From this moment a friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little. The attitude of the cook was as that of a son to a father: the benignancy of Mr. Lister beautiful to behold. It was noticed, too, that he had abandoned the reprehensible practice of hanging round tavern doors in favour of going inside and drinking the cook’s health.
For about six months the cook, although always in somewhat straitened circumstances, was well content with the tacit bargain, and then, bit by bit, the character of Mr. Lister was revealed to him. It was not a nice character, but subtle; and when he made the startling discovery that a will could be rendered invalid by the simple process of making another one the next day, he became as a man possessed. When he ascertained that Mr. Lister when at home had free quarters at the house of a married niece, he used to sit about alone, and try and think of ways and means of securing capital sunk in a concern which seemed to show no signs of being wound-up.
“I’ve got a touch of the ‘art again, lad,” said the elderly invalid, as they sat alone in the forecastle one night at Seacole.
“You move about too much,” said the cook. “Why not turn in and rest?”
Mr. Lister, who had not expected this, fidgeted. “I think I’ll go ashore a bit and try the air,” he said, suggestively. “I’ll just go as far as the Black Horse and back. You won’t have me long now, my lad.”
“No, I know,” said the cook; “that’s what’s worrying me a bit.” “Don’t worry about me,” said the old man, pausing with his hand on the other’s shoulder; “I’m not worth it. Don’t look so glum, lad.”
“I’ve got something on my mind, Jem,” said the cook, staring straight in front of him.
“What is it?” inquired Mr. Lister.
“You know what you told me about those pains in your inside?” said the cook, without looking at him.
Jem groaned and felt his side.
“And what you said about its being a relief to die,” continued the other, “only you was afraid to commit suicide?”
“Well?” said Mr. Lister.
“It used to worry me,” continued the cook, earnestly. “I used to say to myself, ‘Poor old Jem,’ I ses, ‘why should ‘e suffer like this when he wants to die? It seemed ‘ard.’”
“It is ‘ard,” said Mr. Lister, “but what about it?”
The other made no reply, but looking at him for the first time, surveyed him with a troubled expression.
“What about it?” repeated Mr. Lister, with some emphasis.
“You did say you wanted to die, didn’t you?” said the cook. “Now suppose suppose — —”
“Suppose what?” inquired the old man, sharply. “Why don’t you say what you’re agoing to say?”
“Suppose,” said the cook, “some one what liked you, Jem — what liked you, mind— ‘eard you say this over and over again, an’ see you sufferin’ and ‘eard you groanin’ and not able to do nothin’ for you except lend you a few shillings here and there for medicine, or stand you a few glasses o’ rum; suppose they knew a chap in a chemist’s shop?”
“Suppose they did?” said the other, turning pale.
“A chap what knows all about p’isons,” continued the cook, “p’isons what a man can take without knowing it in ‘is grub. Would it be wrong, do you think, if that friend I was speaking about put it in your food to put you out of your misery?”
“Wrong,” said Mr. Lister, with glassy eyes. “Wrong. Look ‘ere, cook—”
“I don’t mean anything to give him pain,” said the other, waving his hand; “you ain’t felt no pain lately, ‘ave you, Jem?”
“Do you mean to say!” shouted Mr. Lister.
“I don’t mean to say anything,” said the cook. “Answer my question. You ain’t felt no pain lately, ‘ave you?”
“Have — you — been — putting — p’ison — in — my — wittles?” demanded Mr. Lister, in trembling accents.
“If I ‘ad, Jem, supposin’ that I ‘ad,” said the cook, in accents of reproachful surprise, “do you mean to say that you’d mind?”
“MIND,” said Mr. Lister, with fervour. “I’d ‘ave you ‘ung!”
“But you said you wanted to die,” said the surprised cook.
Mr. Lister swore at him with startling vigour. “I’ll ‘ave you ‘ung,” he repeated, wildly.
“Me,” said the cook, artlessly. “What for?”
“For giving me p’ison,” said Mr. Lister, frantically. “Do you think you can deceive me by your roundabouts? Do you think I can’t see through you?”
The other with a sphinx-like smile sat unmoved. “Prove it,” he said, darkly. “But supposin’ if anybody ‘ad been givin’ you p’ison, would you like to take something to prevent its acting?”
