Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “It won’t be shot if it don’t come on my wharf,” I ses. “Though I don’t mind if it does when I’ve got somebody with me. I ain’t afraid of anything living, and I don’t mind ghosts when there’s two of us. Besides which, the noise of the pistol ‘ll wake up ‘arf the river.”

  “You take care you don’t get woke up,” ses Joe, ‘ardly able to speak for temper.

  He went off stamping, and grinding ‘is teeth, and at eight o’clock to the minute, Ted Dennis turned up with ‘is pistol and helped me take care of the wharf. Happy as a skylark ‘e was, and to see him ‘iding behind a barrel with his pistol ready, waiting for the ghost, a’most made me forget the expense of it all.

  It never came near us that night, and Ted was a bit disappointed next morning as he took ‘is ninepence and went off. Next night was the same, and the next, and then Ted gave up hiding on the wharf for it, and sat and snoozed in the office instead.

  A week went by, and then another, and still there was no sign of Sam Bullet’s ghost, or Joe Peel, and every morning I ‘ad to try and work up a smile as I shelled out ninepence for Ted. It nearly ruined me, and, worse than that, I couldn’t explain why I was short to the missis. Fust of all she asked me wot I was spending it on, then she asked me who I was spending it on. It nearly broke up my ‘ome — she did smash one kitchen- chair and a vase off the parlour mantelpiece — but I wouldn’t tell ‘er, and then, led away by some men on strike at Smith’s wharf, Ted went on strike for a bob a night.

  That was arter he ‘ad been with me for three weeks, and when Saturday came, of course I was more short than ever, and people came and stood at their doors all the way down our street to listen to the missis taking my character away.

  I stood it as long as I could, and then, when ‘er back was turned for ‘arf a moment, I slipped out. While she’d been talking I’d been thinking, and it came to me clear as daylight that there was no need for me to sacrifice myself any longer looking arter a dead man’s watch and chain.

  I didn’t know exactly where Joe Peel lived, but I knew the part, and arter peeping into seven public-’ouses I see the man I wanted sitting by ‘imself in a little bar. I walked in quiet-like, and sat down opposite ‘im.

  “Morning,” I ses.

  Joe Peel grunted.

  “‘Ave one with me?” I ses.

  He grunted agin, but not quite so fierce, and I fetched the two pints from the counter and took a seat alongside of ‘im.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” I ses.

  “Oh!” he ses, looking me up and down and all over. “Well, you’ve found me now.”

  “I want to talk to you about the ghost of pore Sam Bullet,” I ses.

  Joe Peel put ‘is mug down sudden and looked at me fierce. “Look ‘ere! Don’t you come and try to be funny with me,” he ses. “‘Cos I won’t ‘ave it.”

  “I don’t want to be funny,” I ses. “Wot I want to know is, are you in the same mind about that watch and chain as you was the other day?”

  He didn’t seem to be able to speak at fust, but arter a time ‘e gives a gasp. “Woes the game?” he ses.

  “Wot I want to know is, if I give you that watch and chain for fifteen bob, will that keep the ghost from ‘anging round my wharf agin?” I ses.

  “Why, o’ course,” he ses, staring; “but you ain’t been seeing it agin, ‘ave you?”

  “I’ve not, and I don’t want to,” I ses. “If it wants you to ‘ave the watch and chain, give me the fifteen bob, and it’s yours.”

  He looked at me for a moment as if he couldn’t believe ‘is eyesight, and then ‘e puts his ‘and into ‘is trowsis-pocket and pulls out one shilling and fourpence, ‘arf a clay-pipe, and a bit o’ lead-pencil.

  “That’s all I’ve got with me,” he ses. “I’ll owe you the rest. You ought to ha’ took the fifteen bob when I ‘ad it.”

  There was no ‘elp for it, and arter making ‘im swear to give me the rest o’ the money when ‘e got it, and that I shouldn’t see the ghost agin, I ‘anded the things over to ‘im and came away. He came to the door to see me off, and if ever a man looked puzzled, ‘e did. Pleased at the same time.

  It was a load off of my mind. My con-science told me I’d done right, and arter sending a little boy with a note to Ted Dennis to tell ‘im not to come any more, I felt ‘appier than I ‘ad done for a long time. When I got to the wharf that evening it seemed like a diff’rent place, and I was whistling and smiling over my work quite in my old way, when the young policeman passed.

