Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “I’ll step round to-night and rob ’em of that seventy-two pounds,” ses Jack; “it’s your money, and you’ve a right to it.”

  Charlie shook his ‘ead. “That wouldn’t do,” he ses; “besides, I don’t know where they keep it. No; I’ve got a better plan than that. Come round to the Crooked Billet, so as we can talk it over in peace and quiet.”

  He stood Jack three or four arf-pints afore ‘e told ‘im his plan, and Jack was so pleased with it that he wanted to start at once, but Charlie persuaded ‘im to wait.

  “And don’t you spare me, mind, out o’ friendship,” ses Charlie, “because the blacker you paint me the better I shall like it.”

  “You trust me, mate,” ses Jack Bates; “if I don’t get that seventy-two pounds for you, you may call me a Dutchman. Why, it’s fair robbery, I call it, sticking to your money like that.”

  They spent the rest o’ the day together, and when evening came Charlie went off to the Cooks’. Emma ‘ad arf expected they was going to a theayter that night, but Charlie said he wasn’t feeling the thing, and he sat there so quiet and miserable they didn’t know wot to make of ‘im.

  “‘Ave you got any trouble on your mind, Charlie,” ses Mrs. Cook, “or is it the tooth-ache?”

  “It ain’t the toothache,” ses Charlie.

  He sat there pulling a long face and staring at the floor, but all Mrs. Cook and Emma could do ‘e wouldn’t tell them wot was the matter with ‘im. He said ‘e didn’t want to worry other people with ‘is troubles; let everybody bear their own, that was ‘is motto. Even when George Smith offered to go to the theayter with Emma instead of ‘im he didn’t fire up, and, if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for Mrs. Cook, George wouldn’t ha’ been sorry that ‘e spoke.

  “Theayters ain’t for me,” ses Charlie, with a groan. “I’m more likely to go to gaol, so far as I can see, than a theayter.”

  Mrs. Cook and Emma both screamed and Sarah Ann did ‘er first highstericks, and very well, too, considering that she ‘ad only just turned fifteen.

  “Gaol!” ses old Cook, as soon as they ‘ad quieted Sarah Ann with a bowl o’ cold water that young Bill ‘ad the presence o’ mind to go and fetch. “Gaol! What for?”

  “You wouldn’t believe if I was to tell you.” ses Charlie, getting up to go, “and besides, I don’t want any of you to think as ‘ow I am worse than wot I am.”

  He shook his ‘cad at them sorrowful-like, and afore they could stop ‘im he ‘ad gone. Old Cook shouted arter ‘im, but it was no use, and the others was running into the scullery to fill the bowl agin for Emma.

  Mrs. Cook went round to ‘is lodgings next morning, but found that ‘e was out. They began to fancy all sorts o’ things then, but Charlie turned up agin that evening more miserable than ever.

  “I went round to see you this morning,” ses Mrs. Cook, “but you wasn’t at ‘ome.”

  “I never am, ‘ardly,” ses Charlie. “I can’t be — it ain’t safe.”

  “Why not?” ses Mrs. Cook, fidgeting.

  “If I was to tell you, you’d lose your good opinion of me,” ses Charlie.

  “It wouldn’t be much to lose,” ses Mrs. Cook, firing up.

  Charlie didn’t answer ‘er. When he did speak he spoke to the old man, and he was so down-’arted that ‘e gave ‘im the chills a’most, He ‘ardly took any notice of Emma, and, when Mrs. Cook spoke about the shop agin, said that chandlers’ shops was for happy people, not for ‘im.

  By the time they sat down to supper they was nearly all as miserable as Charlie ‘imself. From words he let drop they all seemed to ‘ave the idea that the police was arter ‘im, and Mrs. Cook was just asking ‘im for wot she called the third and last time, but wot was more likely the hundred and third, wot he’d done, when there was a knock at the front door, so loud and so sudden that old Cook and young Bill both cut their mouths at the same time.

  “Anybody ‘ere o’ the name of Emma Cook?” ses a man’s voice, when young Bill opened the door.

  “She’s inside,” ses the boy, and the next moment Jack Bates followed ‘im into the room, and then fell back with a start as ‘e saw Charlie Tagg.

  “Ho, ‘ere you are, are you?” he ses, looking at ‘im very black. “Wot’s the matter?” ses Mrs. Cook, very sharp.

  “I didn’t expect to ‘ave the pleasure o’ seeing you ‘ere, my lad,” ses Jack, still staring at Charlie, and twisting ‘is face up into awful scowls. “Which is Emma Cook?”

