As they declined to trust the cook to walk, he was carried into the kitchen, where the woman, leaving him for a moment, struck a match and hastily lit a candle. She then opened a drawer and, to the cook’s horror, began pulling out about twenty fathoms of clothes-line.
“The best way and the safest is to tie him in a chair,” said the neighbor. “I remember my gran’-father used to tell a tale of how they served a highwayman that way once.”
“That would be best, I think,” said the woman pondering. “He’d be more comfortable in a chair, though I’m sure he don’t deserve it.”
They raised the exhausted cook, and placing him in a stout oak chair, lashed him to it until he could scarcely breathe.
“After my gran’father had tied the highwayman in the chair, he gave him a crack on the head with a stick,” said the neighbor, regarding the cook thoughtfully.
“They was very brutal in those times,” said the cook, before anybody else could speak.
“Just to keep him quiet like,” said the neighbor, somewhat chilled by the silence of the other two.
“I think he’ll do as he is,” said the owner of the fowls, carefully feeling the prisoner’s bonds. “If you’ll come in in the morning, Pettit, we’ll borrow a cart an’ take him over to Winton. I expect there’s a lot of things against him.”
“I expect there is,” said Pettit, as the cook shuddered. “Well, good-night.”
He returned to his house, and the couple, after carefully inspecting the cook again, and warning him of the consequences if he moved, blew out the candle and returned to their interrupted slumbers.
For a long time the unfortunate cook sat in a state of dreary apathy, wondering vaguely at the ease with which he had passed from crime to crime, and trying to estimate how much he should get for each. A cricket sang from the hearthstone, and a mouse squeaked upon the floor. Worn out with fatigue and trouble, he at length fell asleep.
He awoke suddenly and tried to leap out of his bunk on to the floor and hop on one leg as a specific for the cramp. Then, as he realized his position, he strove madly to rise and straighten the afflicted limb. He was so far successful that he managed to stand, and in the fantastic appearance of a human snail, to shuffle slowly round the kitchen. At first he thought only of the cramp, but after that had yielded to treatment a wild idea of escape occurred to him. Still bowed with the chair, he made his way to the door, and, after two or three attempts, got the latch in his mouth and opened it. Within five minutes he had shuffled his way through the garden gate, which was fortunately open, and reached the road.
The exertion was so laborious that he sat down again upon his portable seat and reckoned up his chances. Fear lent him wings, though of a very elementary type, and as soon as he judged he was out of earshot he backed up against a tree and vigorously banged the chair against it.
He shed one cracked hind leg in this way, and the next time he sat down had to perform feats of balancing not unworthy of Blondin himself.
Until day broke did this persecuted man toil painfully along with the chair, and the sun rose and found him sitting carefully in the middle of the road, faintly anathematizing Captain Gething and everything connected with him. He was startled by the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching him, and, being unable to turn his head, he rose painfully to his feet and faced about bodily.
The new-comer stopped abruptly, and, gazing in astonishment at the extraordinary combination of man and chair before him, retired a few paces in disorder. At a little distance he had mistaken the cook for a lover of nature, communing with it at his ease; now he was undecided whether it was a monstrosity or an apparition.
“Mornin’, mate,” said the cook in a weary voice.
“Morning,” said the man, backing still more.
“I ‘spose,” said the cook, trying to smile cheerfully, “you’re surprised to see me like this?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it afore,” said the man guardedly.
“I don’t s’pose you ‘ave,” said the cook. “I’m the only man in England that can do it.”
The man said he could quite believe it.
“I’m doin’ it for a bet,” said the cook.
“Oh-h,” said the man, his countenance clearing, “a bet. I thought you were mad. How much is it?”
“Fifty pounds,” said the cook. “I’ve come all the way from London like this.”
“Well, I’m blest!” said the man. “What won’t they think of next! Got much farther to go?”
