Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Cap’n’s on deck, I s’pose?” said the mate, preparing to resume negotiations where they were broken off the night before. “I hope you feel better than you did last night.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said she.

  “You’ll make a good sailor in time,” said the mate.

  “I hope not,” said Miss Alsen, who thought it time to quell a gleam of peculiar tenderness plainly apparent in the mate’s eyes. “I shouldn’t like to be a sailor even if I were a man.”

  “Why not?” inquired the other.

  “I don’t know,” said the girl meditatively; “but sailors are generally such scrubby little men, aren’t they?”

  “SCUBBY?” repeated the mate, in a dazed voice.

  “I’d sooner be a soldier,” she continued; “I like soldiers — they’re so manly. I wish there was one here now.”

  “What for?” inquired the mate, in the manner of a sulky schoolboy.

  “If there was a man like that here now,” said Miss Alsen thoughtfully, “I’d dare him to mustard old Towson’s nose.”

  “Do what?” inquired the astonished mate.

  “Mustard old Towson’s nose,” said Miss Alsen, glancing lightly from the cruet-stand to the portrait.

  The infatuated man hesitated a moment, and then, reaching over to the cruet, took out the spoon, and with a pale, determined face, indignantly daubed the classic features of the provision dealer. His indignation was not lessened by the behaviour of the temptress, who, instead of fawning upon him for his bravery, crammed her handkerchief to her mouth and giggled foolishly.

  “Where’s father,” she said suddenly, as a step sounded above. “Oh, you will get it!”

  She rose from her seat, and, standing aside to let her father pass, went on deck. The skipper sank on to a locker, and, raising the tea-pot, poured himself out a cup of tea, which he afterwards decanted into a saucer. He had just raised it to his lips, when he saw something over the rim of it which made him put it down again untasted, and stare blankly at the mantel-piece.

  “Who the — what the — who the devil’s done this?” he inquired in a strangulated voice, as he rose and regarded the portrait.

  “I did,” said the mate.

  “You did?” roared the other. “You? What for?”

  “I don’t know,” said the mate awkwardly. “Something seemed to come over me all of a sudden, and I felt as though I MUST do it.”

  “But what for? Where’s the sense of it?” said the skipper.

  The mate shook his head sheepishly.

  “But what did you want to do such a monkey-trick FOR?” roared the skipper.

  “I don’t know,” said the mate doggedly; “but it’s done, ain’t it? and it’s no good talking about it.”

  The skipper looked at him in wrathful perplexity. “You’d better have advice when we get to port, Jack,” he said at length; “the last few weeks I’ve noticed you’ve been a bit strange in your manner. You go an’ show that ‘ed of yours to a doctor.”

  The mate grunted, and went on deck for sympathy, but, finding Miss Alsen in a mood far removed from sentiment, and not at all grateful, drew off whistling. Matters were in this state when the skipper appeared, wiping his mouth.

  “I’ve put another portrait on the mantel-piece, Jack,” he said menacingly; “it’s the only other one I’ve got, an’ I wish you to understand that if that only smells mustard, there’ll be such a row in this ‘ere ship that you won’t be able to ‘ear yourself speak for the noise.”

  He moved off with dignity as his daughter, who had overheard the remark, came sidling up to the mate and smiled on him agreeably.

  “He’s put another portrait there,” she said softly.

  “You’ll find the mustard-pot in the cruet,” said the mate coldly.

  Miss Alsen turned and watched her father as he went forward, and then, to the mate’s surprise, went below without another word. A prey to curiosity, but too proud to make any overture, he compromised matters by going and standing near the companion.

  “Mate!” said a stealthy whisper at the foot of the ladder.

  The mate gazed calmly out to sea.

  “Jack!” said the girl again, in a lower whisper than before.

  The mate went hot all over, and at once descended. He found Miss Alsen, her eyes sparkling, with the mustard-pot in her left hand and the spoon in her right, executing a war-dance in front of the second portrait.

  “Don’t do it,” said the mate, in alarm.