  “Miss Cook is my name,” ses Emma, very sharp. “Wot d’ye want?”

  “Very good,” ses Jack Bates, looking at Charlie agin; “then p’r’aps you’ll do me the kindness of telling that lie o’ yours agin afore this young lady.”

  “It’s the truth,” ses Charlie, looking down at ‘is plate.

  “If somebody don’t tell me wot all this is about in two minutes, I shall do something desprit,” ses Mrs. Cook, getting up.

  “This ‘ere — er — man,” ses Jack Bates, pointing at Charlie, “owes me seventy-five pounds and won’t pay. When I ask ‘im for it he ses a party he’s keeping company with, by the name of Emma Cook, ‘as got it, and he can’t get it.”

  “So she has,” ses Charlie, without looking up.

  “Wot does ‘e owe you the money for?” ses Mrs. Cook.

  “‘Cos I lent it to ‘im,” ses Jack.

  “Lent it? What for?” ses Mrs. Cook.

  “‘Cos I was a fool, I s’pose,” ses jack Bates; “a good-natured fool. Anyway, I’m sick and tired of asking for it, and if I don’t get it to-night I’m going to see the police about it.”

  He sat down on a chair with ‘is hat cocked over one eye, and they all sat staring at ‘im as though they didn’t know wot to say next.

  “So this is wot you meant when you said you’d got the chance of a lifetime, is it?” ses Mrs. Cook to Charlie. “This is wot you wanted it for, is it? Wot did you borrow all that money for?”

  “Spend,” ses Charlie, in a sulky voice.

  “Spend!” ses Mrs. Cook, with a scream; “wot in?”

  “Drink and cards mostly,” ses Jack Bates, remembering wot Charlie ‘ad told ‘im about blackening ‘is character.

  You might ha’ heard a pin drop a’most, and Charlie sat there without saying a word.

  “Charlie’s been led away,” ses Mrs. Cook, looking ‘ard at Jack Bates. “I s’pose you lent ‘im the money to win it back from ‘im at cards, didn’t you?”

  “And gave ‘im too much licker fust,” ses old Cook. “I’ve ‘eard of your kind. If Charlie takes my advice ‘e won’t pay you a farthing. I should let you do your worst if I was ‘im; that’s wot I should do. You’ve got a low face; a nasty, ugly, low face.”

  “One o’ the worst I ever see,” ses Mrs. Cook. “It looks as though it might ha’ been cut out o’ the Police News.”

  “‘Owever could you ha’ trusted a man with a face like that, Charlie?” ses old Cook. “Come away from ‘im, Bill; I don’t like such a chap in the room.”

  Jack Bates began to feel very awk’ard. They was all glaring at ‘im as though they could eat ‘im, and he wasn’t used to such treatment. And, as a matter o’ fact, he’d got a very good-’arted face.

  “You go out o’ that door,” ses old Cook, pointing to it. “Go and do your worst. You won’t get any money ‘ere.”

  “Stop a minute,” ses Emma, and afore they could stop ‘er she ran upstairs. Mrs. Cook went arter ‘er and ‘igh words was heard up in the bedroom, but by-and-by Emma came down holding her head very ‘igh and looking at Jack Bates as though he was dirt.

  “How am I to know Charlie owes you this money?” she ses.

  Jack Bates turned very red, and arter fumbling in ‘is pockets took out about a dozen dirty bits o’ paper, which Charlie ‘ad given ‘im for I O U’s. Emma read ’em all, and then she threw a little parcel on the table.

  “There’s your money,” she ses; “take it and go.”

  Mrs. Cook and ‘er father began to call out, but it was no goo
d.

  “There’s seventy-two pounds there,” ses Emma, who was very pale; “and ‘ere’s a ring you can have to ‘elp make up the rest.” And she drew Charlie’s ring off and throwed it on the table. “I’ve done with ‘im for good,” she ses, with a look at ‘er mother.

  Jack Bates took up the money and the ring and stood there looking at ‘er and trying to think wot to say. He’d always been uncommon partial to the sex, and it did seem ‘ard to stand there and take all that on account of Charlie Tagg.

  “I only wanted my own,” he ses, at last, shuffling about the floor.

  “Well, you’ve got it,” ses Mrs. Cook, “and now you can go.”

  “You’re pi’soning the air of my front parlour,” ses old Cook, opening the winder a little at the top.