  “Hullo!” he ses. “‘Ave you seen the ghost agin?”

  “I ‘ave not,” I ses, drawing myself up. “‘Ave you?”

  “No,” he ses.

  “We missed it.”

  “Missed it?” I ses, staring at ‘im.

  “Yes,” he ses, nodding. “The day arter you came out screaming, and cuddling me like a frightened baby, it shipped as A.B. on the barque Ocean King, for Valparaiso. We missed it by a few hours. Next time you see a ghost, knock it down fust and go and cuddle the police arterwards.”

  BEDRIDDEN

  July 12, 1915. — Disquieting rumours to the effect that epidemic of Billetitis hitherto confined to the north of King’s Road shows signs of spreading.

  July 14. — Report that two Inns of Court men have been seen peeping over my gate.

  July 16. — Informed that soldier of agreeable appearance and charming manners requests interview with me. Took a dose of Phospherine and went. Found composite photograph of French, Joffre, and Hindenburg waiting for me in the hall. Smiled (he did, I mean) and gave me the mutilated form of salute reserved for civilians. Introduced himself as Quartermaster- Sergeant Beddem, and stated that the Inns of Court O.T.C. was going under canvas next week. After which he gulped. Meantime could I take in a billet. Questioned as to what day the corps was going into camp said that he believed it was Monday, but was not quite sure — might possibly be Tuesday. Swallowed again and coughed a little. Accepted billet and felt completely re-warded by smile. Q.M.S. bade me good-bye, and then with the air of a man suddenly remembering something, asked me whether I could take two. Excused myself and interviewed my C.O. behind the dining-room door. Came back and accepted. Q.M.S. so overjoyed (apparently) that he fell over the scraper. Seemed to jog his memory. He paused, and gazing in absent fashion at the topmost rose on the climber in the porch, asked whether I could take three! Added hopefully that the third was only a boy. Excused myself. Heated debate with C.O. Subject: sheets. Returned with me to explain to the Q.M.S. He smiled. C.O. accepted at once, and, returning smile, expressed regret at size and position of bedrooms available. Q.M.S. went off swinging cane jauntily.

  July 17. — Billets arrived. Spoke to them about next Monday and canvas. They seemed surprised. Strange how the military authorities decline to take men into their confidence merely because they are privates. Let them upstairs. They went (for first and last time) on tiptoe.

  July 18. — Saw Q.M.S. Beddem in the town. Took shelter in the King’s Arms.

  Jug. 3. — Went to Cornwall.

  Aug. 31. — Returned. Billets received me very hospitably.

  Sept. 4. — Private Budd, electrical engineer, dissatisfied with appearance of bell-push in dining-room, altered it.

  Sept. 5. — Bells out of order.

  Sept. 6. — Private Merited, also an electrical engineer, helped Private Budd to repair bells.

  Sept. 7. — Private Budd helped Private Merited to repair bells.

  Sept. 8. — Privates Budd and Merited helped each other to repair bells.

  Sept. 9. — Sent to local tradesman to put my bells in order.

  Sept. 15. — Told that Q.M.S. Beddem wished to see me. Saw C.O. first. She thought he had possibly come to take some of the billets away. Q.M.S. met my approach with a smile that re-minded me vaguely of picture- postcards I had seen. Awfully sorry to trouble me, but Private Montease, just back from three weeks’ holiday with bronchitis, was sleeping in the wood-shed on three planks and a tin-tack. Beamed
at me and waited. Went and bought another bed-stead.

  Sept. 16. — Private Montease and a cough entered into residence.

  Sept. 17, 11.45 p.m. — Maid came to bedroom-door with some cough lozenges which she asked me to take to the new billet. Took them. Private Montease thanked me, but said he didn’t mind coughing. Said it was an heirloom; Montease cough, known in highest circles all over Scotland since time of Young Pretender.

  Sept. 20. — Private Montease installed in easy-chair in dining-room with touch of bronchitis, looking up trains to Bournemouth.

  Sept. 21. — Private Montease in bed all day. Cook anxious “to do her bit” rubbed his chest with home-made embrocation. Believe it is same stuff she rubs chests in hall with. Smells the same anyway.