“Oakville,” said the cook, mentioning a place he had heard of in his wanderings. “At least I was, but I find it’s too much for me. Would you mind doing me the favor of cutting this line?”
“No, no,” said the other reproachfully, “don’t give up now. Why, it’s only another seventeen miles.”
“I must give it up,” said the cook, with a sad smile.
“Don’t be beat,” said the man warmly. “Keep your ‘art up, and you’ll be as pleased as Punch presently to think how near you was losing.”
“Cut it off,” said the cook, trembling with impatience; “I’ve earned forty pounds of it by coming so far. If you cut it off I’ll send you ten of it.”
The man hesitated while an inborn love of sport struggled with his greed.
“I’ve got a wife and family,” he said at last in extenuation, and taking out a clasp-knife, steadied the cook with one hand while he severed his bonds with the other.
“God bless you, mate!” said the cook, trying to straighten his bowed back as the chair fell to the ground.
“My name’s Jack Thompson,” said his benefactor. “Jack Thompson, Winchgate ‘ll find me.”
“I’ll make it twelve pounds,” said the grateful cook, “and you can have the chair.”
He shook him by the hand, and, freed from his burden, stepped out on his return journey, while his innocent accomplice, shouldering the chair, went back to learn from the rightful owner a few hard truths about his mental capacity.
Not knowing how much start he would have, the cook, despite his hunger and fatigue, pushed on with all the speed of which he was capable. After an hour’s journey he ventured to ask the direction of an embryo ploughman, and wheedled out of him a small, a very small, portion of his breakfast. From the top of the next hill he caught a glimpse of the sea, and taking care to keep this friend of his youth in sight, felt his way along by it to Brittlesea. At midday he begged some broken victuals from a gamekeeper’s cottage, and with renewed vigor resumed his journey, and at ten o’clock that night staggered on to Brittlesea quay and made his way cautiously to the ship. There was nobody on deck, but a light burned in the foc’sle, and after a careful peep below he descended. Henry, who was playing, a losing game of draughts with Sam, looked up with a start, and overturned the board.
“Lord love us, cookie!” said Sam, “where ‘ave you been?”
The cook straightened up, smiling faintly, and gave a wave of his hand which took in all the points of the compass. “Everywhere,” he said wearily.
“You’ve been on the spree,” said Sam, regarding him severely.
“Spree!” said the cook with expression. “Spree!”
His feelings choked him, and after a feeble attempt to translate them into words, he abandoned the attempt, and turning a deaf ear to Sam’s appeal for information, rolled into his bunk and fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER V.
They got under way at four o’clock next morn-ing, and woke the cook up to assist at 3.30. At 3.45 they woke him again, and at 3.50 dragged him from his bunk and tried to arouse him to a sense of his duties. The cook, with his eyes still closed, crawled back again the moment they left him, and though they had him out twice after that, he went back in the same somnambulistic state and resumed his slumbers.
Brittlesea was thirty miles astern when he at length awoke and went on deck, and the schooner was scudding along under a stiff breeze. It was a breeze such as the mate loved, and his face was serene and peaceful until his g
aze fell upon the shrinking figure of the cook as it glided softly into the galley.
“Cook,” he roared, “come here, you skulking rascal! Where’ve you been all this time?”
“I’ve been in trouble, sir,” said the cook humbly; “you’ll ‘ardly believe the trouble I’ve been in through trying to do the skipper a kindness.”
“Don’t you come none of that with me,” roared the mate warningly. “Where’ve you been? Come, out with it!”
The cook, still somewhat weak from his adventures, leaned against the companion, and with much dramatic gesture began his story. As it proceeded the mate’s breath came thick and fast, his color rose, and he became erratic in his steering. Flattered by these symptoms of concern, the cook continued.
“That’ll do,” said the mate at last.
“I ain’t got to the worst of it yet, sir,” said the cook.
“If you stand there lying to me for another moment I’ll break your neck,” said the mate violently. “You’ve had two days on the drink, that’s what you’ve had.”