  “P’r’aps I ain’t so bad as you think I am,” ses Jack Bates, still looking at Emma, and with that ‘e walked over to Charlie and dumped down the money on the table in front of ‘im. “Take it,” he ses, “and don’t borrow any more. I make you a free gift of it. P’r’aps my ‘art ain’t as black as my face,” he ses, turning to Mrs. Cook.

  They was all so surprised at fust that they couldn’t speak, but old Cook smiled at ‘im and put the winder up agin. And Charlie Tagg sat there arf mad with temper, locking as though ‘e could eat Jack Bates without any salt, as the saying is.

  “I — I can’t take it,” he ses at last, with a stammer.

  “Can’t take it? Why not?” ses old Cook, staring. “This gentleman ‘as given it to you.” “A free gift,” ses Mrs. Cook, smiling at Jack very sweet.

  “I can’t take it,” ses Charlie, winking at Jack to take the money up and give it to ‘im quiet, as arranged. “I ‘ave my pride.”

  “So ‘ave I,” ses Jack. “Are you going to take it?”

  Charlie gave another look. “No,” he ses, “I cant take a favour. I borrowed the money and I’ll pay it back.

  “Very good,” ses Jack, taking it up. “It’s my money, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” ses Charlie, taking no notice of Mrs. Cook and ‘er husband, wot was both talking to ‘im at once, and trying to persuade ‘im to alter his mind.

  “Then I give it to Miss Emma Cook,” ses Jack Bates, putting it into her hands. “Good-night everybody and good luck.”

  He slammed the front door behind ‘im and they ‘eard ‘im go off down the road as if ‘e was going for fire-engines. Charlie sat there for a moment struck all of a heap, and then ‘e jumped up and dashed arter ‘im. He just saw ‘im disappearing round a corner, and he didn’t see ‘im agin for a couple o’ year arterwards, by which time the Sydney gal had ‘ad three or four young men arter ‘im, and Emma, who ‘ad changed her name to Smith, was doing one o’ the best businesses in the chandlery line in Poplar.

  THE CONSTABLE’S MOVE

  Mr. Bob Grummit sat in the kitchen with his corduroy-clad legs stretched on the fender. His wife’s half-eaten dinner was getting cold on the table; Mr. Grummit, who was badly in need of cheering up, emptied her half-empty glass of beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Come away, I tell you,” he called. “D’ye hear? Come away. You’ll be locked up if you don’t.”

  He gave a little laugh at the sarcasm, and sticking his short pipe in his mouth lurched slowly to the front-room door and scowled at his wife as she lurked at the back of the window watching intently the furniture which was being carried in next door.

  “Come away or else you’ll be locked up,” repeated Mr. Grummit. “You mustn’t look at policemen’s furniture; it’s agin the law.”

  Mrs. Grummit made no reply, but, throwing appearances to the winds, stepped to the window until her nose touched, as a walnut sideboard with bevelled glass back was tenderly borne inside under the personal supervision of Police-Constable Evans.

  “They’ll be ‘aving a pianner next,” said the indignant Mr. Grummit, peering from the depths of the room.

  “They’ve got one,” responded his wife; “there’s the end if it stickin’ up in the van.”

  Mr. Grummit advanced and regarded the end fixedly. “Did you throw all them tin cans and things into their yard wot I told you to?” he demanded.

  “He picked up three of ’em while I was upstairs,” replied his wife. “I ‘eard ‘im tell her that they’d come in handy for paint and things.”

  “That’s ‘ow coppers get on and buy pianners,” said the incensed Mr. Grummit, “sneaking other people’s property. I didn’t tell you to throw good ‘uns over, did I? Wot d’ye mean by it?”

  Mrs. Grummit made no reply, but watched with bated breath the triumphal entrance of the piano. The carman set it tenderly on the narrow footpath, while P. C. Evans, stooping low, examined it at all points, and Mrs. Evans, raising the lid, struck a few careless chords.

  “Showing off,” explained Mrs. Grummit, with a half turn; “and she’s got fingers like carrots.”

  “It’s a disgrace to Mulberry Gardens to ‘ave a copper come and live in it,” said the indignant Grummit; “and to come and live next to me! — that’s what I can’t get over. To come and live next door to a man wot has been fined twice, and both times wrong. Why, for two pins I’d go in and smash ‘is pianner first and ‘im after it. He won’t live ‘ere long, you take my word for it.”

  “Why not?” inquired his wife.

  “Why?” repeated Mr. Grummit. “Why? Why, becos I’ll make the place too ‘ot to hold him. Ain’t there enough houses in Tunwich without ‘im a-coming and living next door to me?”