  Sept. 24. — Private Montease, complaining of slight rawness of chest, but otherwise well, returned to duty.

  Oct. 5. — Cough worse again. Private Montease thinks that with care it may turn to bronchitis. Borrowed an A.B.C.

  Oct. 6. — Private Montease relates uncanny experience. Woke up with feeling of suffocation to find an enormous black-currant and glycerine jujube wedged in his gullet. Never owned such a thing in his life. Seems to be unaware that he always sleeps with his mouth open.

  Nov. 14. — Private Bowser, youngest and tallest of my billets, gazetted.

  Nov. 15, 10.35 a.m. — Private Bowser in tip-top spirits said good-bye to us all.

  10.45. — Told that Q.M.S. Beddem desired to see me. Capitulated. New billet, Private Early, armed to the teeth, turned up in the evening. Said that he was a Yorkshireman. Said that Yorkshire was the finest county in England, and Yorkshiremen the finest men in the world. Stood toying with his bayonet and waiting for contradiction.

  Jan. 5, 1916. — Standing in the garden just after lunch was witness to startling phenomenon. Q.M.S. Beddem came towards front-gate with a smile so expansive that gate after first trembling violently on its hinges swung open of its own accord. Q.M.S., with smile (sad), said he was in trouble. Very old member of the Inns of Court, Private Keen, had re-joined, and he wanted a good billet for him. Would cheerfully give up his own bed, but it wasn’t long enough. Not to be outdone in hospitality by my own gate accepted Private Keen. Q.M.S. digging hole in my path with toe of right boot, and for first and only time manifesting signs of nervousness, murmured that two life-long friends of Private Keen’s had rejoined with him. Known as the Three Inseparables. Where they were to sleep, unless I —— . Fled to house, and locking myself in top-attic watched Q.M.S. from window. He departed with bent head and swagger-cane reversed.

  Jan 6. — Private Keen arrived. Turned out to be son of an old Chief of mine. Resolved not to visit the sins of the father on the head of a child six feet two high and broad in proportion.

  Feb. 6. — Private Keen came home with a temperature.

  Feb. 7. — M.O. diagnosed influenza. Was afraid it would spread.

  Feb. 8. — Warned the other four billets. They seemed amused. Pointed out that influenza had no terrors for men in No. 2 Company, who were doomed to weekly night-ops. under Major Carryon.

  Feb. 9. — House strangely and pleasantly quiet. Went to see how Private Keen was progressing, and found the other four billets sitting in a row on his bed practising deep-breathing exercises.

  Feb. 16. — Billets on night-ops. until late hour. Spoke in highest terms of Major Carryon’s marching powers — also in other terms.

  March 3. — Waited up until midnight for Private Merited, who had gone to Slough on his motor-bike.

  March 4, 1.5 a.m. — Awakened by series of explosions from over-worked, or badly-worked, motor-bike. Put head out of window and threw key to Private Merited. He seemed excited. Said he had been chased all the way from Chesham by a pink rat with yellow spots. Advised him to go to bed. Set him an example.

  1.10. a.m. — Heard somebody in the pantry. 2.10. a.m. — Heard Private Merited going upstairs to bed.

  2.16 a.m. — Heard Private Merited still going upstairs to bed.

  2.20-3.15. a.m. — Heard Private Merited getting to bed.

  April 3, 12.30 a.m. — Town-hooter announced Zeppelins and excited soldier called up my billets from their beds to go and frighten them off. Pleasant to see superiority of billets over the hooter: that only emitted three blasts.

  12.50 a.m. — Billets returned with exception of Private Merited, who was retained for sake of his motor-bike.

  9 a.m. — On way to bath-room ran into Private Merited, who, looking very glum and sleepy, inquired whether I had a copy of the Exchange and Mart in the house.

  10 p.m. — Overheard billets discussing whether it was worth while removing boots before going to bed until the Zeppelin scare was over. Joined in discussion.

  May 2. — Rumours that the Inns of Court were going under canvas. Discredited them.

  May 5. — Rumours grow stronger.

  May 6. — Billets depressed. Begin to think perhaps there is something in rumours after all.

  May 9.-All doubts removed. Tents begin to spring up with the suddenness of mushrooms in fields below Berkhamsted Place.

  May 18, LIBERATION DAY. — Bade a facetious good-bye to my billets; response lacking in bonhomie.

