “Are you there?” he asked, in a whisper.

  “Of course I am, you fool!” said the skipper, wrathfully; “where’s my dinner?”

  “I’m very sorry,” began the mate, in a whisper.

  “What?” enquired the skipper, fiercely.

  “I’ve mislaid the key,” said the mate, grinning fiendishly, “an’, what’s more, I can’t think what I’ve done with it.”

  At this intelligence, the remnants of the skipper’s temper vanished, and every bad word he had heard of, or read of, or dreamt of, floated from his hungry lips in frenzied whispers.

  “I can’t hear what you say,” said the mate. “What?”

  The prisoner was about to repeat his remarks with a few embellishments, when the mate stopped him with one little word. “Hist!” he said, quietly.

  At the imminent risk of bursting, or going mad, the skipper stopped short, and the mate, addressing a remark to the cook, who was not present, went up on deck.

  He found the key by tea-time, and, his triumph having made him generous, passed the skipper in a large hunk of the cold beef with his tea. The skipper took it and eyed him wanly, having found an empty stomach very conducive to accurate thinking.

  “The next thing is to slip ashore at Wapping, Jack,” he said, after he had finished his meal; “the whar’ll be closed by the time we get there.”

  “The watchman’s nearly sure to be asleep,” said Fraser, “and you can easily climb the gate. If he’s not, I must try and get him out of the way somehow.”

  The skipper’s forebodings proved to be correct. It was past twelve by the time they reached Wapping, but the watchman was wide awake and, with much bustle, helped them to berth their craft. He received the news of the skipper’s untimely end with well-bred sorrow, and at once excited the wrath of the sensitive Joe by saying that he was not surprised.

  “I ‘ad a warning,” he said solemnly, in reply to the indignant seaman. “Larst night exactly as Big Ben struck ten o’clock the gate-bell was pulled three times.”

  “I’ve pulled it fifty times myself before now,” said Joe, scathingly, “and then had to climb over the gate and wake you up.”

  “I went to the gate at once,” continued George, addressing himself to the cook; “sometimes when I’m shifting a barge, or doing any little job o’ that sort, I do ‘ave to keep a man waiting, and, if he’s drunk, two minutes seems like ages to ‘im.”

  “You ought to know wot it seems like,” muttered Joe.

  “When I got to the gate an’ opened it there was nobody there,” continued the watchman, impressively, “and while I was standing there I saw the bell-pull go up an’ down without ‘ands and the bell rung agin three times.”

  The cook shivered. “Wasn’t you frightened, George?” he asked, sympathetically.

  “I knew it was a warning,” continued the vivacious George. “W’y’e should come to me I don’t know. One thing is I think ‘e always ‘ad a bit of a fancy for me.”

  “He ‘ad,” said Joe; “everybody wot sees you loves you, George. They can’t help theirselves.”

  “And I ‘ave ‘ad them two ladies down agin asking for Mr. Robinson, and also for poor Cap’n Flower,” said the watchman; “they asked me some questions about ‘im, and I told ’em the lies wot you told me to tell ’em, Joe; p’r’aps that’s w’y I ‘ad the warning.”

  Joe turned away with a growl and went below, and Tim and the cook after greedily waiting for some time to give the watchman’s imagination a further chance, followed his example. George left to himself took his old seat on the post at the end of the jetty, being, if the truth must be told, some-what alarmed by his own fertile inventions.

  Three times did the mate, in response to the frenzied commands of the skipper, come stealthily up the companion-way and look at him. Time was passing and action of some kind was imperative.

  “George,” he whispered, suddenly.

  “Sir,” said the watchman.

  “I want to speak to you,” said Fraser, mysteriously; “come down here.”

  George rose carefully from his seat, and lowering himself gingerly on board, crept on tiptoe to the galley after the mate.

  “Wait in here till I come back,” said the latter, in a thrilling whisper; “I’ve got something to show you. Don’t move, whatever happens.”

