Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “We were here first,” said Knight.

  “Early Rising Brigade,” explained Peplow, nodding.

  “Been established for weeks,” added Knight.

  Maloney grinned. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he inquired.

  “Because the number is limited to four,” said Knight, as Miss Seacombe, with a slight elevation of her head, passed out, followed by Miss Blake. “You get your man up at five and let him get his contortions over before we appear, there’s a good chap.”

  Maloney shook his head. “If you’d heard him when I mentioned six o’clock you wouldn’t ask it,” he replied.

  “Very well, we’ll keep to the other end of the deck,” said Knight restlessly. “What is more, we will stay in the smoke-room.”

  “I’ll put it to him,” said the doctor doubtfully. “I want to do all I can for you young people, but of course my patients stand first. Pope is an interesting case — a sort of overgrown rose-bush I’m going to prune down.”

  “I expect he is waiting for you — and the pruning-knife,” said Knight. “Don’t let us keep you. Duty first.”

  “Four’s company,” assented Maloney, with a nod; “five is — good company.”

  “I wish you’d get your rose-bush to do his exercises after we are all in bed,” said Knight, buttonholing him as he turned to go. “If the other people get to hear of them they’ll be getting up early too.”

  “We must take the risk,” said the other blandly. “Good thing for them if they do, but I don’t think they’d make a practice of it. Once would be enough.”

  The news, as Knight had foreseen, soon leaked out. For once Miss Mudge found the boatswain’s conversation interesting, his description of Mr. Pope’s skipping in particular being so well received that he began to entertain a high opinion of his powers as a raconteur.

  “You ought to see ‘im; you’d burst,” he said tenderly.

  Miss Mudge received the suggestion coldly. “Or else ‘ave a fit,” urged Mr. Tarn, eyeing her hopefully.

  “It wouldn’t amuse me,” said the girl in a superior voice. “And I hope I’m too much of a lady to get up at six in the morning to look at any gentleman that ever was born, especially (she shivered slightly) when he is not dressed to receive visitors.”

  “I don’t see no ‘arm in it,” said the disappointed boatswain. “Now suppose, for the sake of argyment, it was you instead o’ Mr.

  Pope, why every man Jack of us would—”

  He broke off suddenly as Miss Mudge, closing her book with a bang, gathered up her work and stalked off with her head in the air. He returned with a sigh to his duty of finding fault with men who had neglected theirs.

  It is sad to relate that Lady Penrose displayed less refinement in the matter than her maid. Indeed, Miss Mudge had no sooner informed her, with all due respect, of Mr. Pope’s early morning exercises than she was formulating plans for witnessing them.

  “Easiest thing in the world,” said Carstairs, to whom she confided her desire. “Get up at ten to six to-morrow morning, and lie in wait for him in the smoke-room or somewhere. I’ll get up too if I may.”

  “Do you think he would mind?” inquired Lady Penrose, with somewhat belated consideration.

  “Why should he?” said Carstairs. “Besides, he won’t know. We shall have the smoke-room all to ourselves at that hour, and not a soul will be any the wiser.”

  They had the smoke-room to themselves next morning for exactly two minutes, at the end of which time the door opened and admitted Miss Blake. A startled “Oh!” sufficiently expressed her opinion of the situation. Knight and Peplow, who followed with Miss Seacombe, maintained a discreet silence.

  A faint shadow flitted across the face of Lady Penrose. “Dear me,” she said, recovering with a little laugh, “you are up early!”

  “Healthy,” said Knight briefly.

  “How interesting!” murmured Lady Penrose. “Have you been taking this prescription for long?”

  “Not very,” said Knight suavely. “Not longer than you and Carstairs will, I hope.”

  “We came here to see Mr. Pope,” said Lady Penrose.

  Knight bowed. “We came on the same errand — four of us,” he added somewhat pointedly. “Pope — who is a sensitive plant — usually performs aft.”

  In the somewhat constrained silence that followed an odd pattering noise was heard outside, and, before anybody could close the door, Pope, who was doing a sort of frog exercise with bent knees and knuckles on the deck, passed in a bound. Maloney, who was following up behind, put his head in at the door and glared at them.

