“But Peter said she was dead,” ses Sam, very puzzled.
“I married agin,” ses Peter’s uncle, in a whisper, ‘cos people was telling ‘im to keep quiet, “a tartar — a perfect tartar. She’s in a ‘orsepittle at present, else I shouldn’t be ‘ere. And I shouldn’t ha’ been able to come if I ‘adn’t found five pounds wot she’d hid in a match-box up the chimbley.”
“But wot’ll you do when she finds it out?” ses Sam, opening ‘is eyes.
“I’m going to ‘ave the house cleaned and the chimbleys swept to welcome her ‘ome,” ses Mr. Goodman, taking a sip o’ whiskey. “It’ll be a little surprise for her.”
They stayed till it was over, and on the bus he gave Sam some strong peppermint lozenges wot ‘e always carried about with ‘im, and took some ‘imself. He said ‘e found ’em helpful.
“What are we going to tell Peter and Ginger?” ses Sam, as they got near the ‘ouse.
“Tell ’em?” ses Mr. Goodman. “Tell ’em the truth. How we follered ’em when they got off the bus, and ‘ave been looking for ’em ever since. I’m not going to ‘ave my ‘oliday spoilt by a teetotal nevvy, I can tell you.”
He started on Peter, wot was sitting on his bed with Ginger waiting for them, the moment he got inside, and all Ginger and Peter could say didn’t make any difference.
“Mr. Small see you as plain as what I did,” he ses.
“Plainer,” ses Sam.
“But I tell you we come straight ‘ome,” ses Ginger, “and we’ve been waiting for you ‘ere ever since.”
Mr. Goodman shook his ‘ead at ‘im. “Say no more about it,” he ses, in a kind voice. “I dessay it’s rather tiresome for young men to go about with two old ones, and in future, if you and Peter keep together, me and my friend Mr. Small will do the same.”
Sam shook ‘ands with ‘im, and though Peter tried his ‘ardest to make ‘im alter his mind it was no good. His uncle patted ‘im on the shoulder, and said they’d try it for a few days, at any rate, and Ginger, wot thought it was a very good idea, backed ‘im up. Everybody seemed pleased with the idea except Peter Russet, but arter Sam ‘ad told ‘im in private wot a high opinion ‘is uncle ‘ad got of ‘im, and ‘ow well off he was, ‘e gave way.
They all enjoyed the next evening, and Sam and Mr. Goodman got on together like twin brothers. They went to a place of amusement every night, and the on’y unpleasantness that happened was when Peter’s uncle knocked a chemist’s shop up at a quarter-past twelve one night to buy a penn’orth o’ peppermint lozenges.
They ‘ad four of the ‘appiest evenings together that Sam ‘ad ever known; and Mr. Goodman would ‘ave been just as ‘appy too if it hadn’t ha’ been for the thoughts o’ that five pounds. The more ‘e thought of it the more unlikely it seemed that ‘is wife would blame it on to the sweep, and one night he took the match-box out of ‘is pocket and shook his ‘ead over it till Sam felt quite sorry for ‘im.
“Don’t take up your troubles afore they come,” he ses. “Orsepittles are dangerous places.”
Mr. Goodman cheered up a bit at that, but he got miserable agin the next night because ‘is money was getting low and he wanted another week in London.
“I’ve got seven shillings and fourpence and two stamps left,” he ses. “Where it’s all gone to I can’t think.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” ses Sam. “I’ve got a pound or two left yet.”
“No, I ain’t going to be a burden on you,” ses Mr. Goodman, “but another week I must ‘ave, so I must get the money somehow. Peter can’t spend much, the way he goes on.”
Sam gave a little cough.
“I’ll get a pound or two out of ‘im,” ses Mr. Goodman.
Sam coughed agin. “Won’t he think it rather funny?” he ses, arter a bit.
“Not if it’s managed properly,” ses Mr. Good-man, thinking ‘ard. “I’ll tell you ‘ow we’ll do it. To-morrow morning, while we are eating of our breakfast, you ask me to lend you a pound or two.”
Sam, what ‘ad just taken up ‘is glass for a drink, put it down agin and stared at ‘im.
“But I don’t want no money,” he ses; “and, besides, you ‘aven’t got any.”