  “Why not?” she inquired, going within an inch of it.

  “He’ll think it’s me,” said the mate.

  “That’s why I called you down here,” said she; “you don’t think I wanted you, do you?”

  “You put that spoon down,” said the mate, who was by no means desirous of another interview with the skipper.

  “Shan’t!” said Miss Alsen.

  The mate sprang at her, but she dodged round the table. He leaned over, and, catching her by the left arm, drew her towards him; then, with her flushed, laughing face close to his, he forgot everything else, and kissed her.

  “Oh!” said Hetty indignantly.

  “Will you give it to me now?” said the mate, trembling at his boldness.

  “Take it,” said she. She leaned across the table, and, as the mate advanced, dabbed viciously at him with the spoon. Then she suddenly dropped both articles on the table and moved away, as the mate, startled by a footstep at the door, turned a flushed visage, ornamented with three streaks of mustard, on to the dumbfounded skipper.

  “Sakes alive!” said that astonished mariner, as soon as he could speak; “if he ain’t a-mustarding his own face now — I never ‘eard of such a thing in all my life. Don’t go near ‘im, Hetty. Jack!”

  “Well,” said the mate, wiping his smarting face with his handkerchief.

  “You’ve never been took like this before?” queried the skipper anxiously.

  “O’course not,” said the mortified mate.

  “Don’t you say o’course not to me,” said the other warmly, “after behaving like this. A straight weskit’s what you want. I’ll go an’ see old Ben about it. He’s got an uncle in a ‘sylum. You come up too, my girl.”

  He went in search of Ben, oblivious of the fact that his daughter, instead of following him, came no farther than the door, where she stood and regarded her victim compassionately.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said “Does it smart?”

  “A little,” said the mate; “don’t you trouble about me.”

  “You see what you get for behaving badly,” said Miss Alsen judicially.

  “It’s worth it,” said the mate, brightening.

  “I’m afraid it’ll blister,” said she. She crossed over to him, and putting her head on one side, eyed the traces wisely. “Three marks,” she said.

  “I only had one,” suggested the mate.

  “One what?” enquired Hetty.

  “Those,” said the mate.

  In full view of the horrified skipper, who was cautiously peeping at the supposed lunatic through the skylight, he kissed her again.

  “You can go away, Ben,” said the skipper huskily to the expert. “D’ye hear, you can go AWAY, and not a word about this, mind.”

  The expert went away grumbling, and the father, after another glance, which showed him his daughter nestling comfortably on the mate’s right shoulder, stole away and brooded darkly over this crowning complication. An ordinary man would have run down and interrupted them; the master of the Jessica thought he could attain his ends more certainly by diplomacy, and so careful was his demeanour that the couple in the cabin had no idea that they had been observed — the mate listening calmly to a lecture on incipient idiocy which the skipper thought it advisable to bestow.

  Until the mid-day meal on the day following he made no sign. If anything he was even more affable than usual, though his wrath rose at the glances which were being exchanged across the table.

  “By the way, Jack,” he
said at length, “what’s become of Kitty Loney?”

  “Who?” inquired the mate. “Who’s Kitty Loney?”

  It was now the skipper’s turn to stare, and he did it admirably.

  “Kitty Loney,” he said in surprise, “the little girl you are going to marry.”

  “Who are you getting at?” said the mate, going scarlet as he met the gaze opposite.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said the skipper with dignity. “I’m allooding to Kitty Loney, the little girl in the red hat and white feathers you introduced to me as your future.”

  The mate sank back in his seat, and regarded him with open-mouthed, horrified astonishment.

  “You don’t mean to say you’ve chucked ‘er,” pursued the heartless skipper, “after getting an advance from me to buy the ring with, too? Didn’t you buy the ring with the money?”

  “No,” said the mate, “I — oh, no — of course — what on earth are you talking about?”

  The skipper rose from his seat and regarded him sorrowfully but severely. “I’m sorry, Jack,” he said stiffly, “if I’ve said anything to annoy you, or anyway hurt your feelings. O’ course it’s your business, not mine. P’raps you’ll say you never heard o’ Kitty Loney?”

