“You might ha’ knocked me down with a feather, as the saying is, and I just stood inside the office speechless. The boy ‘ad disappeared and sitting on the floor where I ‘ad left ‘im was a very nice-looking gal of about eighteen, with short ‘air, and a white blouse.
“‘Good evening, sir,’ she ses, jumping up and giving me a pretty little frightened look. ‘I’m so sorry that my brother has been deceiving you. He’s a bad, wicked, ungrateful boy. The idea of telling you that Mr. Watson was ‘is father! Have you been there? I do ‘ope you’re not tired.’
“‘Where is he?’ I ses.
“‘He’s gorn,’ she ses, shaking her ‘ead. ‘I begged and prayed of ‘im to stop, but ‘e wouldn’t. He said ‘e thought you might be offended with ‘im. “Give my love to old Roley-Poley, and tell him I don’t trust ‘im,” he ses.’
“She stood there looking so scared that I didn’t know wot to say. By and by she took out ‘er little pocket-’ankercher and began to cry —
“‘Oh, get ‘im back,’ she ses. ‘Don’t let it be said I follered ‘im ‘ere all the way for nothing. Have another try. For my sake!’
“‘‘Ow can I get ‘im back when I don’t know where he’s gorn?’ I ses.
“‘He-he’s gorn to ‘is godfather,’ she ses, dabbing her eyes. ‘I promised ‘im not to tell anybody; but I don’t know wot to do for the best.’
“‘Well, p’r’aps his godfather will ‘old on to ‘im,’ I ses.
“‘He won’t tell ‘im anything about going to sea,’ she ses, shaking ‘er little head. ‘He’s just gorn to try and bo — bo-borrow some money to go away with.’
“She bust out sobbing, and it was all I could do to get the godfather’s address out of ‘er. When I think of the trouble I took to get it I come over quite faint. At last she told me, between ‘er sobs, that ‘is name was Mr. Kiddem, and that he lived at 27, Bridge Street.
“‘He’s one o’ the kindest-’arted and most generous men that ever lived,’ she ses; ‘that’s why my brother Harry ‘as gone to ‘im. And you needn’t mind taking anything ‘e likes to give you; he’s rolling in money.’
“I took it a bit easier going to Bridge Street, but the evening seemed ‘otter than ever, and by the time I got to the ‘ouse I was pretty near done up. A nice, tidy-looking woman opened the door, but she was a’ most stone deaf, and I ‘ad to shout the name pretty near a dozen times afore she ‘eard it.
“‘He don’t live ‘ere,’ she ses.
“‘‘As he moved?’ I ses. ‘Or wot?’
“She shook her ‘cad, and, arter telling me to wait, went in and fetched her ‘usband.
“‘Never ‘eard of him,’ he ses, ‘and we’ve been ‘ere seventeen years. Are you sure it was twenty-seven?’
“‘Sartain,’ I ses.
“‘Well, he don’t live ‘ere,’ he ses. ‘Why not try thirty-seven and forty-seven?’
“I tried’em: thirty-seven was empty, and a pasty-faced chap at forty-seven nearly made ‘imself ill over the name of ‘Kiddem.’ It ‘adn’t struck me before, but it’s a hard matter to deceive me, and all in a flash it come over me that I ‘ad been done agin, and that the gal was as bad as ‘er brother.
“I was so done up I could ‘ardly crawl back, and my ‘ead was all in a maze. Three or four times I stopped and tried to think, but couldn’t, but at last I got back and dragged myself into the office.
“As I ‘arf expected, it was empty. There was no sign of either the gal or the boy; and I dropped into a chair and tried to think wot it all meant. Then, ‘appening to look out of the winder, I see somebody running up and down the jetty.
“I couldn’t see plain owing to the things in the way, but as soon as I got outside and saw who it was I nearly dropped. It was the boy, and he was running up and down wringing his ‘ands and crying like a wild thing, and, instead o’ running away as soon as ‘e saw me, he rushed right up to me and threw ‘is grubby little paws round my neck.
“‘Save her!’ ‘e ses. ‘Save ‘er! Help! Help!’
“‘Look ‘ere,’ I ses, shoving ‘im off.
“‘She fell overboard,’ he ses, dancing about. ‘Oh, my pore sister! Quick! Quick! I can’t swim!’
“He ran to the side and pointed at the water, which was just about at ‘arf-tide. Then ‘e caught ‘old of me agin.