“You do as I tell you,” ses Mr. Goodman, “and when you’ve got it, you hand it over to me, see? Ask me to lend you five pounds.”
Sam thought as ‘ow the whiskey ‘ad got to Mr. Goodman’s ‘ead at last. ‘Owever, to pacify ‘im he promised to do wot ‘e was told, and next morning, when they was all at breakfast, he looks over and catches Mr. Goodman’s eye.
“I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask a favor of you?” he ses.
“Certainly,” ses Peter’s uncle, “and glad I shall be to oblige you. There is no man I’ve got a greater respect for.”
“Thankee,” ses Sam. “The fact is, I’ve run a bit short owing to paying a man some money I owed ‘im. If you could lend me five pounds, I couldn’t thank you enough.”
Mr. Goodman put down ‘is knife and fork and wrinkled up ‘is forehead.
“I’m very sorry,” he ses, feeling in ‘is pockets; “do you want it to-day?”
“Yes; I should like it,” ses Sam.
“It’s most annoying,” ses Mr. Goodman, “but I was so afraid o’ pickpockets that I didn’t bring much away with me. If you could wait till the day arter to-morrow, when my money is sent to me, you can ‘ave ten if you like.”
“You’re very kind,” ses Sam, “but that ‘ud be too late for me. I must try and get it somewhere else.” Peter and Ginger went on eating their breakfast, but every time Peter looked up he caught ‘is uncle looking at ‘im in such a surprised and disappointed sort o’ way that ‘e didn’t like the look of it at all.
“I could just do it for a couple o’ days, Sam,” he ses at last, “but it’ll leave me very short.”
“That’s right,” ses his uncle, smiling. “My nevvy, Peter Russet, will lend it to you, Mr. Small, of ‘is own free will. He ‘as offered afore he was asked, and that’s the proper way to do it, in my opinion.”
He reached acrost the table and shook ‘ands with Peter, and said that generosity ran in their family, and something seemed to tell ‘im as Peter wouldn’t lose by it. Everybody seemed pleased with each other, and arter Ginger Dick and Peter ‘ad gone out Mr. Goodman took the five pounds off of old Sam and stowed ’em away very careful in the match-box.
“It’s nice to ‘ave money agin,” he ses. “There’s enough for a week’s enjoyment here.”
“Yes,” ses Sam, slow-like; “but wot I want to know is, wot about the day arter to-morrow, when Peter expects ‘is money?”
Mr. Goodman patted ‘im on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about Peter’s troubles,” he ses. “I know exactly wot to do; it’s all planned out. Now I’m going to ‘ave a lay down for an hour — I didn’t get much sleep last night — and if you’ll call me at twelve o’clock we’ll go somewhere. Knock loud.”
He patted ‘im on the shoulder agin, and Sam, arter fidgeting about a bit, went out. The last time he ever see Peter’s uncle he was laying on the bed with ‘is eyes shut, smiling in his sleep. And Peter Russet didn’t see Sam for eighteen months.
THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY
Mr. Letts had left his ship by mutual arrangement, and the whole of the crew had mustered to see him off and to express their sense of relief at his departure. After some years spent in long voyages, he had fancied a trip on a coaster as a change, and, the schooner Curlew having no use for a ship’s carpenter, had shipped as cook. He had done his best, and the unpleasant epithets that followed him along the quay at Dunchurch as he followed in the wake of his sea-chest were the result. Master and mate nodded in grim appreciation of the crew’s efforts.
He put his chest up at a seamen’s lodging-house, and, by no means perturbed at this sudden change in his fortunes, sat on a seat overlooking the sea, with a cigarette between his lips, forming plans for his future. His eyes closed, and he opened them with a start to find that a middle-
aged woman of pleasant but careworn appearance had taken the other end of the bench.
“Fine day,” said Mr. Letts, lighting another cigarette.
The woman assented and sat looking over the sea.
“Ever done any cooking?” asked Mr. Letts, presently.
“Plenty,” was the surprised reply. “Why?”
“I just wanted to ask you how long you would boil a bit o’ beef,” said Mr. Letts. “Only from curiosity; I should never ship as cook again.”