  “I do say so,” said the bewildered mate; “I do say so.”

  The skipper eyed him sternly, and without another word left the cabin. “If she’s like her mother,” he said to himself, chuckling as he went up the companion-ladder, “I think that’ll do.”

  There was an awkward pause after his departure. “I’m sure I don’t know what you must think of me,” said the mate at length, “but I don’t know what your father’s talking about.”

  “I don’t think anything,” said Hetty calmly. “Pass the potatoes, please.”

  “I suppose it’s a joke of his,” said the mate, complying.

  “And the salt,” said she; “thank you.”

  “But you don’t believe it?” said the mate pathetically.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” said the girl calmly. “What does it matter whether I do or not?”

  “It matters a great deal,” said the mate gloomily. “It’s life or death to me.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” said Hetty. “She won’t know of your foolishness. I won’t tell her.”

  “I tell you,” said the mate desperately, “there never was a Kitty Loney. What do you think of that?”

  “I think you are very mean,” said the girl scornfully; “don’t talk to me any more, please.”

  “Just as you like,” said the mate, beginning to lose his temper.

  He pushed his plate from him and departed, while the girl, angry and resentful, put the potatoes back as being too floury for consumption in the circumstances.

  For the remainder of the passage she treated him with a politeness and good humour through which he strove in vain to break. To her surprise her father made no objection, at the end of the voyage, when she coaxingly suggested going back by train; and the mate, as they sat at dummy-whist on the evening before her departure, tried in vain to discuss the journey in an unconcerned fashion.

  “It’ll be a long journey,” said Hetty, who still liked him well enough to make him smart a bit, “What’s trumps?”

  “You’ll be all right,” said her father. “Spades.”

  He won for the third time that evening, and, feeling wonderfully well satisfied with the way in which he had played his cards generally, could not resist another gibe at the crestfallen mate.

  “You’ll have to give up playing cards and all that sort o’ thing when you’re married, Jack,” said he.

  “Ay, ay,” said the mate recklessly, “Kitty don’t like cards.”

  “I thought there was no Kitty,” said the girl, looking up, scornfully.

  “She don’t like cards,” repeated the mate. “Lord, what a spree we had. Cap’n, when we went to the Crystal Palace with her that night.”

  “Ay, that we did,” said the skipper.

  “Remember the roundabouts?” said the mate.

  “I do,” said the skipper merrily. “I’ll never forget ’em.”

  “You and that friend of hers, Bessie Watson, lord how you did go on!” continued the mate, in a sort of ecstasy. The skipper stiffened suddenly in his chair. “What on earth are you talking about?” he inquired gruffly.

  “Bessie Watson,” said the mate, in tones of innocent surprise. “Little girl in a blue hat with white feathers, and a blue frock, that came with us.”

  “You’re drunk,” said the skipper, grinding his teeth, as he saw the trap into which he had walked.

  “Don’t you remember when you two got lost, an’ me and Kitty were looking all over the place for you?” demanded the mate, still in the same tones of pleasant reminiscence.

  He caught Hetty’s eye, and noticed with a thrill that it beamed with soft and respectful admiration.

  “You’ve been drinking,” repeated the skipper, breathing hard. “How dare you talk like that afore my daughter?”

  “It’s only right I should know,” said Hetty, drawing herself up. “I wonder what mother’ll say to it all?”

  “You say anything to your mother if you dare,” said the now maddened skipper. “You know what she is. It’s all the mate’s nonsense.”

  “I’m very sorry, cap’n,” said the mate, “if I’ve said anything to annoy you, or anyway hurt your feelings. O’ course it’s your business, not mine. Perhaps you’ll say you never heard o’ Bessie Watson?”

  “Mother shall hear of her,” said Hetty, while her helpless sire was struggling for breath.

  “Perhaps you’ll tell us who this Bessie Watson is, and where she lives?” he said at length.

