He trundled the tub upstairs the same night and, after his wife had gone downstairs next morning, opened the door and took in the can and pail that stood outside. He poured the contents into the tub, and, after eyeing it thoughtfully for some time, agitated the surface with his right foot. He dipped and dried that much enduring member some ten times, and after regarding the damp condition of the towels with great satisfaction, dressed himself and went downstairs.
“I’m all of a glow,” he said, seating himself at the table. “I believe I could eat a elephant. I feel as fresh as a daisy; don’t you, Bert?”
Mr. Jobson, junior, who had just come in from the shop, remarked, shortly, that he felt more like a blooming snowdrop.
“And somebody slopped a lot of water over the stairs carrying it up,” said Mrs. Jobson. “I don’t believe as everybody has cold baths of a morning. It don’t seem wholesome to me.”
Mr. Jobson took a book from his pocket, and opening it at a certain page, handed it over to her.
“If I’m going to do the thing at all I must do it properly,” he said, gravely. “I don’t suppose Bill Foley ever ‘ad a cold tub in his life; he don’t know no better. Gladys!”
“Halloa!” said that young lady, with a start.
“Are you — are you eating that kipper with your fingers?”
Gladys turned and eyed her mother appealingly.
“Page-page one hundred and something, I think it is,” said her father, with his mouth full. “‘Manners at the Dinner Table.’ It’s near the end of the book, I know.”
“If I never do no worse than that I shan’t come to no harm,” said his daughter.
Mr. Jobson shook his head at her, and after eating his breakfast with great care, wiped his mouth on his handkerchief and went into the shop.
“I suppose it’s all right,” said Mrs. Jobson, looking after him, “but he’s taking it very serious — very.”
“He washed his hands five times yesterday morning,” said Dorothy, who had just come in from the shop to her breakfast; “and kept customers waiting while he did it, too.”
“It’s the cold-tub business I can’t get over,” said her mother. “I’m sure it’s more trouble to empty them than what it is to fill them. There’s quite enough work in the ‘ouse as it is.”
“Too much,” said Bert, with unwonted consideration.
“I wish he’d leave me alone,” said Gladys. “My food don’t do me no good when he’s watching every mouthful I eat.”
Of murmurings such as these Mr. Jobson heard nothing, and in view of the great improvement in his dress and manners, a strong resolution was passed to avoid the faintest appearance of discontent. Even when, satisfied with his own appearance, he set to work to improve that of Mrs. Jobson, that admirable woman made no complaint. Hitherto the brightness of her attire and the size of her hats had been held to atone for her lack of figure and the roomy comfort of her boots, but Mr. Jobson, infected with new ideas, refused to listen to such sophistry. He went shopping with Dorothy; and the Sunday after, when Mrs. Jobson went for an airing with him, she walked in boots with heels two inches high and toes that ended in a point. A waist that had disappeared some years before was recaptured and placed in durance vile; and a hat which called for a new style of hair-dressing completed the effect.
“You look splendid, ma!” said Gladys, as she watched their departure. “Splendid!”
“I don’t feel splendid,” sighed Mrs. Jobson to her husband. “These ‘ere boots feel red-’ot.”
“Your usual size,” said Mr. Jobson, looking across the road.
“And the clothes seem just a teeny-weeny bit tight, p’r’aps,” continued his wife.
Mr. Jobson regarded her critically. “P’r’aps they might have been let out a quarter of an inch,” he: said, thoughtfully. “They’re the best fit you’ve ‘ad for a long time, mother. I only ‘ope the gals’ll ‘ave such good figgers.”
His wife smiled faintly, but, with little breath for conversation, walked on for some time in silence. A growing redness of face testified to her distress.
“I — I feel awful,” she said at last, pressing her hand to her side. “Awful.”
“You’ll soon get used to it,” said Mr. Jobson, gently. “Look at me! I felt like you do at first, and now I wouldn’t go back to old clothes — and comfort — for anything. You’ll get to love them boots.
“If I could only take ’em off I should love ’em better,” said his wife, panting; “and I can’t breathe properly — I can’t breathe.”
“You look ripping, mother,” said her husband, simply.
His wife essayed another smile, but failed. She set her lips together and plodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerily and taking no notice of the fact that she kept lurching against him. Two miles from home she stopped and eyed him fixedly.
