“Choice Spirits” Page #2

"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 face of Tommy, pale and scared, looked anxiously down.

“Halloa!” said Bill, “have you heard what we’ve been saying?”

“I heard you say something about going to drown old Ned,” said Tommy
guardedly.

“He’s heard all about it,” said the cook severely. “Do you know where
little boys who tell lies go to, Tommy?”

“I’d sooner go there than down the fore ’old,” said Tommy, beginning to
knuckle his eyes. “I won’t go. I’ll tell the skipper.”

“No, you won’t,” said Bill sternly. “This is your punishment for them
lies you told about us to-day, an’ very cheap you’ve got off too. Now,
get out o’ that bunk. Come on afore I pull you out.”

With a miserable whimper the youth dived beneath his blankets, and,
clinging frantically to the edge of his berth, kicked convulsively as
he was lifted down, blankets and all, and accommodated with a seat at
the table.

“Pen and ink and paper, Ned,” said Bill.

The old man produced them, and Bill, first wiping off with his
coat-sleeve a piece of butter which the paper had obtained from the
table, spread it before the victim.

“I can’t write,” said Tommy sullenly.

The men looked at each other in dismay.

“It’s a lie,” said the cook.

“I tell you I can’t,” said the urchin, becoming hopeful, “that’s why
they sent me to sea becos I couldn’t read or write.”

“Pull his ear, Bill,” said Ned, annoyed at these aspersions upon an
honourable profession.

“It don’t matter,” said Bill, calmly. “I’ll write it for ’im; the old
man don’t know my fist.”

He sat down at the table, and, squaring his shoulders, took a noisy dip
of ink, and scratching his head, looked pensively at the paper.

“Better spell it bad, Bill,” suggested Ned.

“Ay, ay,” said the other. “’Ow do you think a boy would spell sooicide,
Ned?”

The old man pondered. “S-o-o-e-y-s-i-d-e,” he said slowly.

“Why, that’s the right way, ain’t it?” inquired the cook, looking from
one to the other.

“We mustn’t spell it right,” said Bill, with his pen hovering over the
paper. “Be careful, Ned.”

“We’ll say killed myself instead,” said the old man. “A boy wouldn’t
use such a big word as that p’raps.”

Bill bent over his work, and, apparently paying great attention to his
friends’ entreaties not to write it too well, slowly wrote the letter.

“How’s this?” he inquired, sitting back in his seat.

“‘Deer captin i take my pen in hand for the larst time to innform you
that i am no more suner than heat the ’orrible stuff what you kall meet
i have drownded miself it is a moor easy death than starvin’ i ’ave
left my clasp nife to bill an’ my silver wotch to it is ’ard too dee so
young tommie brown.’”

“Splendid!” said Ned, as the reader finished and looked inquiringly
round.

“I put in that bit about the knife and the watch to make it seem real,”
said Bill, with modest pride; “but, if you like, I’ll leave ’em to you
instead, Ned.”

“I don’t want ’em,” said the old man generously.

“Put your cloes on,” said Bill, turning to the whimpering Tommy.

“I’m not going down that fore ’old,” said Tommy desperately. “You may
as well know now as later on—I won’t go.”

“Cookie,” said Bill calmly, “just ’and me them cloes, will you? Now,
Tommy.”

“I tell you, I’m not going to,” said Tommy.

“An’ that little bit o’ rope, cookie,” said Bill, “it’s just down by
your ’and. Now, Tommy.”

The youngest member of the crew looked from his clothes to the rope,
and from the rope back to his clothes again.

“How’m I goin’ to be fed?” he demanded sullenly, as he began to dress.

“You’ll have a stone bottle o’ water to take down with you an’ some
biskits,” replied Bill, “an’ of a night time we’ll hand you down some
o’ that meat you’re so fond of. Hide ’em behind the cargo, an’ if you
hear anybody take the hatch off in the day time, nip behind it
yourself.”

“An’ what about fresh air?” demanded the sacrifice.

“You’ll ’ave fresh air of a night when the hatch is took off,” said
Bill. “Don’t you worry, I’ve thought of everything.”

The arrangements being concluded, they waited until Simpson relieved
the mate at the helm, and then trooped up on deck, half-pushing and
half-leading their reluctant victim.

“It’s just as if he was going on a picnic,” said old Ned, as the boy
stood unwillingly on the deck, with a stone bottle in one hand and some
biscuits wrapped up in an old newspaper in the other.

“Lend a ’and, Bill. Easy does it.”

Noiselessly the two seamen took off the hatch, and, as Tommy declined
to help in the proceedings at all, Ned clambered down first to receive
him. Bill took him by the scruff of the neck and lowered him down,
kicking strongly, into the hold.

“Have you got him?” inquired Bill.

“Yes,” said Ned in a smothered voice, and, depositing the boy in the
hold, hastily clambered up again, wiping his mouth.

“Been having a swig at the bottle?” inquired Bill.

“Boy’s heel,” said Ned very shortly. “Get the hatch on.”

The hatch was replaced, and Bill and his fellow conspirator, treading
quietly and not without some apprehension for the morrow, went below
and turned in. Tommy, who had been at sea long enough to take things as
he found them, curled up in the corner of the hold, and with his bottle
as a pillow fell asleep.

It was not until eight o’clock next morning that the master of the
Sunbeam discovered that he was a boy short. He questioned the cook as
he sat at breakfast. The cook, who was a very nervous man, turned pale,
set the coffee-pot down with a thump which upset some of the liquor,
and bolted up on deck. The skipper, after shouting for him in some of
the most alluring swear words known on the high seas, went raging up on
deck, where he found the men standing in a little knot, looking very
ill at ease.

“Bill,” said the skipper uneasily, “what’s the matter with that damned
cook?”

“’E’s ’ad a shock, sir,” said Bill, shaking his head, “we’ve all ’ad a
shock.”

“You’ll have another in a minute,” said the skipper emotionally.
“Where’s the boy?”

For a moment Bill’s hardihood forsook him, and he looked helplessly at
his mates. In their anxiety to avoid his gaze they looked over the
side, and a horrible fear came over the skipper. He looked at Bill
mutely, and Bill held out a dirty piece of paper.

The skipper read it through in a state of stupefaction, then he handed
it to the mate, who had followed him on deck. The mate read it and
handed it back.

“It’s yours,” he said shortly.

“I don’t understand it,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “Why, only
yesterday he was up on deck here eating his dinner, and saying it was
the best meat he ever tasted. You heard him, Bob?”

“I heard him, pore little devil!” said the mate.

“You all heard him,” said the skipper.

“Well, there’s five witnesses I’ve got. He must have been mad. Didn’t
nobody hear him go overboard?”

“I ’eard a splash, sir, in my watch,” said Bill.

“Why didn’t you run and see what it was?” demanded the other.

“I thought it was one of the chaps come up to throw his supper
overboard,” said Bill simply.

“Ah!” said the skipper, biting his lip, “did you? You’re always going
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