  His tones were so fearful, and he put so much emphasis on the last sentence, that the watchman burst hurriedly out of the galley.

  “I don’t like these mysteries,” he said, plainly.

  “There’s no mystery,” said the mate, pushing him back again; “something I don’t want the crew to see, that’s all. You’re the only man I can trust.”

  He closed the door and coughed, and a figure which had been lurking on the companion-ladder, slipped hastily on deck and clambered noiselessly onto the jetty. The mate clambered up beside it, and hurrying with it to the gate helped it over, and with much satisfaction heard it alight on the other side.

  “Good-night, Jack,” said Flower. “Don’t forget to look after Poppy.”

  “Good-night,” said the mate. “Write as soon as you’re fixed.”

  He walked back leisurely to the schooner and stood in some perplexity, eyeing the galley which contained the devoted George, He stood for so long that his victim lost all patience, and, sliding back the door, peered out and discovered him.

  “Have you got it?” he asked, softly.

  “No,” replied Fraser; “there isn’t anything. I was only making a fool of you, George. Good-night.”

  He walked aft, and stood at the companion watching the outraged George as he came slowly out of the galley and stared about him.

  “Good-night, George,” he repeated.

  The watchman made no reply to the greeting, but, breathing heavily, resumed his old seat on the post; and, folding his arms across his panting bosom, looked down with majestic scorn upon the schooner and all its contents. Long after the satisfied mate had forgotten the incident in sleep, he sat there striving to digest the insult of which he had been the victim, and to consider a painful and fitting retribution.

  CHAPTER IX.

  The mate awoke next morning to a full sense of the unpleasant task before him, and, after irritably giving orders for the removal of the tarpaulin from the skylight, a substitution of the ingenious cook’s for the drawn blinds ashore, sat down to a solitary breakfast and the composition of a telegram to Captain Barber. The first, a beautiful piece of prose, of which the key-note was resignation, contained two shillings’ worth of sympathy and fourpence-halfpenny worth of religion. It was too expensive as it stood, and boiled down, he was surprised to find that it became unfeeling to the verge of flippancy. Ultimately he embodied it in a letter, which he preceded by a telegram, breaking the sad news in as gentle a form as could be managed for one-and-three.

  The best part of the day was spent in relating the sad end of Captain Fred Flower to various enquirers. The deceased gentleman was a popular favourite, and clerks from the office and brother skippers came down in little knots to learn the full particulars, and to compare the accident with others in their experience. It reminded one skipper, who invariably took to drink when his feelings were touched, of the death of a little nephew from whooping-cough, and he was so moved over a picture he drew of the meeting of the two, that it took four men to get him off the schooner without violence.

  The mate sat for some time after tea striving to summon up sufficient courage for his journey to Poplar, and wondering whether it wouldn’t per
haps be better to communicate the news by letter. He even went so far as to get the writing materials ready, and then, remembering his promise to the skipper, put them away again and prepared for his visit. The crew who were on deck eyed him stolidly as he departed, and Joe made a remark to the cook, which that worthy drowned in a loud and troublesome cough.

  The Wheeler family were at home when he arrived, and received him with some surprise, Mrs. Wheeler, who was in her usual place on the sofa, shook hands with him in a genteel fashion, and calling his attention to a somewhat loudly attired young man of unpleasant appearance, who was making a late tea, introduced him as her son Bob.

  “Is Miss Tyrell in?” enquired Fraser, shaking his head as Mr. Wheeler dusted a small Wheeler off a chair and offered it to him.

  “She’s upstairs,” said Emma Wheeler; “shall I go and fetch her?”

  “No, I’ll go up to her,” said the mate quietly. “I think I’d better see her alone. I’ve got rather bad news for her.”

  “About the captain?” enquired Mrs. Wheeler, sharply.

  “Yes,” said Fraser, turning somewhat red. “Very bad news.”

  He fixed his eyes on the ground, and, in a spasmodic fashion, made perfect by practice, recited the disaster.