  May 19.-House delightfully quiet. Presented caller of unkempt appearance at back-door with remains of pair of military boots, three empty shaving- stick tins, and a couple of partially bald tooth-brushes.

  May 21. — In afternoon went round and looked at camp. Came home smiling, and went to favourite seat in garden to smoke. Discovered Private Early lying on it fast asleep. Went to study. Private Merited at table writing long and well-reasoned letter to his tailor. As he said he could never write properly with anybody else in the room, left him and went to bath-room. Door locked. Peevish but familiar voice, with a Scotch accent, asked me what I wanted; also complained of temperature of water.

  May 22. — After comparing notes with neighbours, feel deeply grateful to Q.M.S. Beddem for sending me the best six men in the corps.

  July 15. — Feel glad to have been associated, however remotely and humbly, with a corps, the names of whose members appear on the Roll of Honour of every British regiment.

  THE CONVERT

  Mr. Purnip took the arm of the new recruit and hung over him almost tenderly as they walked along; Mr. Billing, with a look of conscious virtue on his jolly face, listened with much satisfaction to his friend’s compliments.

  “It’s such an example,” said the latter. “Now we’ve got you the others will follow like sheep. You will be a bright lamp in the darkness.”

  “Wot’s good enough for me ought to be good enough for them,” said Mr. Billing, modestly. “They’d better not let me catch—”

  “H’sh! H’sh!” breathed Mr. Purnip, tilting his hat and wiping his bald, benevolent head.

  “I forgot,” said the other, with something like a sigh. “No more fighting; but suppose somebody hits me?”

  “Turn the other cheek,” replied Mr. Purnip.

  “They won’t hit that; and when they see you standing there smiling at them—”

  “After being hit?” interrupted Mr. Billing.

  “After being hit,” assented the other, “they’ll be ashamed of themselves, and it’ll hurt them more than if you struck them.”

  “Let’s ‘ope so,” said the convert; “but it don’t sound reasonable. I can hit a man pretty ‘ard. Not that I’m bad-tempered, mind you; a bit quick, p’r’aps. And, after all, a good smack in the jaw saves any amount of argufying.”

  Mr. Purnip smiled, and, as they walked along, painted a glowing picture of the influence to be wielded by a first-class fighting-man who refused to fight. It was a rough neighbourhood, and he recognized with sorrow that more respect was paid to a heavy fist than to a noble intellect or a loving heart.

  “And you combine them all,” he said, patting his companion’s arm.

  Mr. Billing smiled. “You ought to know best,” he said, modestly.

  “You’ll be surprised to find h
ow easy it is,” continued Mr. Purnip. “You will go from strength to strength. Old habits will disappear, and you will hardly know you have lost them. In a few months’ time you will probably be wondering what you could ever have seen in beer, for example.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t want me to give up beer?” said the other.

  “We don’t,” said Mr. Purnip. “I mean that as you grow in stature you will simply lose the taste for it.”

  Mr. Billing came to a sudden full stop. “D’ye mean I shall lose my liking for a drop o’ beer without being able to help myself?” he demanded, in an anxious voice.

  “Of course, it doesn’t happen in every case,” he said, hastily.

  Mr. Billing’s features relaxed. “Well, let’s ‘ope I shall be one of the fortunate ones,” he said, simply. “I can put up with a good deal, but when it comes to beer — —”

  “We shall see,” said the other, smiling.

  “We don’t want to interfere with anybody’s comfort; we want to make them happier, that’s all. A little more kindness between man and man; a little more consideration for each other; a little more brightness in dull lives.”

  He paused at the corner of the street, and, with a hearty handshake, went off. Mr. Billing, a prey to somewhat mixed emotions, continued on his way home. The little knot of earnest men and women who had settled in the district to spread light and culture had been angling for him for some time. He wondered, as he walked, what particular bait it was that had done the mischief.

  “They’ve got me at last,” he remarked, as he opened the house-door and walked into his small kitchen. “I couldn’t say ‘no’ to Mr. Purnip.”

  “Wish ’em joy,” said Mrs. Billing, briefly. “Did you wipe your boots?”

  Her husband turned without a word, and, retreating to the mat, executed a prolonged double-shuffle.

  “You needn’t wear it out,” said the surprised Mrs. Billing.