“It’s gawspel truth, sir,” said the cook solemnly.
“You wait till the skipper turns out,” said the other, shaking his fist at him. “If it wasn’t for leaving the wheel I’d set about you myself, my lad.”
To the cook’s indignation the skipper shared the opinions of the mate concerning his story, and in a most abrupt and unfeeling fashion stopped two days’ pay. Down in the foc’sle he fared no better, the crew’s honest tribute of amazement to his powers of untruthful narrative passing all bounds of decorum.
Their incredulity was a source of great grief to him. He had pictured himself posing as a daredevil, and he went about his duties with a chastened mien, mistaken by the men, experts in such matters, for the reaction after a drinking bout.
They passed Northfleet on their way up to Rotherhithe, where they went to discharge a small general cargo, the cook’s behavior every time a police-boat passed them coming in for much scornful censure. It was some hours before he would go ashore, and when at last he did venture, it was with the reckless air of a Robert Macaire and a Dick Turpin rolled into one.
It was a damp, cheerless morning when they got to Northfleet again. It had been raining heavily in the night, and black clouds still hung low over the river. They were not to load until the next day, and after dinner Henry and the mate exchanged a sympathetic smile as the skipper took up his cap and went ashore.
He walked into Gravesend, and taking no notice of the rain, which was falling steadily, strolled idly about looking into the shop windows. He had a romantic idea that he might meet Annis Gething there. It was half-holiday at the school, and it was the most natural thing in the world that she should be sauntering about Gravesend in the pouring rain. At about four o’clock, being fairly wet through, he saw the fallacy of the idea strongly, and in a disconsolate fashion, after one glass at a convenient tavern, turned to go back to the ship. A little way along the road he stepped aside to allow a girl to pass, glancing — by mere force of habit — beneath her umbrella as he did so. Then he started back guiltily as his eyes met those of Miss Gething. She half stopped.
“Good-afternoon,” said the skipper awkwardly.
“Good-afternoon,” said she.
“Nasty weather,” said the skipper, standing respectfully three yards off.
“Wretched,” said Miss Gething. “Ugh!”
“I don’t mind it much myself,” said the skipper.
“You must be very wet,” said Miss Gething. “You are going to see mother, I suppose?”
“I did think of doing so,” said the skipper with joyous untruthfulness.
“I’m going to do a little shopping,” said she. “Good-bye.”
She nodded brightly, and the skipper, raising his cap, turned on his heel and set off to pay the call. He turned his head several times as he went, but Miss Gething, who knew more of men than the skipper knew of women, did not turn hers.
A quarter of an hour’s brisk walk brought him to the house, and he shook the rain from his cap as he knocked gently at the door. It was opened by a man, who, standing with his hand on the lock regarded him inquiringly.
“Mrs. Gething in?” asked the skipper.
“No, she’s not just at present,” said the other.
“I’ll come in and wait for her if you don’t mind,” said the skipper, speaking on the spur of the moment.
The other hesitated, and then standing aside to allow him to pass, closed the door, and they entered the small parlor together. The skipper, with a courage which surprised himself, took a chair uninvited and began to wipe his trousers with his handkerchief.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Gething will be a long time,” said the other man at last.
“I’ll give her a few minutes,” said the skipper, who would have sat there a week with pleasure.
He rubbed his moustache and beard with his handkerchief and put them into shape with his fingers. The other man regarded these operations with an unfavorable eye, and watched him uneasily.
“No message you could leave for Mrs. Gething,” he suggested, after a quarter of an hour.
The skipper shook his head, and in his turn took stock of the other man — a good-looking fellow with a waxed black moustache, a light silk tie and a massive scarf-pin. A frock-coat hung about his knees, and shoes of the lightest brown called attention to his small feet.
Another quarter of an hour passed. “Wet day,” said the skipper, by way of starting the conversation again.