  “Pore feller,” said Mrs. Wheeler, when he had finished. “Pore feller, and cut down suddenly like that. I s’pose he ‘adn’t made any preparation for it?”

  “Not a bit,” said the mate, starting, “quite unprepared.”

  “You didn’t jump over after him?” suggested Miss Wheeler, softly.

  “I did not,” said the mate, firmly; whereupon Miss Wheeler, who was fond of penny romance, sighed and shook her head.

  “There’s that pore gal upstairs,” said Mrs. Wheeler, sorrowfully, “all innocent and happy, probably expecting him to come to-night and take her out. Emma’d better go up and break it to ‘er.”

  “I will,” said Fraser, shortly.

  “Better to let a woman do it,” said Mrs. Wheeler. “When our little Jemmy smashed his finger we sent Emma down to break it to his father and bring ‘im ‘ome. It was ever so long before she let you know the truth, wasn’t it, father?”

  “Made me think all sorts of things with her mysteries,” said the dutiful Mr. Wheeler, in triumphant corroboration. “First of all she made me think you was dead; then I thought you was all dead — give me such a turn they ‘ad to give me brandy to bring me round. When I found out it was only Jemmy’s finger, I was nearly off my ‘ed with joy.”

  “I’ll go and tell her,” interrupted Mr. Bob Wheeler, delicately, using the inside edge of the table-cloth as a serviette. “I can do it better than Emma can. What she wants is comforting; Emma would go and snivel all over her.”

  Mrs. Wheeler, raising her head from the sofa, regarded the speaker with looks of tender admiration, and the young man, after a lengthy glance in the small pier-glass ornamented with coloured paper, which stood on the mantel-piece, walked to the door.

  “You needn’t trouble,” said Fraser, slowly; “I’m going to tell her.”

  Mrs. Wheeler’s dull eyes snapped sharply. “She’s our lodger,” she said, aggressively.

  “Yes, but I’m going to tell her,” rejoined the mate; “the skipper told me to.”

  A startled silence was broken by Mr. Wheeler’s chair, which fell noisily.

  “I mean,” stammered Fraser, meeting the perturbed gaze of the dock-foreman, “that he told me once if anything happened to him that I was to break the news to Miss Tyrell. It’s been such a shock to me I hardly know what I am saying.”

  “Yes, you’ll go and frighten her,” said Bob Wheeler, endeavouring to push past him.

  The mate blocked the doorway.

  “Are you going to try to prevent me going out of a room in my own house?” blustered the young man.

  “Of course not,” said Fraser, and, giving way, ascended the stairs before him. Mr. Wheeler, junior, after a moment’s hesitation, turned back and, muttering threats under his breath, returned to the parlour.

  Miss Tyrell, who was sitting by the window reading, rose upon the mate’s entrance, and, observing that he was alone, evinced a little surprise as she shook hands with him. It was the one thing necessary to complete his discomfiture, and he stood before her in a state of guilty confusion.

  “Cap’n Flower couldn’t come,” he stammered.

  The girl said nothing, but with her dark eyes fixed upon his flushed face waited for him to continue.

  “It’s his misfortune that he couldn’t come,” con-tinued Fraser, jerkily.

  “Business, I suppose?” said the girl, after another wait. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Bad business,” replied Fraser. He sat down, and fancied he saw the way clear before him.

  “You’ve left him on the Foam, I suppose?” said Poppy, seeing that she was expected to speak.

  “No; farther back than that,” was the response.

  “Seabridge?” queried the girl, with an air of indifference.

  Fraser regarded her with an expression of studied sadness. “Not so far back as that,” he said, softly.

  Miss Tyrell manifested a slight restlessness. “Is it a sort of riddle?” she demanded.

  “No, it’s a tale,” replied Fraser, not without a secret admiration of his unsuspected powers of breaking bad news; “a tale with a bad ending.”

  The girl misunderstood him. “If you mean that Captain Flower doesn’t want to come here, and sent you to say so—” she began, with dignity.