  For a whole week the brain concealed in Mr. Grummit’s bullet-shaped head worked in vain, and his temper got correspondingly bad. The day after the Evans’ arrival he had found his yard littered with tins which he recognized as old acquaintances, and since that time they had travelled backwards and forwards with monotonous regularity. They sometimes made as many as three journeys a day, and on one occasion the heavens opened to drop a battered tin bucket on the back of Mr. Grummit as he was tying his bootlace. Five minutes later he spoke of the outrage to Mr. Evans, who had come out to admire the sunset.

  “I heard something fall,” said the constable, eyeing the pail curiously.

  “You threw it,” said Mr. Grummit, breathing furiously.

  “Me? Nonsense,” said the other, easily. “I was having tea in the parlour with my wife and my mother-in-law, and my brother Joe and his young lady.”

  “Any more of ’em?” demanded the hapless Mr. Grummit, aghast at this list of witnesses for an alibi.

  “It ain’t a bad pail, if you look at it properly,” said the constable. “I should keep it if I was you; unless the owner offers a reward for it. It’ll hold enough water for your wants.”

  Mr. Grummit flung indoors and, after wasting some time concocting impossible measures of retaliation with his sympathetic partner, went off to discuss affairs with his intimates at the Bricklayers’ Arms. The company, although unanimously agreeing that Mr. Evans ought to be boiled, were miserably deficient in ideas as to the means by which such a desirable end was to be attained.

  “Make ‘im a laughing-stock, that’s the best thing,” said an elderly labourer. “The police don’t like being laughed at.”

  “‘Ow?” demanded Mr. Grummit, with some asperity.

  “There’s plenty o’ ways,” said the old man.

  “I should find ’em out fast enough if I ‘ad a bucket dropped on my back, I know.”

  Mr. Grummit made a retort the feebleness of which was somewhat balanced by its ferocity, and subsided into glum silence. His back still ached, but, despite that aid to intellectual effort, the only ways he could imagine of making the constable look foolish contained an almost certain risk of hard labour for himself.

  He pondered the question for a week, and meanwhile the tins — to the secret disappointment of Mr. Evans — remained untouched in his yard. For the whole of the time he went about looking, as Mrs. Grummit expressed it, as though his dinner had disagreed with him.

  “I’ve been talkin
g to old Bill Smith,” he said, suddenly, as he came in one night.

  Mrs. Grummit looked up, and noticed with wifely pleasure that he was looking almost cheerful.

  “He’s given me a tip,” said Mr. Grummit, with a faint smile; “a copper mustn’t come into a free-born Englishman’s ‘ouse unless he’s invited.”

  “Wot of it?” inquired his wife. “You wasn’t think of asking him in, was you?”

  Mr. Grummit regarded her almost play-fully. “If a copper comes in without being told to,” he continued, “he gets into trouble for it. Now d’ye see?”

  “But he won’t come,” said the puzzled Mrs. Grummit.

  Mr. Grummit winked. “Yes ‘e will if you scream loud enough,” he retorted. “Where’s the copper-stick?”

  “Have you gone mad?” demanded his wife, “or do you think I ‘ave?”

  “You go up into the bedroom,” said Mr. Grummit, emphasizing his remarks with his forefinger. “I come up and beat the bed black and blue with the copper-stick; you scream for mercy and call out ‘Help!’ ‘Murder!’ and things like that. Don’t call out ‘Police!’ cos Bill ain’t sure about that part. Evans comes bursting in to save your life — I’ll leave the door on the latch — and there you are. He’s sure to get into trouble for it. Bill said so. He’s made a study o’ that sort o’ thing.”

  Mrs. Grummit pondered this simple plan so long that her husband began to lose patience. At last, against her better sense, she rose and fetched the weapon in question.

  “And you be careful what you’re hitting,” she said, as they went upstairs to bed. “We’d better have ‘igh words first, I s’pose?”

  “You pitch into me with your tongue,” said Mr. Grummit, amiably.

  Mrs. Grummit, first listening to make sure that the constable and his wife were in the bedroom the other side of the flimsy wall, complied, and in a voice that rose gradually to a piercing falsetto told Mr. Grummit things that had been rankling in her mind for some months. She raked up misdemeanours that he had long since forgotten, and, not content with that, had a fling at the entire Grummit family, beginning with her mother-in-law and ending with Mr. Grummit’s youngest sister. The hand that held the copper-stick itched.