  “She lives with Kitty Loney,” said the mate simply.

  The skipper rose, and his demeanour was so alarming that Hetty shrank instinctively to the mate for protection. In full view of his captain, the mate placed his arm about her waist, and in this position they confronted each other for some time in silence. Then Hetty looked up and spoke.

  “I’m going home by water,” she said briefly.

  THE CAPTAIN’S EXPLOIT

  It was a wet, dreary night in that cheerless part of the great metropolis known as Wapping. The rain, which had been falling heavily for hours, still fell steadily on to the sloppy pavements and roads, and joining forces in the gutter, rushed impetuously to the nearest sewer. The two or three streets which had wedged themselves in between the docks and the river, and which, as a matter of fact, really comprise the beginning and end of Wapping, were deserted, except for a belated van crashing over the granite roads, or the chance form of a dock-labourer plodding doggedly along, with head bent in distaste for the rain, and hands sunk in trouser-pockets.

  “Beastly night,” said Captain Bing, as he rolled out of the private bar of the “Sailor’s Friend,” and, ignoring the presence of the step, took a little hurried run across the pavement. “Not fit for a dog to be out in.”

  He kicked, as he spoke, at a shivering cur which was looking in at the crack of the bar-door, with a hazy view of calling its attention to the matter, and then, pulling up the collar of his rough pea-jacket, stepped boldly out into the rain. Three or four minutes’ walk, or rather roll, brought him to a dark narrow passage, which ran between two houses to the water-side. By a slight tack to starboard at a critical moment he struck the channel safely, and followed it until it ended in a flight of old stone steps, half of which were under water.

  “Where for?” inquired a man, starting up from a small penthouse formed of rough pieces of board.

  “Schooner in the tier, Smiling Jane,” said the captain gruffly, as he stumbled clumsily into a boat and sat down in the stern. “Why don’t you have better seats in this ‘ere boat?”

  “They’re there, if you’ll look for them,” said the waterman; “and you’ll find ’em easier sitting than that bucket.”

  “Why don’t you put ’em where a man can see ’em?” inquired the captain, raising his vo
ice a little.

  The other opened his mouth to reply, but realising that it would lead to a long and utterly futile argument, contented himself with asking his fare to trim the boat better; and, pushing off from the steps, pulled strongly through the dark lumpy water. The tide was strong, so that they made but slow progress.

  “When I was a young man,” said the fare with severity, “I’d ha’ pulled this boat across and back afore now.”

  “When you was a young man,” said the man at the oars, who had a local reputation as a wit, “there wasn’t no boats; they was all Noah’s arks then.”

  “Stow your gab,” said the captain, after a pause of deep thought.

  The other, whose besetting sin was certainly not loquacity, ejected a thin stream of tobacco-juice over the side, spat on his hands, and continued his laborious work until a crowd of dark shapes, surmounted by a network of rigging, loomed up before them.

  “Now, which is your little barge?” he inquired, tugging strongly to maintain his position against the fast-flowing tide.

  “Smiling Jane” said his fare.

  “Ah,” said the waterman, “Smiling Jane, is it? You sit there, cap’n, an’ I’ll row round all their sterns while you strike matches and look at the names. We’ll have quite a nice little evening.”

  “There she is,” cried the captain, who was too muddled to notice the sarcasm; “there’s the little beauty. Steady, my lad.”

  He reached out his hand as he spoke, and as the boat jarred violently against a small schooner, seized a rope which hung over the side, and, swaying to and fro, fumbled in his pocket for the fare.

  “Steady, old boy,” said the waterman affectionately. He had just received twopence-halfpenny and a shilling by mistake for threepence. “Easy up the side. You ain’t such a pretty figger as you was when your old woman made such a bad bargain.”

  The captain paused in his climb, and poising himself on one foot, gingerly felt for his tormentor’s head with the other. Not finding it, he flung his leg over the bulwark, and gained the deck of the vessel as the boat swung round with the tide and disappeared in the darkness.