  “Is it a mothers’ meeting or what?” he inquired indignantly. “How do you think my patient is to preserve his equilibrium when he is exposed to this sort of thing?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t see us,” suggested Peplow.

  “He did,” said the doctor heatedly. “He has now disappeared below, and I would not like to repeat the language he is using. How is a medical man to do himself justice when he is interfered with like this?”

  “Do you think that this ship is reserved for you and your precious patient?” demanded Miss Seacombe with some heat.

  “That we are to stay-in bed until you tell us to get up?” added Miss Blake.

  “Perhaps you’d like to lock us in our cabins?” suggested Mr. Peplow.

  “Not you,” said the doctor significantly. “I should like to give you the same treatment that I’m giving Pope. Do you a lot of good.”

  “Same treatment as Pope? What for?” demanded the startled Mr. Peplow.

  “Anybody’ll tell you,” said the doctor darkly as he withdrew.

  “What does he mean?” inquired Mr. Peplow, looking around. “I’m perfectly healthy. I take all the exercise I can get. I’ve been up at six every morning for the last six—”

  “Six?” prompted Lady Penrose gently.

  “Hours,” continued Mr. Peplow, a trifle confused by the ferocity of Mr. Knight’s glance.

  “I’m sure you have done all you can do,” said Lady Penrose in a sympathetic voice. “I had no idea you were so energetic. You make me thoroughly ashamed of my laziness. I must try and follow your example.”

  “If it’s to see my patient — my late patient — you want to get up early,” said Maloney, appearing again, “you can give up the idea.”

  “Late patient!” repeated Carstairs, with a start.

  The doctor nodded. “He is in the steward’s pantry,” he said gloomily. “Markham has taken the case out of my hands, and is treating it with slices of cold ham.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  “So far so good,” said Lady Penrose, with a half-sigh. “It really seems that we are going to sail round the world without meeting a single adventure.”

  “Do you want one?” inquired Carstairs.

  “A little one, perhaps,” was the reply.” Just a little thrill of some sort; something a little out of the common of everyday life. A shipwrecked crew to rescue, or something of that sort. Fancy being out in a little boat in this darkness alone with the stars and the water!”

  “Deprived of food and drink, and Pope’s version of the ‘Bay of Biscay,’” said Carstairs, as heroic bellowings and the tinkle of a piano sounded from the drawing-room.

  “He is quite himself again now,” said Lady Penrose. “He says that he dismissed his doctor just in time.”

  “Awkward if he has to call him in again,” said Carstairs, with a smile. “Maloney warns him that purgatory would be easy compared with his next course of treatment. I’m afraid he has an idea that some of us are too self indulgent. Yesterday he accused Knight of being too soft, and they had a turn with the gloves before breakfast this morning to settle it.”

  “I heard of it,” said Lady Penrose dryly. “Mr. Knight does most useless things well.”

  “Maloney would agree with you about the boxing, at any rate,” replied Carstairs. “He is still sore about it, but what hurt him more than anything was that, after giving him a thorough dusting, Knig
ht admitted the charge of softness and asked for a tonic.”

  His companion gave a faint laugh. “It might have done Mr. Knight a little good to be defeated,” she remarked.

  Carstairs nodded. “One or two other altruists took the same view,” he said slowly. “They brought up one of the firemen, who rather fancies himself in that line, and the result is that they are a man short in the stoke-hole to-day. The skipper complained to me about it. He seemed most annoyed because he hadn’t been called up to see it. ‘Stop it,’ he said, but I knew what he meant.”

  “You men are all alike,” said Lady Penrose, shrugging her shoulders. “It is horrible.”

  “Shocking,” said Carstairs; “but I agree with you that it might do Knight good to meet his master at the game. Whom could we find?”

  Lady Penrose leaned back, considering. “Captain Tollhurst,” she suggested at last.

  “Tollhurst!” exclaimed Carstairs, with surprise. “Do you really think he could stand up to Knight?”

  “No,” was the reply.

  “Well, then—”

  “Might do Captain Tollhurst good,” said Lady Penrose, maintaining her gravity by an effort.