“If I don’t get these boots off, Alf, I shall be a ‘elpless cripple for the rest of my days,” she murmured. “My ankle’s gone over three times.”
“But you can’t take ’em off here,” said Mr. Jobson, hastily. “Think ‘ow it would look.”
“I must ‘ave a cab or something,” said his wife, hysterically. “If I don’t get ’em off soon I shall scream.”
She leaned against the iron palings of a house for support, while Mr. Jobson, standing on the kerb, looked up and down the road for a cab. A four-wheeler appeared just in time to prevent the scandal — of Mrs. Jobson removing her boots in the street.
“Thank goodness,” she gasped, as she climbed in. “Never mind about untying ’em, Alf; cut the laces and get ’em off quick.”
They drove home with the boots standing side by side on the seat in front of them. Mr. Jobson got out first and knocked at the door, and as soon as it opened Mrs. Jobson pattered across the intervening space with the boots dangling from her hand. She had nearly reached the door when Mr. Foley, who had a diabolical habit of always being on hand when he was least wanted, appeared suddenly from the offside of the cab.
“Been paddlin’?” he inquired.
Mrs. Jobson, safe in her doorway, drew herself up and, holding the boots behind her, surveyed him with a stare of high-bred disdain.
“Been paddlin’?” he inquired
“I see you going down the road in ’em,” said the unabashed Mr. Foley, “and I says to myself, I says, ‘Pride’ll bear a pinch, but she’s going too far. If she thinks that she can squeedge those little tootsywootsies of ‘ers into them boo—’”
The door slammed violently and left him exchanging grins with Mr. Jobson.
“How’s the ‘at?” he inquired.
Mr. Jobson winked. “Bet you a level ‘arf-dollar I ain’t wearing it next Sunday,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.
Mr. Foley edged away.
“Not good enough,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve had a good many bets with you first and last, Alf, but I can’t remember as I ever won one yet. So long.”
FRIENDS IN NEED
R. Joseph Gibbs finished his half-pint in the private bar of the Red Lion with the slowness of a man unable to see where the next was coming from, and, placing the mug on the counter, filled his pipe from a small paper of tobacco and shook his head slowly at his companions.
“First I’ve ‘ad since ten o’clock this morning,” he said, in a hard voice.
“Cheer up,” said Mr. George Brown.
“It can’t go on for ever,” said Bob Kidd, encouragingly.
“All I ask for — is work,” said Mr. Gibbs, impressively. “Not slavery, mind yer, but work.”
“It’s rather difficult to distinguish,” said Mr. Brown.
“‘Specially for some people,” added Mr. Kidd.
“Go on,” said Mr. Gibbs, gloomily. “Go on. Stand a man ‘arf a pint, and then go and hurt ‘is feelings. Twice yesterday I wondered to myself what it would feel like to make a hole in the water.”
“Lots o’ chaps do do it,” said Mr. Brown, musingly.
“And leave their wives and families t
o starve,” said Mr. Gibbs, icily.
“Very often the wife is better off,” said his friend. “It’s one mouth less for her to feed. Besides, she gen’rally gets something. When pore old Bill went they ‘ad a Friendly Lead at the ‘King’s Head’ and got his missis pretty nearly seventeen pounds.”
“And I believe we’d get more than that for your old woman,” said Mr. Kidd. “There’s no kids, and she could keep ‘erself easy. Not that I want to encourage you to make away with yourself.”
Mr. Gibbs scowled and, tilting his mug, peered gloomily into the interior.
“Joe won’t make no ‘ole in the water,” said Mr. Brown, wagging his head. “If it was beer, now—”
Mr. Gibbs turned and, drawing himself up to five feet three, surveyed the speaker with an offensive stare.
“I don’t see why he need make a ‘ole in anything,” said Mr. Kidd, slowly. “It ‘ud do just as well if we said he ‘ad. Then we could pass the hat round and share it.”
“Divide it into three halves and each ‘ave one,” said Mr. Brown, nodding; “but ‘ow is it to be done?”
“‘Ave some more beer and think it over,” said Mr. Kidd, pale with excitement. “Three pints, please.”