“I’d take gallons of it,” said Mr. Lister, feverishly.
The other sat pondering, while the old man watched him anxiously. “It’s a pity you don’t know your own mind, Jem,” he said, at length; “still, you know your own business best. But it’s very expensive stuff.”
“How much?” inquired the other.
“Well, they won’t sell more than two shillings-worth at a time,” said the cook, trying to speak carelessly, “but if you like to let me ‘ave the money, I’ll go ashore to the chemist’s and get the first lot now.”
Mr. Lister’s face was a study in emotions, which the other tried in vain to decipher.
Then he slowly extracted the amount from his trousers-pocket, and handed it over with-out a word.
“I’ll go at once,” said the cook, with a little feeling, “and I’ll never take a man at his word again, Jem.”
He ran blithely up on deck, and stepping ashore, spat on the coins for luck and dropped them in his pocket. Down below, Mr. Lister, with his chin in his hand, sat in a state of mind pretty evenly divided between rage and fear.
The cook, who was in no mood for company, missed the rest of the crew by two public-houses, and having purchased a baby’s teething powder and removed the label, had a congratulatory drink or two before going on board again. A chatter of voices from the forecastle warned him that the crew had returned, but the tongues ceased abruptly as he descended, and three pairs of eyes surveyed him in grim silence.
“What’s up?” he demanded.
“Wot ‘ave you been doin’ to poor old Jem?” demanded Henshaw, sternly.
“Nothin’,” said the other, shortly.
“You ain’t been p’isoning ‘im?” demanded Henshaw.
“Certainly not,” said the cook, emphatically.
“He ses you told ‘im you p’isoned ‘im,” said Henshaw, solemnly, “and ‘e give you two shillings to get something to cure ‘im. It’s too late now.”
“What?” stammered the bewildered cook. He looked round anxiously at the men.
They were all very grave, and the silence became oppressive. “Where is he?” he demanded.
Henshaw and the others exchanged glances. “He’s gone mad,” said he, slowly.
“Mad?” repeated the horrified cook, and, seeing the aversion of the crew, in a broken voice he narrated the way in which he had been victimized.
“Well, you’ve done it now,” said Henshaw, when he had finished. “He’s gone right orf ‘is ‘ed.”
“Where is he?” inquired the cook.
“Where you can’t follow him,” said the other, slowly.
“Heaven?” hazarded the unfortunate cook. “No; skipper’s bunk,” said Lea.
“Oh, can’t I foller ‘im?” said the cook, starting up. “I’ll soon ‘ave ‘im out o’ that.”
“Better leave ‘im alone,” said Henshaw. “He was that wild we couldn’t do nothing with ‘im, singing an’ larfin’ and crying all together — I certainly thought he was p’isoned.”
“I’ll swear I ain’t touched him,” said the cook.
“Well, you’ve upset his reason,” said Henshaw; “there’ll be an awful row when the skipper comes aboard and finds ‘im in ‘is bed.
“‘Well, come an’ ‘elp me to get ‘im out,” said the cook.
“I ain’t going to be mixed up in it,” said Henshaw, shaking his head.
“Don’t you, Bill,” said the other two.
“Wot the skipper’ll say I don’t know,” said Henshaw; “anyway, it’ll be said to you, not — —”
“I’ll go and get ‘im out if ‘e was five madmen,” said the cook, compressing his lips.
“You’ll harve to carry ‘im out, then,” said Henshaw. “I don’t wish you no ‘arm, cook, and perhaps it would be as well to get ‘im out afore the skipper or mate comes aboard. If it was me, I know what I should do.”
“What?” inquired the cook, breathlessly.
“Draw a sack over his head,” said Henshaw, impressively; “he’ll scream like blazes as soon as you touch him, and rouse the folks ashore if you don’t. Besides that, if you draw it well down it’ll keep his arms fast.”
The cook thanked him fervently, and routing out a sack, rushed hastily on deck, his departure being the signal for Mr. Henshaw and his friends to make preparations for retiring for the night so hastily as almost to savour of panic.
