Night Watches. William Wymark Jacobs
he was, and fond o’ using his strength. I locked the wicket careful, and, putting the key in my pocket, began to walk up and down the wharf.
“For about ten minutes the gal went on reading and didn’t look up once. Then, as I passed, she gave me a nice smile and shook ‘er little fist at the cook, wot ‘ad got ‘is back towards ‘er. I smiled back, o’ course, and by and by she put her book down and climbed on to the side o’ the ship and held out her ‘and for me to ‘elp her ashore.
“‘I’m so tired of the ship,’ she ses, in a soft voice; ‘it’s like a prison. Don’t you get, tired of the wharf?’
“‘Sometimes,’ I ses; ‘but it’s my dooty.’
“‘Yes,’ she ses. ‘Yes, of course. But you’re a big, strong man, and you can put up with things better.’
“She gave a little sigh, and we walked up and down for a time without saying anything.
“‘And it’s all father’s foolishness,’ she ses, at last; ‘that’s wot makes it so tiresome. I can’t help a pack of silly young men writing to me, can I?’
“‘No, I s’pose not,’ I ses.
“‘Thank you,’ she ses, putting ‘er little ‘and on my arm. ‘I knew that you were sensible. I’ve often watched you when I’ve been sitting alone on the schooner, longing for somebody to speak to. And I’m a good judge of character. I can read you like a book.’
“She turned and looked up at me. Beautiful blue eyes she’d got, with long, curling lashes, and teeth like pearls.
“‘Father is so silly,’ she ses, shaking her ‘ead and looking down; ‘and it’s so unreasonable, because, as a matter of fact, I don’t like young men. Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean to be rude.’
“‘Rude?’ I ses, staring at her.
“‘Of course it was a rude thing for me to say,’ she ses, smiling; ‘because you are still a young man yourself.’
“I shook my ‘ead. ‘Youngish,’ I ses.
“‘Young!’ she ses, stamping ‘er little foot.
“She gave me another look, and this time ‘er blue eyes seemed large and solemn. She walked along like one in a dream, and twice she tripped over the planks and would ‘ave fallen if I hadn’t caught ‘er round the waist.
“‘Thank you,’ she ses. ‘I’m very clumsy. How strong your arm is!’
“We walked up and down agin, and every time we went near the edge of the jetty she ‘eld on to my arm for fear of stumbling agin. And there was that silly cook standing about on the schooner on tip-toe and twisting his silly old neck till I wonder it didn’t twist off.
“‘Wot a beautiful evening it is!’ she ses, at last, in a low voice. ‘I ‘ope father isn’t coming back early. Do you know wot time he is coming home?’
“‘About twelve,’ I ses; ‘but don’t tell ‘im I told you so.’
“‘O’ course not,’ she ses, squeezing my arm. ‘Poor father! I hope he is enjoying himself as much as I am.’
“We walked down to the jetty agin arter that, and sat side by side looking acrost the river. And she began to talk about Life, and wot a strange thing it was; and ‘ow the river would go on flowing down to the sea thousands and thousands o’ years arter we was both dead and forgotten. If it hadn’t ha’ been for her little ‘ead leaning agin my shoulder I should have ‘ad the creeps.
“‘Let’s go down into the cabin,’ she ses, at last, with a little shiver; ‘it makes me melancholy sitting here and thinking of the “might-have-beens.”’
“I got up first and ‘elped her up, and, arter both staring hard at the cook, wot didn’t seem to know ‘is place, we went down into the cabin. It was a comfortable little place, and arter she ‘ad poured me out a glass of ‘er father’s whisky, and filled my pipe for me, I wouldn’t ha’ changed places with a king. Even when the pipe wouldn’t draw I didn’t mind.
“‘May I write a letter?’ she ses, at last.
“‘Sartainly,’ I ses.
“She got out her pen and ink and paper, and wrote. ‘I sha’n’t be long,’ she ses, looking up and nibbling ‘er pen. ‘It’s a letter to my dressmaker; she promised my dress by six o’clock this afternoon, and I am just writing to tell her that if I don’t have it by ten in the morning she can keep it.’
“‘Quite right,’ I ses; ‘it’s the on’y way to get things done.’
“‘It’s my way,’ she ses, sticking the letter in an envelope and licking it down. ‘Nice name, isn’t it?’
“She passed it over to me, and I read the name and address: ‘Miss Minnie Miller, 17, John Street, Mile End Road.’
“‘That’ll wake her up,’ She ses, smiling. ‘Will you ask Joe to take it for me?’
“‘He—he’s on guard,’ I ses, smiling back at ‘er and shaking my ‘ead.
“‘I know,’ she ses, in a low voice. ‘But I don’t want any guard—only you. I don’t like guards that peep down skylights.’
“I looked up just in time to see Joe’s ‘ead disappear. Then I nipped up, and arter I ‘ad told ‘im part of wot I thought about ‘im I gave ‘im the letter and told ‘im to sheer off.
“‘The skipper told me to stay ‘ere,’ he ses, looking obstinate.
“‘You do as you’re told,’ I ses. ‘I’m in charge, and I take full responsibility. I shall lock the gate arter you. Wot are you worrying about?’
“‘And here’s a shilling, Joe, for a bus fare,’ ses the gal, smiling. ‘You can keep the change.’
“Joe took off ‘is cap and scratched ‘is silly bald ‘ead.
“‘Come on,’ I ses; ‘it’s a letter to a dressmaker. A letter that must go to-night.’
“‘Else it’s no use,’ ses the gal. ‘You don’t know ‘ow important it is.’
“‘All right,’ ses Joe. ‘’Ave it your own way. So long as you don’t tell the skipper I don’t mind. If anything ‘appens you’ll catch it too, Bill.’
“He climbed ashore, and I follered ‘im to the gate and unlocked it. He was screwing up ‘is eye ready for a wink, but I give ‘im such a look that he thought better of it, and, arter rubbing his eye with ‘is finger as though he ‘ad got a bit o’ dust in it, he went off.
“I locked the gate and went back to the cabin, and for some time we sat talking about fathers and the foolish ideas they got into their ‘eads, and things o’ that sort. So far as I remember, I ‘ad two more goes o’ whisky and one o’ the skipper’s cigars, and I was just thinking wot a beautiful thing it was to be alive and ‘ealthy and in good spirits, talking to a nice gal that understood wot you said a’most afore you said it, when I ‘eard three blows on a whistle.
“‘Wot’s that?’ I ses, starting up. ‘Police whistle?’
“‘I don’t think so,’ ses Miss Butt, putting her ‘and on my shoulder. ‘Sit down and stay where you are. I don’t want you to get hurt, if it is. Let somebody I don’t like go.’
“I sat down agin and listened, but there was no more whistling.
“‘Boy in the street, I expect,’ ses the gal, going into the state-room. ‘Oh, I’ve got something to show you. Wait a minute.’
“I ‘eard her moving about, and then she comes back into the cabin.
“‘I can’t find the key of my box,’ she ses, ‘and it’s in there. I wonder whether you’ve got a key that would open it. It’s a padlock.’
“I