Deep Waters, the Entire Collection. William Wymark Jacobs
wants to see you about George’s money,” ses the chap. “I should go if I was you. My opinion is he wants to do you a good turn.”
I ‘ung fire for a bit, and then, arter sweeping up for a little while deliberate-like, I put down my broom and stepped aboard to see the skipper, wot was sitting on the cabin skylight purtending to read a newspaper.
He put it down when ‘e see me, and George and the others, wot ‘ad been standing in a little bunch for’ard, came aft and stood looking on.
“I wanted to see you about this money, watchman,” ses the skipper, putting on ‘is beastly frills agin. “O’ course, we all feel that to a pore man like you it’s a bit of a strain, and, as George ses, arter all you have been more foolish than wicked.”
“Much more,” ses George.
“I find that you ‘ave now paid five bob a week for nineteen weeks,” ses the skipper, “and George ‘as been kind enough and generous enough to let you off the rest. There’s no need for you to look bashful, George; it’s a credit to you.”
I could ‘ardly believe my ears. George stood there grinning like a stuck fool, and two o’ the chaps was on their best behaviour with their ‘ands over their mouths and their eyes sticking out.
“That’s all, watchman,” ses the skipper; “and I ‘ope it’ll be a lesson to you not to neglect your dooty by going into public-’ouses and taking charge of other people’s money when you ain’t fit for it.”
“I sha’n’t try to do anybody else a kindness agin, if that’s wot you mean,” I ses, looking at ‘im.
“No, you’d better not,” he ses. “This partickler bit o’ kindness ‘as cost you four pounds fifteen, and that’s a curious thing when you come to think of it. Very curious.”
“Wot d’ye mean?” I ses.
“Why,” he ses, grinning like a madman, “it’s just wot we lost between us. I lost a watch and chain worth two pounds, and another couple o’ pounds besides; Joe lost ten shillings over ‘is di’mond ring; and Charlie lost five bob over a pipe. ‘That’s four pounds fifteen—just the same as you.”
Them silly fools stood there choking and sobbing and patting each other on the back as though they’d never leave off, and all of a sudden I ‘ad a ‘orrible suspicion that I ‘ad been done.
“Did you see the sovereigns in the box?” I ses, turning to the skipper.
“No,” he ses, shaking his ‘ead.
“‘Ow do you know they was there, then?” ses I.
“Because you took charge of ‘em,” said the skipper; “and I know wot a clever, sharp chap you are. It stands to reason that you wouldn’t be responsible for a box like that unless you saw inside of it. Why, a child o’ five wouldn’t!”
I stood there looking at ‘im, but he couldn’t meet my eye. None of ‘em could; and arter waiting there for a minute or two to give ‘em a chance, I turned my back on ‘em and went off to my dooty.
MADE TO MEASURE
Mr. Mott brought his niece home from the station with considerable pride. Although he had received a photograph to assist identification, he had been very dubious about accosting the pretty, well-dressed girl who had stepped from the train and gazed around with dove-like eyes in search of him. Now he was comfortably conscious of the admiring gaze of his younger fellow-townsmen.
“You’ll find it a bit dull after London, I expect,” he remarked, as he inserted his key in the door of a small house in a quiet street.
“I’m tired of London,” said Miss Garland. “I think this is a beautiful little old town—so peaceful.”
Mr. Mott looked gratified.
“I hope you’ll stay a long time,” he said, as he led the way into the small front room. “I’m a lonely old man.”
His niece sank into an easy chair, and looked about her.
“Thank you,” she said, slowly. “I hope I shall. I feel better already. There is so much to upset one in London.”
“Noise?” queried Mr. Mott.
“And other things,” said Miss Garland, with a slight shudder.
Mr. Mott sighed in sympathy with the unknown, and, judging by his niece’s expression, the unknowable. He rearranged the teacups, and, going to the kitchen, returned in a few minutes with a pot of tea.
“Mrs. Pett leaves at three,” he said, in explanation, “to look after her children, but she comes back again at eight to look after my supper. And how is your mother?”
Miss Garland told him.
“Last letter I had from her,” said Mr. Mott, stealing a glance at the girl’s ring-finger, “I understood you were engaged.”
His niece drew herself up.
“Certainly not,” she said, with considerable vigour. “I have seen too much of married life. I prefer my freedom. Besides, I don’t like men.”
Mr. Mott said modestly that he didn’t wonder at it, and, finding the subject uncongenial, turned the conversation on to worthier subjects. Miss Garland’s taste, it seemed, lay in the direction of hospital nursing, or some other occupation beneficial to mankind at large. Simple and demure, she filled the simpler Mr. Mott with a strong sense of the shortcomings of his unworthy sex.
Within two days, under the darkling glance of Mrs. Pett, she had altered the arrangements of the house. Flowers appeared on the meal-table, knives and forks were properly cleaned, and plates no longer appeared ornamented with the mustard of a previous meal. Fresh air circulated through the house, and, passing from Mrs. Pett’s left knee to the lumbar region of Mr. Mott, went on its beneficent way rejoicing.
On the fifth day of her visit, Mr. Mott sat alone in the front parlour. The window was closed, the door was closed, and Mr. Mott, sitting in an easy chair with his feet up, was aroused from a sound nap by the door opening to admit a young man, who, deserted by Mrs. Pett, stood bowing awkwardly in the doorway.
“Is Miss Garland in?” he stammered.
Mr. Mott rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyelids.
“She has gone for a walk,” he said, slowly.
The young man stood fingering his hat.
“My name is Hurst,” he said, with slight emphasis. “Mr. Alfred Hurst.”
Mr. Mott, still somewhat confused, murmured that he was glad to hear it.
“I have come from London to see Florrie,” continued the intruder. “I suppose she won’t be long?”
Mr. Mott thought not, and after a moment’s hesitation invited Mr. Hurst to take a chair.
“I suppose she told you we are engaged?” said the latter.
“Engaged!” said the startled Mr. Mott. “Why, she told me she didn’t like men.”
“Playfulness,” replied Mr. Hurst, with an odd look. “Ah, here she is!”
The handle of the front door turned, and a moment later the door of the room was opened and the charming head of Miss Garland appeared in the opening.
“Back again,” she said, brightly. “I’ve just been–”
She caught sight of Mr. Hurst, and the words died away on her lips. The door slammed, and the two gentlemen, exchanging glances, heard a hurried rush upstairs and the slamming of another door. Also a key was heard to turn sharply in a lock.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” said Mr. Mott, staring.
The young man turned pale.
“Perhaps she has gone upstairs to take her things off,” he muttered, resuming his seat. “Don’t—don’t hurry her!”
“I