He and Mr. Brown took up their pints, and nodded at each other. Mr. Gibbs, toying idly with the handle of his, eyed them carefully. “Mind, I’m not promising anything,” he said, slowly. “Understand, I ain’t a-committing of myself by drinking this ‘ere pint.”
“You leave it to me, Joe,” said Mr. Kidd.
Mr. Gibbs left it to him after a discussion in which pints played a persuasive part; with the result that Mr. Brown, sitting in the same bar the next evening with two or three friends, was rudely disturbed by the cyclonic entrance of Mr. Kidd, who, dripping with water, sank on a bench and breathed heavily.
“What’s up? What’s the matter?” demanded several voices.
“It’s Joe — poor Joe Gibbs,” said Mr. Kidd. “I was on Smith’s wharf shifting that lighter to the next berth, and, o’ course Joe must come aboard to help. He was shoving her off with ‘is foot when—”
He broke off and shuddered and, accepting a mug of beer, pending the arrival of some brandy that a sympathizer had ordered, drank it slowly.
“It all ‘appened in a flash,” he said, looking round. “By the time I ‘ad run round to his end he was just going down for the third time. I hung over the side and grabbed at ‘im, and his collar and tie came off in my hand. Nearly went in, I did.”
He held out the collar and tie; and approving notice was taken of the fact that he was soaking wet from the top of his head to the middle button of his waistcoat.
“Pore chap!” said the landlord, leaning over the bar. “He was in ‘ere only ‘arf an hour ago, standing in this very bar.”
“Well, he’s ‘ad his last drop o’ beer,” said a carman in a chastened voice.
“That’s more than anybody can say,” said the landlord, sharply. “I never heard anything against the man; he’s led a good life so far as I know, and ‘ow can we tell that he won’t ‘ave beer?”
He made Mr. Kidd a present of another small glass of brandy.
“He didn’t leave any family, did he?” he inquired, as he passed it over.
“Only a wife,” said Mr. Kidd; “and who’s to tell that pore soul I don’t know. She fair doated on ‘im. ‘Ow she’s to live I don’t know. I shall do what I can for ‘er.”
“Same ‘ere,” said Mr. Brown, in a deep voice.
“Something ought to be done for ‘er,” said the carman, as he went out.
“First thing is to tell the police,” said the landlord. “They ought to know; then p’r’aps one of them’ll tell her. It’s what they’re paid for.”
“It’s so awfully sudden. I don’t know where I am ‘ardly,” said Mr. Kidd. “I don’t believe she’s got a penny-piece in the ‘ouse. Pore Joe ‘ad a lot o’ pals. I wonder whether we could’nt get up something for her.”
“Go round and tell the police first,” said the landlord, pursing up his lips thoughtfully. “We can talk about that later on.”
Mr. Kidd thanked him warmly and withdrew, accompanied by Mr. Brown. Twenty minutes later they left the station, considerably relieved at the matter-of-fact way in which the police had received the tidings, and, hurrying across London Bridge, made their way towards a small figure supporting its back against a post in the Borough market.
“Well?” said Mr. Gibbs, snappishly, as he turned at the sound of their footsteps.
“It’ll be all right, Joe,” said Mr. Kidd. “We’ve sowed the seed.”
“Sowed the wot?” demanded the other.
Mr. Kidd explained.
“Ho!” said Mr. Gibbs. “An’ while your precious seed is a-coming up, wot am I to do? Wot about my comfortable ‘ome? Wot about my bed and grub?”
His two friends looked at each other uneasily. In the excitement of the arrangements they had for gotten these things, and a long and sometimes painful experience of Mr. Gibbs showed them only too plainly where they were drifting.
“You’ll ‘ave to get a bed this side o’ the river somewhere,” said Mr. Brown, slowly. “Coffee-shop or something; and a smart, active man wot keeps his eyes open can always pick up a little money.”
Mr. Gibbs laughed.
“And mind,” said Mr. Kidd, furiously, in reply to the laugh, “anything we lend you is to be paid back out of your half when you get it. And, wot’s more, you don’t get a ha’penny till you’ve come into a barber’s shop and ‘ad them whiskers off. We don’t want no accidents.”
