“Choice Spirits”

"Choice Spirits" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous collection of short stories that explores the quirks and eccentricities of human nature, often set against the backdrop of working-class life in early 20th-century England. Featuring memorable characters and witty dialogue, Jacobs delves into themes of class, camaraderie, and the unpredictability of life, all while highlighting the amusing and sometimes absurd situations that arise in everyday interactions. The book showcases Jacobs' talent for blending comedy with insights into human behavior, making it a delightful read for fans of classic British literature.

• Fiction

								
The day was fine and the breeze so light that the old patched sails
were taking the schooner along at a gentle three knots per hour. A sail
or two shone like snow in the offing, and a gull hovered in the air
astern. From the cabin to the galley, and from the galley to the untidy
tangle in the bows, there was no sign of life to benefit by the
conversation of the skipper and mate as they discussed a wicked and
mutinous spirit which had become observable in the crew.

“It’s sheer, rank wickedness, that’s what it is,” said the skipper, a
small, elderly man, with grizzled beard and light blue eyes.

“Rank,” agreed the mate, whose temperament was laconic.

“Why, when I was a boy you wouldn’t believe what I had to eat,” said
the skipper; “not if I took my Bible oath on it, you wouldn’t.”

“They’re dainty,” said the mate.

“Dainty!” said the other indignantly. “What right have hungry sailormen
to be dainty? Don’t I give them enough to eat? Look! Look there!”

He drew back, choking, and pointed with his forefinger as Bill Smith,
A.B., came on deck with a plate held at arm’s length, and a nose
disdainfully elevated. He affected not to see the skipper, and, walking
in a mincing fashion to the side, raked the food from the plate into
the sea with his fingers. He was followed by George Simpson, A.B., who
in the same objectionable fashion wasted food which the skipper had
intended should nourish his frame.

“I’ll pay ’em for this,” murmured the skipper.

“There’s some more,” said the mate.

Two more men came on deck, grinning consciously, and disposed of their
dinners. Then there was an interval—an interval in which everybody fore
and aft, appeared to be waiting for something; the something being at
that precise moment standing at the foot of the foc’sle ladder, trying
to screw its courage up.

“If the boy comes,” said the skipper in a strained, unnatural voice,
“I’ll flay him alive.”

“You’d better get your knife out, then,” said the mate.

The boy appeared on deck, very white about the gills, and looking
piteously at the crew for support. He became conscious from their
scowls that he had forgotten something, and remembering himself,
stretched out his skinny arms to their full extent, and, crinkling his
nose, walked with great trepidation to the side.

“Boy!” vociferated the skipper suddenly.

“Yessir,” said the urchin hastily.

“Comm’ere,” said the skipper sternly.

“Shove your dinner over first,” said four low, menacing voices.

The boy hesitated, then walked slowly towards the skipper.

“What are you going to do with that dinner?” demanded the latter
grimly.

“Eat it,” said the youth modestly.

“What d’yer bring it on deck for, then?” inquired the other, bending
his brows on him.

“I thought it would taste better on deck, sir,” said the boy.

“Taste better!” growled the skipper ferociously. “Ain’t it good?”

“Yessir,” said the boy.

“Speak louder,” said the skipper sternly. “Is it very good?”

“Beautiful,” said the boy in a shrill falsetto.

“Did you ever taste better wittles than you get aboard this ship?”
demanded the skipper, setting him a fine example in loud speaking.

“Never!” yelled the boy, following it.

“Everything as it should be?” roared the skipper.

“Better than it should be,” shrilled the craven

“Sit down and eat it,” commanded the other.

The boy sat on the cabin skylight, and, taking out his pocket-knife,
began his meal with every appearance of enjoyment, the skipper, with
his elbows on the side, and his legs crossed, regarding him serenely.

“I suppose,” he said loudly, after watching the boy for some time, “I
s’pose the men threw theirs overboard becos they hadn’t been used to
such good food?”

“Yessir,” said the boy.

“Did they say so?” bawled the other.

The boy hesitated, and glanced nervously forward. “Yessir,” he said at
length, and shuddered as a low, ominous growl came from the crew.
Despite his slowness the meal came to an end at last, and, in obedience
to orders, he rose and took his plate forward, looking entreatingly at
the crew as he passed them.

“Come down below,” said Bill, “we want to have a talk with you.”

“Can’t,” said the boy. “I’ve got my work to do. I haven’t got time to
talk.”

He stayed up on deck until evening, and then, the men’s anger having
evaporated somewhat, crept softly below, and climbed into his bunk.
Simpson leaned over and made a clutch at him, but Bill pushed him
aside.

“Leave him alone,” said he quietly, “we’ll take it out of him
to-morrow.”

For some time Tommy lay worrying over the fate in store for him, and
then, yielding to fatigue, turned over and slept soundly until he was
awakened some three hours later by the men’s voices, and, looking out,
saw that the lamp was alight and the crew at supper, listening quietly
to Bill, who was speaking.

“I’ve a good mind to strike, that’s what I’ve a good mind to do,” he
said savagely, as, after an attempt at the butter, he put it aside and
ate dry biscuit.

“An’ get six months,” said old Ned. “That won’t do, Bill.”

“Are we to go a matter of six or seven days on dry biscuit and rotten
taters?” demanded the other fiercely. “Why, it’s slow sooicide.”

“I wish one of you would commit sooicide,” said Ned, looking wistfully
round at the faces, “that ’ud frighten the old man, and bring him round
a bit.”

“Well, you’re the eldest,” said Bill pointedly.

“Browning’s a easy death too,” said Simpson persuasively, “you can’t
have much enjoyment in life at your age, Ned?”

“And you might leave a letter behind to the skipper, saying as ’ow you
was drove to it by bad food,” said the cook, who was getting ex-cited.

“Talk sense!” said the old man very shortly.

“Look here,” said Bill suddenly, “I tell you what we can do: let one of
us pretend to commit suicide, and write a letter as Slushey here ses,
saying as ’ow we’re gone overboard sooner than be starved to death. It
’ud scare the old man proper; and p’raps he’d let us start on the other
meat without eating up this rotten stuff first!”

“How’s it to be done!” asked Simpson, staring.

“Go an’ ’ide down the fore ’old,” said Bill “There’s not much stuff
down there. We’ll take off the hatch when one of us is on watch
to-night, and—whoever wants to—can go and hide down there till the old
man’s come to his senses. What do you think of it, mates?”

“It’s all right as an idea,” said Ned slowly, “but who’s going?”

“Tommy,” replied Bill simply.

“Blest if I ever thought of him,” said Ned admiringly, “did you,
cookie?”

“Never crossed my mind,” said the cook.

“You see the best o’ Tommy’s going,” said Bill, “is that the old man
’ud only give him a flogging if he found it out. We wouldn’t split as
to who put the hatch on over him. He can be there as comfortable as you
please, do nothing, and sleep all day if he likes. O’ course we don’t
know anything about it, we miss Tommy, and find the letter wrote on
this table.”

The cook leaned forward and regarded his colleague favourably; then he
pursed his lips, and nodded significantly at an upper bunk from which

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