He narrated his experience of the last few days, and, finding the listener sympathetic, talked at some length about himself and his voyages; also of his plans for the future.
“I lost my son at sea,” said the woman, with a sigh. “You favor him rather.”
Mr. Letts’s face softened. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry you lost him, I mean.”
“At least, I suppose he would have been like you,” said the other; “but it’s nine years ago now. He was just sixteen.”
Mr. Letts — after a calculation — nodded. “Just my age,” he said. “I was twenty-five last March.”
“Sailed for Melbourne,” said the woman. “My only boy.”
Mr. Letts cleared his throat, sympathetically.
“His father died a week after he sailed,” continued the other, “and three months afterwards my boy’s ship went down. Two years ago, like a fool, I married again. I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this. I suppose it is because you remind me of him.”
“You talk away as much as you like,” said Mr. Letts, kindly. “I’ve got nothing to do.”
He lit another cigarette, and, sitting in an attitude of attention, listened to a recital of domestic trouble that made him congratulate himself upon remaining single.
“Since I married Mr. Green I can’t call my soul my own,” said the victim of matrimony as she rose to depart. “If my poor boy had lived things would have been different. His father left the house and furniture to him, and that’s all my second married me for, I’m sure. That and the bit o’ money that was left to me. He’s selling some of my boy’s furniture at this very moment. That’s why I came out; I couldn’t bear it.”
“P’r’aps he’ll turn up after all,” said Mr. Letts. “Never say die.”
Mrs. Green shook her head.
“I s’pose,” said Mr. Letts, regarding her— “I s’pose you don’t let lodgings for a night or two?” Mrs. Green shook her head again.
“It don’t matter,” said the young man. “Only I would sooner stay with you than at a lodging-house. I’ve taken a fancy to you. I say, it would be a lark if you did, and I went there and your husband thought I was your son, wouldn’t it?”
Mrs. Green caught her breath, and sitting down again took his arm in her trembling fingers.
“Suppose,” she said, unsteadily— “suppose you came round and pretended to be my son — pretended to be my son, and stood up for me?”
Mr. Letts stared at her in amazement, and then began to laugh.
“Nobody would know,” continued the other, quickly. “We only came to this place just before he sailed, and his sister was only ten at the time. She wouldn’t remember.”
Mr. Letts said he couldn’t think of it, and sat staring, with an air of great determination, at the sea. Arguments and entreaties left him unmoved, and he was just about to express his sorrow for her troubles and leave, when she gave a sudden start and put her arm through his.
“Here comes your sister!” she exclaimed.
Mr. Letts started in his turn.
“She has seen me holding your arm,” continued Mrs. Green, in a tense whisper. “It’s the only way I can explain it. Mind, your name is Jack Foster and hers is Betty.”
Mr. Letts gazed at her in consternation, and then, raising his eyes, regarded with much approval the girl who was approaching. It seemed impossible that she could be Mrs. Green’s daughter, and in the excitement of the moment he nearly said so.
“Betty,” said Mrs. Green, in a voice to which nervousness had imparted almost the correct note— “Betty, this is your brother Jack!”
Mr. Letts rose sheepishly, and then to his great amazement a pair of strong young arms were flung round his neck, and a pair of warm lips — after but slight trouble — found his. Then and there Mr. Letts’s mind was made up.
“Oh, Jack!” said Miss Foster, and began to cry softly.
“Oh, Jack!” said Mrs. Green, and, moved by thoughts, perhaps, of what might have been, began to cry too.
“There, there!” said Mr. Letts.
He drew Miss Foster to the seat, and, sitting between them, sat with an arm round each. There was nothing in sight but a sail or two in the far distance, and he allowed Miss Foster’s head to lie upon his shoulder undisturbed. An only child, and an orphan, he felt for the first time the blessing of a sister’s love.
“Why didn’t you come home before?” murmured the girl.
Mr. Letts started and squinted reproachfully at the top of her hat. Then he turned and looked at Mrs. Green in search of the required information. “He was shipwrecked,” said Mrs. Green.
“I was shipwrecked,” repeated Mr. Letts, nodding.
“And had brain-fever after it through being in the water so long, and lost his memory,” continued Mrs. Green.
“It’s wonderful what water will do — salt water,” said Mr. Letts, in confirmation.