“‘Make ‘aste,’ he ses, giving me a shove behind. ‘Jump in. Wot are you waiting for?’
“I stood there for a moment ‘arf dazed, looking down at the water. Then I pulled down a life-belt from the wall ‘ere and threw it in, and, arter another moment’s thought, ran back to the Lizzie and Annie, wot was in the inside berth, and gave them a hail. I’ve always ‘ad a good voice, and in a flash the skipper and Ted Sawyer came tumbling up out of the cabin and the ‘ands out of the fo’c’sle.
“‘Gal overboard!’ I ses, shouting.
“The skipper just asked where, and then ‘im and the mate and a couple of ‘ands tumbled into their boat and pulled under the jetty for all they was worth. Me and the boy ran back and stood with the others, watching.
“‘Point out the exact spot,’ ses the skipper.
“The boy pointed, and the skipper stood up in the boat and felt round with a boat-hook. Twice ‘e said he thought ‘e touched something, but it turned out as ‘e was mistaken. His face got longer and longer and ‘e shook his ‘ead, and said he was afraid it was no good.
“‘Don’t stand cryin’ ‘ere,’ he ses to the boy, kindly. ‘Jem, run round for the Thames police, and get them and the drags. Take the boy with you. It’ll occupy ‘is mind.’
“He ‘ad another go with the boat-hook arter they ‘ad gone; then ‘e gave it up, and sat in the boat waiting.
“‘This’ll be a bad job for you, watchman,’ he ses, shaking his ‘ead. ‘Where was you when it ‘appened?’
“‘He’s been missing all the evening,’ ses the cook, wot was standing beside me. ‘If he’d been doing ‘is dooty, the pore gal wouldn’t ‘ave been drownded. Wot was she doing on the wharf?’
“‘Skylarkin’, I s’pose,’ ses the mate. ‘It’s a wonder there ain’t more drownded. Wot can you expect when the watchman is sitting in a pub all the evening?’
“The cook said I ought to be ‘ung, and a young ordinary seaman wot was standing beside ‘im said he would sooner I was boiled. I believe they ‘ad words about it, but I was feeling too upset to take much notice.
“‘Looking miserable won’t bring ‘er back to life agin,’ ses the skipper, looking up at me and shaking his ‘ead. ‘You’d better go down to my cabin and get yourself a drop o’ whisky; there’s a bottle on the table. You’ll want all your wits about you when the police come. And wotever you do don’t say nothing to criminate yourself.’
“‘We’ll do the criminating for ‘im all right,’ ses the cook.
“‘If I was the pore gal I’d haunt ‘im,’ ses the ordinary seaman; ‘every night of ‘is life I’d stand afore ‘im dripping with water and moaning.’
“‘P’r’aps she will,’ ses the cook; ‘let’s ‘ope so, at any rate.’
“I didn’t answer ’em; I was too dead-beat. Besides which, I’ve got a ‘orror of ghosts, and the idea of being on the wharf alone of a night arter such a thing was a’most too much for me. I went on board the Lizzie and Annie, and down in the cabin I found a bottle o’ whisky, as the skipper ‘ad said. I sat down on the locker and ‘ad a glass, and then I sat worrying and wondering wot was to be the end of it all.
“The whisky warmed me up a bit, and I ‘ad just taken up the bottle to ‘elp myself agin when I ‘eard a faint sort o’ sound in the skipper’s state-room. I put the bottle down and listened, but everything seemed deathly still. I took it up agin, and ‘ad just poured out a drop o’ whisky when I distinctly ‘eard a hissing noise and then a little moan.
“For a moment I sat turned to stone. Then I put the bottle down quiet, and ‘ad just got up to go when the door of the state-room opened, and I saw the drownded gal, with
‘er little face and hair all wet and dripping, standing before me.
“Ted Sawyer ‘as been telling everybody that I came up the companion-way like a fog-horn that ‘ad lost its ma; I wonder how he’d ‘ave come up if he’d ‘ad the evening I had ‘ad?
“They were all on the jetty as I got there and tumbled into the skipper’s arms, and all asking at once wot was the matter. When I got my breath back a bit and told ’em, they laughed. All except the cook, and ‘e said it was only wot I might expect. Then, like a man in a dream, I see the gal come out of the companion and walk slowly to the side.
“‘Look!’ I ses. ‘Look. There she is!’