The cook, after a hasty glance ashore, went softly below with the sack over his arm and felt his way in the darkness to the skipper’s bunk. The sound of deep and regular breathing reassured him, and without undue haste he opened the mouth of the sack and gently raised the sleeper’s head.
“Eh? Wha — —” began a sleepy voice.
The next moment the cook had bagged him, and gripping him tightly round the middle, turned a deaf ear to the smothered cries of his victim as he strove to lift him out of the bunk. In the exciting time which followed, he had more than one reason for thinking that he had caught a centipede.
“Now, you keep still,” he cried, breathlessly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He got his burden out of bed at last, and staggered to the foot of the companion-ladder with it. Then there was a halt, two legs sticking obstinately across the narrow way and refusing to be moved, while a furious humming proceeded from the other end of the sack.
Four times did the exhausted cook get his shoulder under his burden and try and push it up the ladder, and four times did it wriggle and fight its way down again. Half crazy with fear and rage, he essayed it for the fifth time, and had got it half-way up when there was a sudden exclamation of surprise from above, and the voice of the mate sharply demanding an explanation.
“What the blazes are you up to?” he cried.
“It’s all right, sir,” said the panting cook; “old Jem’s had a drop too much and got down aft, and I’m getting ‘im for’ard again.”
“Jem?” said the astonished mate. “Why, he’s sitting up here on the fore-hatch. He came aboard with me.”
“Sitting,” began the horrified cook; “sit — oh, lor!”
He stood with his writhing burden wedged between his body and the ladder, and looked up despairingly at the mate.
“I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake,” he said in a trembling voice.
The mate struck a match and looked down.
“Take that sack off,” he demanded, sternly.
The cook placed his burden upon its feet, and running up the ladder stood by the mate shivering. The latter struck another match, and the twain watched in breathless silence the writhings of the strange creature below as the covering worked slowly upwards. In the fourth match it got free, and revealed the empurpled visage of the master of the Susannah. For the fraction of a second the cook gazed at him in speechless horror, and then, with a hopeless cry, sprang ashore and ran for it, hotly pursued by his enraged victim. At the time of sailing he was still absent, and the skipper, loth to part two such friends, sent Mr. James Lister, at the urgent request of the anxious crew, to look for him.
THE WHITE CAT
The traveller stood looking from the tap-room window of the Cauliflower at the falling rain. The village street below was empty, and everything was quiet with the exception of the garrulous old man smoking with much enjoyment on the settle behind him.
“It’ll do a power o’ good,” said the ancient, craning his neck round the edge of the settle and turning a bleared eye on the window. “I ain’t like some folk; I never did mind a drop o’ rain.”
The traveller grunted and, returning to the settle opposite the old man, fell to lazily stroking a cat which had strolled in attracted by the warmth of the small fire which smouldered in the grate.
“He’s a good mouser,” said the old man, “but I expect that Smith the landlord would sell ‘im to anybody for arf a crown; but we ‘ad a cat in Claybury once that you couldn’t ha’ bought for a hundred golden sovereigns.”
The traveller continued to caress the cat.
“A white cat, with one yaller eye and one blue one,” continued the old man. “It sounds queer, but it’s as true as I sit ‘ere wishing that I ‘ad another mug o’ ale as good as the last you gave me.”
The traveller, with a start that upset the cat’s nerves, finished his own mug, and then ordered both to be refilled. He stirred the fire into a blaze, and, lighting his pipe and putting one foot on to the hob, prepared to listen.
It used to belong to old man Clark, young Joe Clark’s uncle, said the ancient, smacking his lips delicately over the ale and extending a tremulous claw to the tobacco-pouch pushed towards him; and he was never tired of showing it off to people. He used to call it ‘is blue-eyed darling, and the fuss ‘e made o’ that cat was sinful.
Young Joe Clark couldn’t bear it, but being down in ‘is uncle’s will for five cottages and a bit o’ land bringing in about forty pounds a year, he ‘ad to ‘ide his feelings and pretend as he loved it. He used to take it little drops o’ cream and tit-bits o’ meat, and old Clark was so pleased that ‘e promised ‘im that he should ‘ave the cat along with all the other property when ‘e was dead.
