Short Cruises. William Wymark Jacobs
small, black eyes sparkling, promised, and then, muttering something about his work, exchanged glances with the girl and went up on deck.
“It is a nice cabin,” said Miss Jewell, shifting an inch and a half nearer to the skipper. “I suppose poor Bert has to have his meals in that stuffy little place at the other end of the ship, doesn’t he?”
“The fo’c’sle?” said the skipper, struggling between love and discipline. “Yes.”
The girl sighed, and the mate, who was listening at the skylight above, held his breath with anxiety. Miss Jewell sighed again and in an absent-minded fashion increased the distance between herself and companion by six inches.
“It’s usual,” faltered the skipper.
“Yes, of course,” said the girl, coldly.
“But if Bert likes to feed here, he’s welcome,” said the skipper, desperately, “and he can sleep aft, too. The mate can say what he likes.”
The mate rose and, walking forward, raised his clenched fists to heaven and availed himself of the permission to the fullest extent of a somewhat extensive vocabulary.
“Do you know what I think you are?” inquired Miss Jewell, bending towards him with a radiant face. “No,” said the other, trembling. “What?”
The girl paused. “It wouldn’t do to tell you,” she said, in a low voice. “It might make you vain.”
“Do you know what I think you are?” inquired the skipper in his turn.
Miss Jewell eyed him composedly, albeit the corners of her mouth trembled. “Yes,” she said, unexpectedly.
Steps sounded above and came heavily down the companion-ladder. “Tide’s almost on the turn,” said the mate, gruffly, from the door.
The skipper hesitated, but the mate stood aside for the girl to pass, and he followed her up on deck and assisted her to the jetty. For hours afterwards he debated with himself whether she really had allowed her hand to stay in his a second or two longer than necessary, or whether unconscious muscular action on his part was responsible for the phenomenon.
He became despondent as they left London behind, but the necessity of interfering between a goggle-eyed and obtuse mate and a pallid but no less obstinate cook helped to relieve him.
“He says he is going to sleep aft,” choked the mate, pointing to the cook’s bedding.
“Quite right,” said the skipper. “I told him to. He’s going to take his meals here, too. Anything to say against it?”
The mate sat down on a locker and fought for breath. The cook, still pale, felt his small, black mustache and eyed him with triumphant malice. “I told ‘im they was your orders,” he remarked.
“And I told him I didn’t believe him,” said the mate. “Nobody would. Whoever ‘eard of a cook living aft? Why, they’d laugh at the idea.”
He laughed himself, but in a strangely mirthless fashion, and, afraid to trust himself, went up on deck and brooded savagely apart. Nor did he come down to breakfast until the skipper and cook had finished.
Mr. Jewell bore his new honors badly, and the inability to express their dissatisfaction by means of violence had a bad effect on the tempers of the crew. Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than hold his own, and, although the men doubted his ability at first, he was able to prove to them by actual experiment that he could cook worse than they supposed.
The brig reached her destination—Creekhaven—on the fifth day, and Mr. Jewell found himself an honored guest at the skipper’s cottage. It was a comfortable place, but, as the cook pointed out, too large for one. He also referred, incidentally, to his sister’s love of a country life, and, finding himself on a subject of which the other never tired, gave full reins to a somewhat picturesque imagination.
They were back at London within the fortnight, and the skipper learned to his dismay that Miss Jewell was absent on a visit. In these circumstances he would have clung to the cook, but that gentleman, pleading engagements, managed to elude him for two nights out of the three.
On the third day Miss Jewell returned to London, and, making her way to the wharf, was just in time to wave farewells as the brig parted from the wharf.
From the fact that the cook was not visible at the moment the skipper took the salutation to himself. It cheered him for the time, but the next day he was so despondent that the cook, by this time thoroughly in his confidence, offered to write when they got to Creekhaven and fix up an evening.
“And there’s really no need for you to come, Bert,” said the skipper, cheering up.
Mr. Jewell shook his head. “She wouldn’t go without me,” he said, gravely. “You’ve no idea ‘ow particular she is. Always was from a child.”
“Well, we might lose you,” said the skipper, reflecting. “How would that be?”
“We might try it,” said the cook, without enthusiasm.
To his dismay the skipper, before they reached London again, had invented at least a score of ways by which he might enjoy Miss Jewell’s company without the presence of a third person, some of them so ingenious that the cook, despite his utmost efforts, could see no way of opposing them.
The skipper put his ideas into practice as soon as they reached London. Between Wapping and Charing Cross he lost the cook three times. Miss Jewell found him twice, and the third time she was so difficult that the skipper had to join in the treasure-hunt himself. The cook listened unmoved to a highly-colored picture of his carelessness from the lips of Miss Jewell, and bestowed a sympathetic glance upon the skipper as she paused for breath.
“It’s as bad as taking a child out,” said the latter, with well-affected indignation.
“Worse,” said the girl, tightening her lips.
With a perseverance worthy of a better cause the skipper nudged the cook’s arm and tried again. This time he was successful beyond his wildest dreams, and, after ten minutes’ frantic search, found that he had lost them both. He wandered up and down for hours, and it was past eleven when he returned to the ship and found the cook waiting for him.
“We thought something ‘ad happened to you,” said the cook. “Kate has been in a fine way about it. Five minutes after you lost me she found me, and we’ve been hunting ‘igh and low ever since.”
Miss Jewell expressed her relief the next evening, and, stealing a glance at the face of the skipper, experienced a twinge of something which she took to be remorse. Ignoring the cook’s hints as to theatres, she elected to go for a long ‘bus ride, and, sitting in front with the skipper, left Mr. Jewell to keep a chaperon’s eye on them from three seats behind.
Conversation was for some time disjointed; then the brightness and crowded state of the streets led the skipper to sound his companion as to her avowed taste for a country life.
“I should love it,” said Miss Jewell, with a sigh. “But there’s no chance of it; I’ve got my living to earn.”
“You might—might marry somebody living in the country,” said the skipper, in trembling tones.
Miss Jewell shuddered. “Marry!” she said, scornfully. “Most people do,” said the other.
“Sensible people don’t,” said the girl. “You haven’t,” she added, with a smile.
“I’m very thankful I haven’t,” retorted the skipper, with great meaning.
“There you are!” said the girl, triumphantly.
“I never saw anybody I liked,” said the skipper, “be—before.”
“If ever I did marry,” said Miss Jewell, with remarkable composure, “if ever I was foolish enough to do such a thing, I think I would marry a man a few years younger than myself.”
“Younger?” said the dismayed skipper.
Miss Jewell nodded. “They make the best