Mr. Gibbs, with his back against the post, fought for his whiskers for nearly half an hour, and at the end of that time was led into a barber’s, and in a state of sullen indignation proffered his request for a “clean” shave. He gazed at the bare-faced creature that confronted him in the glass after the operation in open-eyed consternation, and Messrs. Kidd and Brown’s politeness easily gave way before their astonishment.
“Well, I may as well have a ‘air-cut while I’m here,” said Mr. Gibbs, after a lengthy survey.
“And a shampoo, sir?” said the assistant.
“Just as you like,” said Mr. Gibbs, turning a deaf ear to the frenzied expostulations of his financial backers. “Wot is it?”
He sat in amazed discomfort during the operation, and emerging with his friends remarked that he felt half a stone lighter. The information was received in stony silence, and, having spent some time in the selection, they found a quiet public-house, and in a retired corner formed themselves into a Committee of Ways and Means.
“That’ll do for you to go on with,” said Mr. Kidd, after he and Mr. Brown had each made a contribution; “and, mind, it’s coming off of your share.”
Mr. Gibbs nodded. “And any evening you want to see me you’ll find me in here,” he remarked. “Beer’s ripping. Now you’d better go and see my old woman.”
The two friends departed, and, to their great relief, found a little knot of people outside the abode of Mrs. Gibbs. It was clear that the news had been already broken, and, pushing their way upstairs, they found the widow with a damp handkerchief in her hand surrounded by attentive friends. In feeble accents she thanked Mr. Kidd for his noble attempts at rescue.
“He ain’t dry yet,” said Mr. Brown.
“I done wot I could,” said Mr. Kidd, simply. “Pore Joe! Nobody could ha’ had a better pal. Nobody!”
“Always ready to lend a helping ‘and to them as was in trouble, he was,” said Mr. Brown, looking round.
“‘Ear, ‘ear!” said a voice.
“And we’ll lend ‘im a helping ‘and,” said Mr. Kidd, energetically. “We can’t do ‘im no good, pore chap, but we can try and do something for ‘er as is left behind.”
He moved slowly to the door, accompanied by Mr. Brown, and catching the eye of one or two of the men beckoned them to follow. Under his able guidance a small but gradually increasing crowd made its way to the “Red Lion.” For the next three
or four days the friends worked unceasingly. Cards stating that a Friendly Lead would be held at the “Red Lion,” for the benefit of the widow of the late Mr. Joseph Gibbs, were distributed broadcast; and anecdotes portraying a singularly rare and beautiful character obtained an even wider circulation. Too late Wapping realized the benevolent disposition and the kindly but unobtrusive nature that had departed from it for ever.
Mr. Gibbs, from his retreat across the water, fully shared his friends’ enthusiasm, but an insane desire — engendered by vanity — to be present at the function was a source of considerable trouble and annoyance to them. When he offered to black his face and take part in the entertainment as a nigger minstrel, Mr. Kidd had to be led outside and kept there until such time as he could converse in English pure and undefiled.
“Getting above ‘imself, that’s wot it is,” said Mr. Brown, as they wended their way home. “He’s having too much money out of us to spend; but it won’t be for long now.”
“He’s having a lord’s life of it, while we’re slaving ourselves to death,” grumbled Mr. Kidd. “I never see’im looking so fat and well. By rights he oughtn’t to ‘ave the same share as wot we’re going to ‘ave; he ain’t doing none of the work.”
His ill-humour lasted until the night of the “Lead,” which, largely owing to the presence of a sporting fishmonger who had done well at the races that day, and some of his friends, realized a sum far beyond the expectations of the hard-working promoters. The fishmonger led off by placing a five-pound note in the plate, and the packed audience breathed so hard that the plate-holder’s responsibility began to weigh upon his spirits. In all, a financial tribute of thirty-seven pounds three and fourpence was paid to the memory of the late Mr. Gibbs.
“Over twelve quid apiece,” said the delighted Mr. Kidd as he bade his co-worker good night. “Sounds too good to be true.”
The next day passed all too slowly, but work was over at last, and Mr. Kidd led the way over London Bridge a yard or two ahead of the more phlegmatic Mr. Brown. Mr. Gibbs was in his old corner at the “Wheelwright’s Arms,” and, instead of going into ecstasies over the sum realized, hinted darkly that it would have been larger if he had been allowed to have had a hand in it.
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 237