  Carstairs’ eyes twinkled safely in the darkness. “You want to do good to so many people,” he murmured. “The saintly side of your character is uppermost to-night.”

  “How dull for you!” said Lady Penrose. “I’m so sorry. Is Mr. Pope really going to sing ‘Tom Bowling’?” she added, as the opening chords of the piano and a modest cough were heard.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Carstairs.

  They sat almost in silence until the song was finished, two remarks of his being first suspended and then entirely lost owing to the interest occasioned by the efforts of the vocalist to reach his top-note.

  “Pity he never married,” said Lady Penrose as the song ended amid general applause; “a good wife would burn the piano if she couldn’t stop him any other way. I believe men remain single to avoid criticism.”

  “There are other reasons,” said Carstairs musingly. “You haven’t considered man’s shyness and his general sense of unworthiness. If it’s a genuine case he usually puts his idol on a pedestal; she can’t climb down for fear of making a false step, and he is afraid to reach up to help her.”

  “But if they do happen to marry,” inquired Lady Penrose, “what becomes of the pedestal?”

  “They put the first-born on it,” replied Carstairs. “He generally wears it out.”

  “You must have devoted a lot of time to the subject,” remarked Lady Penrose. “I believe you are the sort of man that would build an Eiffel Tower for the lady. You would end by making her giddy.”

  “How easy it is to be misunderstood,” sighed Carstairs. “As a matter of fact, the methods of certain savage races I have read about appeal to me much more strongly. They give the adored one a tap over the head with a club and the thing is done.”

  “Other men, other manners,” said Lady Penrose, “but it comes to much the same thing in the end. I have no doubt that the maidens of the tribe make the clubs. You ought to go out there, Mr. Carstairs. I am sure the output would go up.”

  Carstairs hesitated. “If you think that,” he said at last, “I will remain here.”

  A dark figure stepped out of the lighted doorway and came towards them.

  “Coming out of the light, I can hardly see where I am,” said Tollhurst, dropping into a chair next to Lady Penrose. “What a peaceful night!”

  “It doesn’t suit Lady Penrose,” said Carstairs; “she has been sighing for adventure.”

  The captain laughed gently. “Better without them,” he returned. “What could be better than this? And, after all, things are always possible at sea. There is always a chance of running into a submerged wreck. I have had that experience once, and I can assure you I don’t want it again. Or fire; think of a fire at sea, and putting off in small boats hundreds of miles from the nearest land!”

  “Have you had that experience, too?” inquired Lady Penrose.

  The captain wrestled fiercely with the temptation. “No,” he said at last; and, in view of his questioner’s comments, felt sure that he had chosen the better part.

  “I had an alarm of fire once,” he said, breaking a somewhat prolonged silence. “Ten years ago in an old barque bound for Archangel. Nasty while it lasted, but we got it under in three or four hours.”

  “Interesting life,” murmured Lady Penrose. “You ought to write a book, Captain Tollhurst.”

  The captain laughed his gentle laugh again. “No good,” he said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t write a line. Fellows who write the best books are the fellows who have never seen anything.”

  “I think you could write a splendid book,” declared Lady Penrose with warmth.

  “Awfully good of you,” said the unconscious captain. “Wish I could. Should ask permission to dedicate it to you.”

  Lady Penrose murmured her acknowledgments.

  “Happenings in books are well enough,” said Carstairs; “that is where I prefer to enjoy mine.”

  “Every man to his trade,” said the captain indulgently. “It is just a matter of use. I have been knocking about since my boyhood. Soon after I left the Army I was big-game hunting in Africa, and I didn’t speak to a white man for nine months.”

  “Poor things!” said Lady Penrose. “I mean the animals you killed in that time,” she added, as the captain moved uneasily. “You must have accounted for a lot.”

  “I didn’t miss many,” said the captain, lighting a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair and, becoming reminiscent, related a few of the more exciting episodes. Lightly and easily he skipped from peril to peril, until at last Lady Penrose, with a sharp intake of breath that might have been misunderstood for sympathy, rose suddenly and bade her companions “good night.”