Miss Foster sighed, and, raising the hand which was round her waist, bent her head and kissed it. Mr. Letts colored, and squeezed her convulsively.
Assisted by Mrs. Green he became reminiscent, and, in a low voice, narrated such incidents of his career as had escaped the assaults of the brain-fever. That his head was not permanently injured was proved by the perfect manner in which he remembered incidents of his childhood narrated by his newly found mother and sister. He even volunteered one or two himself which had happened when the latter was a year or two old.
“And now,” said Mrs. Green, in a somewhat trembling voice, “we must go and tell your step-father.”
Mr. Letts responded, but without briskness, and, with such moral support as an arm of each could afford, walked slowly back. Arrived at a road of substantial cottages at the back of the town, Mrs. Green gasped, and, coming to a standstill, nodded at a van that stood half-way up the road.
“There it is,” she exclaimed.
“What?” demanded Mr. Letts.
“The furniture I told you about,” said Mrs. Green. “The furniture that your poor father thought such a lot of, because it used to belong to his grandfather. He’s selling it to Simpson, though I begged and prayed him not to.”
Mr. Letts encouraged himself with a deep cough. “My furniture?” he demanded.
Mrs. Green took courage. “Yes,” she said, hope-fully; “your father left it to you.”
Mr. Letts, carrying his head very erect, took a firmer grip of their arms and gazed steadily at a disagreeable-looking man who was eying them in some astonishment from the doorway. With arms still linked they found the narrow gateway somewhat difficult, but they negotiated it by a turning movement, and, standing in the front garden, waited while Mrs. Green tried to find her voice.
“Jack,” she said at last, “this is your stepfather.”
Mr. Letts, in some difficulty as to the etiquette on such occasions, released his right arm and extended his hand.
“Good-evening, stepfather,” he said, cheerfully.
Mr. Green drew back a little and regarded him unfavorably.
“We — we thought you was drowned,” he said at last.
“I was nearly,” said Mr. Letts.
“We all thought so,” pursued Mr. Green, grudgingly. “Everybody thought so.”
He stood aside, as a short, hot-faced man, with a small bureau clasped in his arms and supported on his knees, emerged from the house and staggered towards the gate. Mr. Letts reflected.
“Halloa!” he said, suddenly. “Why, are you moving, mother?”
Mrs. Green sniffed sadly and
shook her head. “Well,” said Mr. Letts, with an admirable stare, “what’s that chap doing with my furniture?”
“Eh?” spluttered Mr. Green. “What?”
“I say, what’s he doing with my furniture?” repeated Mr. Letts, sternly.
Mr. Green waved his arm. “That’s all right,” he said, conclusively; “he’s bought it. Your mother knows.”
“But it ain’t all right,” said Mr. Letts. “Here! bring that back, and those chairs too.”
The dealer, who had just placed the bureau on the tail-board of the van, came back wiping his brow with his sleeve.
“Wots the little game?” he demanded.
Mr. Letts left the answer to Mr. Green, and going to the van took up the bureau and walked back to the house with it. Mr. Green and the dealer parted a little at his approach, and after widening the parting with the bureau he placed it in the front room while he went back for the chairs. He came back with three of them, and was, not without reason, called a porcupine by the indignant dealer.
He was relieved to find, after Mr. Simpson had taken his departure, that Mr. Green was in no mood for catechising him, and had evidently accepted the story of his escape and return as a particularly disagreeable fact. So disagreeable that the less he heard of it the better.
“I hope you’ve not come home after all these years to make things unpleasant?” he remarked presently, as they sat at tea.
“I couldn’t be unpleasant if I tried,” said Mr. Letts.
“We’ve been very happy and comfortable here — me and your mother and sister,” continued Mr. Green. “Haven’t we, Emily?”
“Yes,” said his wife, with nervous quickness.
“And I hope you’ll be the same,” said Mr. Green. “It’s my wish that you should make yourself quite comfortable here — till you go to sea again.”
“Thankee,” said Mr. Letts; “but I don’t think I shall go to sea any more. Ship’s carpenter is my trade, and I’ve been told more than once that I should do better ashore. Besides, I don’t want to lose mother and Betty again.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 231
