Night Watches. William Wymark Jacobs
one or two people didn’t receive a little bit of a shock to their nerves,” said the visitor, thoughtfully. “One lady even stayed in bed next day. However, I made it all right with them. The company is very generous, and although of course there is no legal obligation, they made several of them a present of a few pounds, so that they could go away for a little change, or anything of that sort, to quiet their nerves.”
Mr. Scutts, who had been listening with closed eyes, opened them languidly and said, “Oh.”
“I gave one gentleman twen-ty pounds!” said the visitor, jingling some coins in his trouser-pocket. “I never saw a man so pleased and grateful in my life. When he signed the receipt for it—I always get them to sign a receipt, so that the company can see that I haven’t kept the money for myself—he nearly wept with joy.”
“I should think he would,” said Mr. Scutts, slowly—“if he wasn’t hurt.”
“You’re the last on my list,” said the other, hastily. He produced a slip of paper from his pocket-book and placed it on the small table, with a fountain pen. Then, with a smile that was both tender and playful, he plunged his hand in his pocket and poured a stream of gold on the table.
“What do you say to thir-ty pounds?” he said, in a hushed voice. “Thirty golden goblins?”
“What for?” inquired Mr. Scutts, with a notable lack of interest.
“For—well, to go away for a day or two,” said the visitor. “I find you in bed; it may be a cold or a bilious attack; or perhaps you had a little upset of the nerves when the trains kissed each other.”
“I’m in bed—because—I can’t walk-or stand,” said Mr. Scutts, speaking very distinctly. “I’m on my club, and if as ‘ow I get well in a day or two, there’s no reason why the company should give me any money. I’m pore, but I’m honest.”
“Take my advice as a friend,” said the other; “take the money while you can get it.”
He nodded significantly at Mr. Scutts and closed one eye. Mr. Scutts closed both of his.
“I ‘ad my back hurt in the collision,” he said, after a long pause. “I ‘ad to be helped ‘ome. So far it seems to get worse, but I ‘ope for the best.”
“Dear me,” said the visitor; “how sad! I suppose it has been coming on for a long time. Most of these back cases do. At least all the doctors say so.”
“It was done in the collision,” said Mr. Scutts, mildly but firmly. “I was as right as rain before then.”
The visitor shook his head and smiled. “Ah! you would have great difficulty in proving that,” he said, softly; “in fact, speaking as man to man, I don’t mind telling you it would be impossible. I’m afraid I’m exceeding my duty, but, as you’re the last on my list, suppose—suppose we say forty pounds. Forty! A small fortune.”
He added some more gold to the pile on the table, and gently tapped Mr. Scutts’s arm with the end of the pen.
“Good afternoon,” said the invalid.
The visitor, justly concerned at his lack of intelligence, took a seat on the edge of the bed and spoke to him as a friend and a brother, but in vain. Mr. Scutts reminded him at last that it was medicine-time, after which, pain and weakness permitting, he was going to try to get a little sleep.
“Forty pounds!” he said to his wife, after the official had departed. “Why didn’t ‘e offer me a bag o’ sweets?”
“It’s a lot o’ money,” said Mrs. Scutts, wistfully.
“So’s a thousand,” said her husband. “I ain’t going to ‘ave my back broke for nothing, I can tell you. Now, you keep that mouth o’ yours shut, and if I get it, you shall ‘ave a new pair o’ boots.”
“A thousand!” exclaimed the startled Mrs. Scutts. “Have you took leave of your senses, or what?”
“I read a case in the paper where a man got it,” said Mr. Scutts. “He ‘ad his back ‘urt too, pore chap. How would you like to lay on your back all your life for a thousand pounds?”
“Will you ‘ave to lay abed all your life?” inquired his wife, staring.
“Wait till I get the money,” said Mr. Scutts; “then I might be able to tell you better.”
He gazed wistfully at the window. It was late October, but the sun shone and the air was clear. The sound of traffic and cheerful voices ascended from the little street. To Mr. Scutts it all seemed to be a part of a distant past.
“If that chap comes round to-morrow and offers me five hundred,” he said, slowly, “I don’t know as I won’t take it. I’m sick of this mouldy bed.”
He waited expectantly next day, but nothing happened, and after a week of bed he began to realize that the job might be a long one. The monotony, to a man of his active habits, became almost intolerable, and the narrated adventures of Mr. James Flynn, his only caller, filled him with an uncontrollable longing to be up and doing.
The fine weather went, and Mr. Scutts, in his tumbled bed, lay watching the rain beating softly on the window-panes. Then one morning he awoke to the darkness of a London fog.
“It gets worse and worse,” said Mrs. Scutts, as she returned home in the afternoon with a relish for his tea. “Can’t see your ‘and before your face.”
Mr. Scutts looked thoughtful. He ate his tea in silence, and after he had finished lit his pipe and sat up in bed smoking.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said his wife.
“I’m going out,” said Mr. Scutts, in a voice that defied opposition. “I’m going to ‘ave a walk, and when I’m far enough away I’m going to ‘ave one or two drinks. I believe this fog is sent a-purpose to save my life.”
Mrs. Scutts remonstrated, but in vain, and at half-past six the invalid, with his cap over his eyes and a large scarf tied round the lower part of his face, listened for a moment at his front door and then disappeared in the fog.
Left to herself, Mrs. Scutts returned to the bedroom and, poking the tiny fire into a blaze, sat and pondered over the willfulness of men.
She was awakened from a doze by a knocking at the street-door. It was just eight o’clock, and, inwardly congratulating her husband on his return to common sense and home, she went down and opened it. Two tall men in silk hats entered the room.
“Mrs. Scutts?” said one of them.
Mrs. Scutts, in a dazed fashion, nodded.
“We have come to see your husband,” said the intruder. “I am a doctor.”
The panic-stricken Mrs. Scutts tried in vain to think.
“He-he’s asleep,” she said, at last.
“Doesn’t matter,” said the doctor.
“Not a bit,” said his companion.
“You—you can’t see him,” protested Mrs. Scutts. “He ain’t to be seen.”
“He’d be sorry to miss me,” said the doctor, eyeing her keenly as she stood on guard by the inner door. “I suppose he’s at home?”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Scutts, stammering and flushing. “Why, the pore man can’t stir from his bed.”
“Well, I’ll just peep in at the door, then,” said the doctor. “I won’t wake him. You can’t object to that. If you do—”
Mrs. Scutts’s head began to swim. “I’ll go up and see whether he’s awake,” she said.
She closed the door on them and stood with her hand to her throat, thinking. Then, instead of going upstairs, she passed into the yard and, stepping over the fence, opened Mr. Flynn’s back door.
“Halloa!” said that gentleman, who was standing in the scullery removing mud from his boots. “What’s up?”
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