  “I’m afraid perhaps I was a little bit too realistic,” said Tollhurst, as she disappeared below. “Well, I’m off too. Good night.” Carstairs nodded and, lighting another cigarette, sat for some time in thought. His guests came out of the drawing-room in twos and threes and, after loitering in little groups, dispersed to bed. Knight and Peplow, after leaning against the side opposite him for some time, crossed over and took the two empty chairs.

  “Nothing on his conscience,” remarked Knight presently; “quite unperturbed.”

  “Quite,” said Peplow dutifully.

  “He seems to be asleep,” said Knight, after waiting for some time. “He inveigles us on to this beastly little ship of his and then shuts his eyes to things.”

  “Perhaps he is asleep,” remarked the useful Mr. Peplow.

  “Sleepy,” said Carstairs, with a yawn; “but don’t mind me, just go on with your little chat. I am going to turn in soon.”

  “Not till we’ve done with you,” said Knight. “We consider that we were lured on to this plutocratic craft under false pretences, and we want to know what you are going to do about it. When we accepted your invitation we thought that there would be a certain amount of ‘sitting-out,’ so to speak, and instead of that it’s like living in the midst of a public meeting.”

  “We could leave you behind at Melbourne,” suggested Carstairs.

  “You’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick,” said Knight; “we don’t want to be left behind, but if you could arrange to leave some of the others it would be just the thing. It only wants a little thinking out.”

  “I’ll go and think it over now,” said Carstairs, rising. “I can think better in bed. Good night.”

  “We haven’t finished yet,” said Knight. “Freddie has got a lot to say. Go on, Freddie; tell him how we agreed to do all in our power to help him.”

  “Help me!” repeated Carstairs, with a slight laugh. “What are you talking about?”

  ‘You know,” said Knight significantly. “He knows, doesn’t he, Freddie?”

  Mr. Peplow swallowed. “Yes,” he replied. “So — so—”

  “Yes?” said Carstairs, a
fter a pause.

  “So does everybody else,” finished Mr. Peplow, with an effort.

  “And you have our full consent and blessing,” added Knight. “In fact, we think it might be a good thing for both of us; anyway, things couldn’t be much worse.”

  “I haven’t the least idea what you are talking about,” said Carstairs somewhat stiffly.

  “That’s all right, then,” said Knight; “but, if you really want to know, ask Miss Flack, or Mrs. Jardine, or Talwyn, or —

  Not now,” he added, as Carstairs walked away; “they’re all in bed.”

  “Stuffy!” said Peplow sagely as Carstairs vanished.

  “So am I,” said his friend. “Come along. Let’s have a walk up and down; for once we are alone. Why! Halloa, Biggs!”

  “Good evening, sir,” said Biggs. “I just came for’ard for a blow before turning in.”

  “And I am just going to have a whisky and soda before doing the same. It’s you that ought to have it, really — after that hot engine-room.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the chauffeur. “If there isn’t enough to go round, I shall watch you drink it with pleasure.”

  They entered the smoke-room just as Markham was having a final look round. At a word from Knight he busied himself with the whisky and a siphon.

  “Turned a bit pale, hasn’t it?” murmured Mr. Biggs, as he took the glass from his old enemy;” but perhaps it is the motion of the ship.”

  “Colour it yourself,” said Knight. “I suppose it’s in order to give you a drink,” he added, as the chauffeur complied. “I mean, the skipper wouldn’t object?”

  “Just what I was wondering, sir,” said Mr. Biggs cheerfully. “I expect he would; it seems to me it’s what skippers are for — to object to things. But even an admiral couldn’t help himself now. It’s gone.”

  He said good night, and with a wink at the butler, which elicited only an icy stare in response, went off to his quarters.

  Mr. Peplow’s gloom, never of a very lasting nature, passed with the night. Any lingering trace was dispelled by the fresh morning air, with its appetising blend of grilled bacon and coffee, and the news that Mrs. Jardine was confined to her cabin with one of her traditional headaches — a headache that had been in the family for generations, and was rumoured to have been a source of considerable trouble to the Plantagenets.