“‘You’re dreaming,’ ses the skipper, ‘there’s nothing there.’
“They all said the same, even when the gal stepped on to the side and climbed on to the wharf. She came along towards me with ‘er arms held close to ‘er sides, and making the most ‘orrible faces at me, and it took five of’em all their time to ‘old me. The wharf and everything seemed to me to spin round and round. Then she came straight up to me and patted me on the cheek.
“‘Pore old gentleman,’ she ses. ‘Wot a shame it is, Ted! It’s too bad.’
“They let go o’ me then, and stamped up and down the jetty laughing fit to kill themselves. If they ‘ad only known wot a exhibition they was making of themselves, and ‘ow I pitied them, they wouldn’t ha’ done it. And by and by Ted wiped his eyes and put his arm round the gal’s waist and ses —
“‘This is my intended, Miss Florrie Price,’ he ses. ‘Ain’t she a little wonder? Wot d’ye think of ‘er?’
“‘I’ll keep my own opinion,’ I ses. ‘I ain’t got nothing to say against gals, but if I only lay my hands on that young brother of ‘ers’
“They went off agin then, worse than ever; and at last the cook came and put ‘is skinny arm round my neck and started spluttering in my ear. I shoved ‘im off hard, because I see it all then; and I should ha’ seen it afore only I didn’t ‘ave time to think. I don’t bear no malice, and all I can say is that I don’t wish ‘er any harder punishment than to be married to Ted Sawyer.”
NIGHT WATCHES
CONTENTS
BACK TO BACK
KEEPING WATCH
THE UNDERSTUDY
THE WEAKER VESSEL
STEPPING BACKWARDS
THE THREE SISTERS
THE UNKNOWN
THE VIGIL
EASY MONEY
HIS OTHER SELF
BACK TO BACK
Mrs. Scutts, concealed behind the curtain, gazed at the cab in uneasy amazement. The cabman clambered down from the box and, opening the door, stood by with his hands extended ready for any help that might be needed. A stranger was the first to alight, and, with his back towards Mrs. Scutts, seemed to be struggling with something in the cab. He placed a dangling hand about his neck and, staggering under the weight, reeled backwards supporting Mr. Scutts, whose other arm was round the neck of a third man. In a flash Mrs. Scutts was at the door.
Mr. Scutts raised his head sharply and his lips parted; then his head sank again, and he became a dead weight in the grasp of his assistants.
“He’s all right,” said one of them, turning to Mrs. Scutts.
A deep groan from Mr. Scutts confirmed the statement.
“What is it?” inquired his wife, anxiously.
“Just a little bit of a railway accident,” said one of the strangers. “Train ran into some empty trucks. Nobody hurt — seriously,” he added, in response to a terrible and annoyed groan from Mr. Scutts.
With his feet dragging helplessly, Mr. Scutts was conveyed over his own doorstep and placed on the sofa.
“All the others went off home on their own legs,” said one of the strangers, reproachfully. “He said he couldn’t walk, and he wouldn’t go to a hospital.”
“Wanted to die at home,” declared the sufferer. “I ain’t going to be cut about at no ‘ospitals.”
The two strangers stood by watching him; then they looked at each other.
“I don’t want — no— ‘ospitals,” gasped Mr. Scutts, “I’m going to have my own doctor.”
“Of course the company will pay the doctor’s bill,” said one of the strangers to Mrs. Scutts, “or they’ll send their own doctor. I expect he’ll be all right to-morrow.”
“I ‘ope so,” said Mr. Scutts, “but I don’t think it. Thank you for bringing of me ‘ome.”
He closed his eyes languidly, and kept them closed until the men had departed.
“Can’t you walk, Bill?” inquired the tearful Mrs. Scutts.
Her husband shook his head. “You go and fetch the doctor,” he said, slowly. “That new one round the corner.”
“He looks such a boy,” objected Mrs. Scutts.
“You go and fetch ‘im,” said Mr. Scutts, raising his voice. “D’ye hear!”
“But—” began his wife.
“If I get up to you, my gal,” said the forgetful Mr. Scutts, “you’ll know it.”
“Why, I thought—” said his wife, in surprise.
Mr. Scutts raised himself on the sofa and shook his fist at her. Then, as a tribute to appearances, he sank back and groaned again. Mrs. Scutts, looking somewhat relieved, took her bonnet from a nail and departed.