Young Joe said he couldn’t thank ‘im enough, and the old man, who ‘ad been ailing a long time, made ‘im come up every day to teach ‘im ‘ow to take care of it arter he was gone. He taught Joe ‘ow to cook its meat and then chop it up fine; ‘ow it liked a clean saucer every time for its milk; and ‘ow he wasn’t to make a noise when it was asleep.
“Take care your children don’t worry it, Joe,” he ses one day, very sharp. “One o’ your boys was pulling its tail this morning, and I want you to clump his ‘ead for ‘im.”
“Which one was it?” ses Joe.
“The slobbery-nosed one,” ses old Clark.
“I’ll give ‘im a clout as soon as I get ‘ome,” ses Joe, who was very fond of ‘is children.
“Go and fetch ‘im and do it ‘ere,” ses the old man; “that’ll teach ‘im to love animals.”
Joe went off ‘ome to fetch the boy, and arter his mother ‘ad washed his face, and wiped his nose, an’ put a clean pinneyfore on ‘im, he took ‘im to ‘is uncle’s and clouted his ‘ead for ‘im. Arter that Joe and ‘is wife ‘ad words all night long, and next morning old Clark, coming in from the garden, was just in time to see ‘im kick the cat right acrost the kitchen.
He could ‘ardly speak for a minute, and when ‘e could Joe see plain wot a fool he’d been. Fust of all ‘e called Joe every name he could think of — which took ‘im a long time — and then he ordered ‘im out of ‘is house.
“You shall ‘ave my money wen your betters have done with it,” he ses, “and not afore. That’s all you’ve done for yourself.”
Joe Clark didn’t know wot he meant at the time, but when old Clark died three months arterwards ‘e found out. His uncle ‘ad made a new will and left everything to old George Barstow for as long as the cat lived, providing that he took care of it. When the cat was dead the property was to go to Joe.
The cat was only two years old at the time, and George Barstow, who was arf crazy with joy, said it shouldn’t be ‘is fault if it didn’t live another twenty years.
The funny thing was the quiet way Joe Clark took it. He didn’
t seem to be at all cut up about it, and when Henery Walker said it was a shame, ‘e said he didn’t mind, and that George Barstow was a old man, and he was quite welcome to ‘ave the property as long as the cat lived.
“It must come to me by the time I’m an old man,” he ses, “ard that’s all I care about.”
Henery Walker went off, and as ‘e passed the cottage where old Clark used to live, and which George Barstow ‘ad moved into, ‘e spoke to the old man over the palings and told ‘im wot Joe Clark ‘ad said. George Barstow only grunted and went on stooping and prying over ‘is front garden.
“Bin and lost something?” ses Henery Walker, watching ‘im.
“No; I’m finding,” ses George Barstow, very fierce, and picking up something. “That’s the fifth bit o’ powdered liver I’ve found in my garden this morning.”
Henery Walker went off whistling, and the opinion he’d ‘ad o’ Joe Clark began to improve. He spoke to Joe about it that arternoon, and Joe said that if ‘e ever accused ‘im o’ such a thing again he’d knock ‘is ‘ead off. He said that he ‘oped the cat ‘ud live to be a hundred, and that ‘e’d no more think of giving it poisoned meat than Henery Walker would of paying for ‘is drink so long as ‘e could get anybody else to do it for ‘im.
They ‘ad bets up at this ‘ere Cauliflower public-’ouse that evening as to ‘ow long that cat ‘ud live. Nobody gave it more than a month, and Bill Chambers sat and thought o’ so many ways o’ killing it on the sly that it was wunnerful to hear ‘im.
George Barstow took fright when he ‘eard of them, and the care ‘e took o’ that cat was wunnerful to behold. Arf its time it was shut up in the back bedroom, and the other arf George Barstow was fussing arter it till that cat got to hate ‘im like pison. Instead o’ giving up work as he’d thought to do, ‘e told Henery Walker that ‘e’d never worked so ‘ard in his life.
“Wot about fresh air and exercise for it?” ses Henery.
“Wot about Joe Clark?” ses George Bar-stow. “I’m tied ‘and and foot. I dursent leave the house for a moment. I ain’t been to the Cauliflower since I’ve ‘ad it, and three times I got out o’ bed last night to see if it was safe.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 207