  “He can’t come,” interrupted the mate, hastily.

  “Did he send you to tell me?” she asked

  Fraser shook his head mournfully. “He can’t come,” he said, in a low voice; “he had a bad foot — night before last he was standing on the ship’s side — when he lost his hold—”

  He broke off and eyed the girl nervously, “and fell overboard,” he concluded.

  Poppy Tyrell gave a faint cry and, springing to her feet, stood with her hand on the back of her chair regarding him. “Poor fellow,” she said, softly— “poor fellow.”

  She sat down again by the open window and nervously plucked at the leaves of a geranium. Her face was white and her dark eyes pitiful and tender. Fraser, watching her, cursed his resourceful skipper and hated himself.

  “It’s a terrible thing for his friends,” said Poppy, at length. “And for you,” said Fraser, respectfully.

  “I am very grieved,” said Poppy, quietly; “very shocked and very grieved.”

  “I have got strong hopes that he may have got picked up,” said Fraser, cheerfully; “very strong hopes, I threw him a life-belt, and though we got the boat out and pulled about, we couldn’t find either of them. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he has been picked up by some vessel outward bound. Stranger things have happened.”

  The girl shook her head. “You didn’t go overboard after him?” she asked, quietly.

  “I did not,” said the mate, who was somewhat tired of this tactless question; “I had to stand by the ship, and besides, he was a much better swimmer than I am — I did the best I could.”

  Miss Tyrell bowed her head in answer. “Yes,” she said, softly.

  “If there’s anything I can do,” said Fraser, awkwardly, “or be of use to you in any way, I hope you’ll let me know — Flower told me you were all alone, and—”

  He broke off suddenly as he saw the girl’s lips quiver. “I was very fond of my father,” she said, in extenuation of this weakness.

  “I suppose you’ve got some relatives?” said Fraser.

  The girl shook her head.

  “No cousins?” said Fraser, staring. He had twenty-three himself.

  “I have some in New Zealand,” said Poppy, considering. “If I could, I think I should go out there.”

  “And give up your business here?” enquired the mate, anxiously.

  “It gave me up,” said Poppy, with a little tremulous laugh. “I had a week’s pay instead of notice the day befo
re yesterday. If you know anybody who wants a clerk who spells ‘impatient’ with a ‘y’ and is off-hand when they are told of it, you might let me know.”

  The mate stared at her blankly. This was a far more serious case than Captain Flower’s. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “Try for another berth,” was the reply.

  “But if you don’t get it?”

  “I shall get it sooner or later,” said the girl.

  “But suppose you don’t get one for a long time?” suggested Fraser.

  “I must wait till I do,” said the girl, quietly.

  “You see,” continued the mate, twisting his hands, “it might be a long job, and I — I was wondering — what you would do in the meantime. I was wondering whether you could hold out.”

  “Hold out?” repeated Miss Tyrell, very coldly.

  “Whether you’ve got enough money,” blurted the mate.

  Miss Tyrell turned upon him a face in which there was now no lack of colour. “That is my business,” she said, stiffly.

  “Mine, too,” said Fraser, gazing steadily at the pretty picture of indignation before him. “I was Flower’s friend as well as his mate, and you are only a girl.” The indignation became impatience. “Little more than a child,” he murmured, scrutinising her.

  “I am quite big enough to mind my own business,” said Poppy, reverting to chilly politeness.

  “I wish you would promise me you won’t leave here or do anything until I have seen you again,’’ said Fraser, who was anxious to consult his captain on this new phase of affairs.

  “Certainly not,” said Miss Tyrell, rising and standing by her chair, “and thank you for calling.”

  Fraser rubbed his chin helplessly.

  “Thank you for calling,” repeated the girl, still standing.

  “That is telling me to go, I suppose?” said, Fraser, looking at her frankly. “I wish I knew how to talk to you. When I think of you being here all alone, without friends and without employment, it seems wrong for me to go and leave you here.”