The other assented, and remarked that he thought it very probable that the wet would prevent Mrs. Gething from returning, whereupon conversation languished until the sound of hurried footsteps outside, and the turning of a key in the latch, made them both look up.
“Here she is,” said the skipper softly.
The other man said nothing, feeling possibly that the entrance of Miss Gething was sufficient refutation of the statement. He was also in anything but a talkative mood.
“Mother not in?” said Miss Gething in surprise as she entered the room. “How good of you to wait, captain.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” said the skipper, who really thought that there was no credit due to him for his action.
She shook hands with the other man and smiled at the skipper. “I’ve seen you before,” she said, “and it is good of you to wait. I’m sure you’re very wet. This is Mr. Glover, Captain Wilson.”
The two gentlemen glared their acknowledgments, and the skipper, with a sinking at his heart, began to feel in the way. Miss Gething, after going outside to remove her hat and jacket, came in smiling pleasantly, and conversation became general, the two men using her as a sort of human telephone through which to transmit scanty ideas.
“Half-past five,” said Miss Gething suddenly. “Have you got to catch the 6.30 train, Mr. Glover?”
“Must,” said Mr. Glover dismally. “Business, you know,” he added resignedly.
“You’ll take a cup of tea before you go?” said Annis.
She was standing before Mr. Glover as she spoke, and the skipper, who had been feeling more and more in the way, rose and murmured that he must go. His amazement when Miss Gething twisted her pretty face into a warning scowl and shook her head at him, was so great that Mr. Glover turned suddenly to see the cause of it.
“You’ll take a cup, too, captain?” said Miss Gething with a polite smile.
“Thank you,” said the skipper, resuming his seat. His ideas were in a whirl, and he sat silent as the girl deftly set the tea-table and took her seat before the tray.
“Quite a tea-party,” she said brightly. “One piece of sugar, Mr. Glover?”
“Two,” said the gentleman in an injured voice.
She looked inquiringly at the skipper with the sugar-tongs poised.
“I’ll leave it to you,” said he confusedly. Mr. Glover smiled contemptuously, and raised his eye-brows a little. Miss Gething dropped in one piece and handed him the cup.
“Sometimes
I take one piece, sometimes two or three,” said the skipper, trying to explain away his foolishness. “I’m not particular.”
“You must be of an easy-going nature,” said Miss Gething indulgently.
“Don’t know his own mind, I should think,” said Mr. Glover rudely.
“I know it about other things,” said the skipper.
The tone in which this remark was made set Mr. Glover wondering darkly what the other things were. Neither man was disposed to be talkative, and tea would have proceeded in sombre silence but for the hostess. At ten minutes past six Mr. Glover rose and with great unwillingness said he must go.
“It isn’t raining much now,” said Miss Gething encouragingly. Mr. Glover went to the hall, and taking his hat and umbrella, shook hands with her. Then he came to the door again, and looked at the skipper. “Going my way?” he inquired with great affability, considering.
“Er — no,” said the other.
Mr. Glover put on his hat with a bang, and with a curt nod followed Miss Gething to the door and departed.
“I think he’ll catch the train all right,” said the skipper, as Miss Gething watched his feverish haste from the window.
“I hope so,” said she.
“I’m sorry your mother wasn’t in,” said the skipper, breaking a long pause.
“Yes, it has been dull for you, I’m afraid,” said the girl.
The skipper sighed wearily and wondered whether Mr. Glover was such an adept at silly remarks as he appeared to be.
“Has he got far to go?” he inquired, referring to Mr. Glover.
“London,” said Annis briefly.
She stood at the window for some time, gazing up the road with what appeared to be an expression of anxious solicitude.
“Well, I suppose I must be going,” said the skipper, who thought he ought not to stay any longer.
Annis stood aside as he rose, and followed him slowly to the hall.
“I wish we had an umbrella to lend you,” she said, looking round.
“Oh, that’ll be all right,” said the skipper. “I’m nearly dry now.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 101