The examination was long and tedious, but Mr. Scutts, beyond remarking that he felt chilly, made no complaint. He endeavoured, but in vain, to perform the tests suggested, and even did his best to stand, supported by his medical attendant. Self-preservation is the law of Nature, and when Mr. Scutts’s legs and back gave way he saw to it that the doctor was underneath.
“We’ll have to get you up to bed,” said the latter, rising slowly and dusting himself.
Mr. Scutts, who was lying full length on the floor, acquiesced, and sent his wife for some neighbours. One of them was a professional furniture-remover, and, half-way up the narrow stairs, the unfortunate had to remind him that he was dealing with a British working man, and not a piano. Four pairs of hands deposited Mr. Scutts with mathematical precision in the centre of the bed and then proceeded to tuck him in, while Mrs. Scutts drew the sheet in a straight line under his chin.
“Don’t look much the matter with ‘im,” said one of the assistants.
“You can’t tell with a face like that,” said the furniture-remover. “It’s wot you might call a ‘appy face. Why, he was ‘arf smiling as we, carried ‘im up the stairs.”
“You’re a liar,” said Mr. Scutts, opening his eyes.
“All right, mate,” said the furniture-remover; “all right. There’s no call to get annoyed about it. Good old English pluck, I call it. Where d’you feel the pain?”
“All over,” said Mr. Scutts, briefly.
His neighbours regarded him with sympathetic eyes, and then, led by the furniture-remover, filed out of the room on tip-toe. The doctor, with a few parting instructions, also took his departure.
“If you’re not better by the morning,” he said, pausing at the door, “you must send for your club doctor.”
Mr. Scutts, in a feeble voice, thanked him, and lay with a twisted smile on his face listening to his wife’s vivid narrative to the little crowd which had collected at the front door. She came back, followed by the next-door neighbour, Mr. James Flynn, whose offers of assistance ranged from carrying Mr. Scutts out pick-a-back when he wanted to take the air, to filling his pipe for him and fetching his beer.
“But I dare say you’ll be up and about in a couple o’ days,” he concluded. “You wouldn’t look so well if you’d got anything serious the matter; rosy, fat cheeks and — —”
“That’ll do,” said the indignant invalid. “It’s my back that’s hurt, not my face.”
“I know,” said Mr. Flynn, nodding sagely; “but if it was hurt bad your face would be as white as that sheet-whiter.”
“The doctor said as he was to be kep’ quiet,” remarked Mrs. Scutts, sharply.
“Right-o,” said Mr. Flynn. “Ta-ta, old pal. Keep your pecker up
, and if you want your back rubbed with turps, or anything of that sort, just knock on the wall.”
He went, before Mr. Scutts could think of a reply suitable for an invalid and, at the same time, bristling with virility. A sinful and foolish desire to leap out of bed and help Mr. Flynn downstairs made him more rubicund than ever.
He sent for the club doctor next morning, and, pending his arrival, partook of a basin of arrowroot and drank a little beef-tea. A bottle of castor-oil and an empty pill-box on the table by the bedside added a little local colour to the scene.
“Any pain?” inquired the doctor, after an examination in which bony and very cold fingers had played a prominent part.
“Not much pain,” said Mr. Scutts. “Don’t seem to have no strength in my back.”
“Ah!” said the doctor.
“I tried to get up this morning to go to my work,” said Mr. Scutts, “but I can’t stand! couldn’t get out of bed.”
“Fearfully upset, he was, pore dear,” testified Mrs. Scutts. “He can’t bear losing a day. I s’pose — I s’pose the railway company will ‘ave to do something if it’s serious, won’t they, sir?”
“Nothing to do with me,” said the doctor. “I’ll put him on the club for a few days; I expect he will be all right soon. He’s got a healthy colour — a very healthy colour.”
Mr. Scutts waited until he had left the house and then made a few remarks on the colour question that for impurity of English and strength of diction have probably never been surpassed.
A second visitor that day came after dinner — a tall man in a frock-coat, bearing in his hand a silk hat, which, after a careful survey of the room, he hung on a knob of the bedpost.
“Mr. Scutts?” he inquired, bowing.
“That’s me,” said Mr. Scutts, in a feeble voice.
“I’ve called from the railway company,” said the stranger. “We have seen now all those who left their names and addresses on Monday afternoon, and I am glad to say that nobody was really hurt. Nobody.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 250
