A Benefit Performance Page #2

"A Benefit Performance" is a short story by W. W. Jacobs that revolves around the comedic misadventures tied to a theatrical production. The narrative follows a group of characters who are involved in a charity performance, highlighting their eccentric personalities and the chaos that ensues. Through witty dialogue and humorous situations, Jacobs explores themes of ambition, social status, and the unpredictability of live events, ultimately delivering a satire on the world of theater and the human condition. The story encapsulates Jacobs' signature style of blending humor with keen observations of everyday life.

• Fiction

								

and, what’s more, she had it too! Red-’aired hussy!”

The captain poured out some gin and drank it slowly. It was evident he
was thinking deeply, and that he was much affected by his friend’s
troubles.

“There is only one way for me to get clear,” said Pepper, as he
finished a thrilling recital of his wrongs, “and that is, to find Cap’n
Budd, her first.”

“Why, he’s dead!” said Crippen, staring hard. “Don’t you waste your
time looking for him!”

“I’m not going to,” said Pepper; “but here’s his portrait. He was a big
man like you; he had blue eyes and a straight handsome nose, like you.
If he’d lived to now he’d be almost your age, and very likely more like
you than ever. He was a sailor; you’ve been a sailor.”

The captain stared at him in bewilderment.

“He had a wonderful way with wimmen,” pursued Jackson hastily; “you’ve
got a wonderful way with wimmen. More than that, you’ve got the most
wonderful gift for acting I’ve ever seen. Ever since the time when you
acted in that barn at Bristol I’ve never seen any actor I can honestly
say I’ve liked—never! Look how you can imitate cats—better than Henry
Irving himself!”

“I never had much chance, being at sea all my life,” said Crippen
modestly.

“You’ve got the gift,” said Pepper impressively. “It was born in you,
and you’ll never leave off acting till the day of your death. You
couldn’t if you tried—you know you couldn’t!”

The captain smiled deprecatingly.

“Now, I want you to do a performance for my benefit,” continued Pepper.
“I want you to act Cap’n Budd, what was lost in the Dolphin thirty
years ago. There’s only one man in England I’d trust with the part, and
that’s you.”

“Act Cap’n Budd!” gasped the astonished Crippen, putting down his glass
and staring at his friend.

“The part is written here,” said the ex-pilot, producing a note-book
from his breast pocket and holding it out to his friend. “I’ve been
keeping a log day by day of all the things she said about him, in the
hopes of catching her tripping, but I never did. There’s notes of his
family, his ships, and a lot of silly things he used to say, which she
thinks funny.”

“I couldn’t do it!” said the captain seriously, as he took the book.

“You could do it if you liked,” said Pepper. “Besides, think what a
spree it’ll be for you. Learn it by heart, then come down and claim
her. Her name’s Martha.”

“What good ’ud it do you if I did?” inquired the captain. “She’d soon
find out!”

“You come down to Sunset Bay,” said Pepper, emphasising his remarks
with his forefinger; “you claim your wife; you allude carefully to the
things set down in this book; I give Martha back to you and bless you
both. Then”—

“Then what?” inquired Crippen anxiously.

“You disappear!” concluded Pepper triumphantly; “and, of course,
believing her first husband is alive, she has to leave me. She’s a very
particular woman; and, besides that, I’d take care to let the
neighbours know. I’m happy, you’re happy, and, if she’s not happy, why,
she don’t deserve to be.”

“I’ll think it over,” said Crippen, “and write and let you know.”

“Make up your mind now,” urged Pepper, reaching over and patting him
encouragingly upon the shoulder. “If you promise to do it, the thing’s
as good as done. Lord! I think I see you now, coming in at that door
and surprising her. Talk about acting!”

“Is she what you’d call a good-looking woman?” inquired Crippen.

“Very handsome!” said Pepper, looking out of the window.

“I couldn’t do it!” said the captain. “It wouldn’t be right and fair to
her.”

“I don’t see that!” said Pepper. “I never ought to have married her
without being certain her first was dead. It ain’t right, Crippen; say
what you like, it ain’t right!”

“If you put it that way,” said the captain hesitatingly.

“Have some more gin,” said the artful pilot.

The captain had some more, and, what with flattery and gin, combined
with the pleadings of his friend, began to consider the affair more
favourably. Pepper stuck to his guns, and used them so well that when
the captain saw him off that evening he was pledged up to the hilt to
come down to Sunset Bay and personate the late Captain Budd on the
following Thursday.

The ex-pilot passed the intervening days in a sort of trance, from
which he only emerged to take nourishment, or answer the scoldings of
his wife. On the eventful Thursday, however, his mood changed, and he
went about in such a state of suppressed excitement that he could
scarcely keep still.

“Lor’ bless me!” snapped Mrs. Pepper, as he slowly perambulated the
parlour that afternoon. “What ails the man? Can’t you keep still for
five minutes?”

The ex-pilot stopped and eyed her solemnly, but, ere he could reply,
his heart gave a great bound, for, from behind the geraniums which
filled the window, he saw the face of Captain Crippen slowly rise and
peer cautiously into the room. Before his wife could follow the
direction of her husband’s eyes it had disappeared.

“Somebody looking in at the window,” said Pepper, with forced calmness,
in reply to his wife’s eyebrows.

“Like their impudence!” said the unconscious woman, resuming her
knitting, while her husband waited in vain for the captain to enter.

He waited some time, and then, half dead with excitement, sat down, and
with shaking fingers lit his pipe. As he looked up the stalwart figure
of the captain passed the window. During the next twenty minutes it
passed seven times, and Pepper, coming to the not unnatural conclusion
that his friend intended to pass the afternoon in the same unprofitable
fashion, resolved to force his hand.

“Must be a tramp,” he said aloud.

“Who?” inquired his wife. “Man keeps looking in at the window,” said
Pepper desperately. “Keeps looking in till he meets my eye, then he
disappears. Looks like an old sea-captain, something.”

“Old sea-captain?” said his wife, putting down her work and turning
round. There was a strange hesitating note in her voice. She looked at
the window, and at the same instant the head of the captain again
appeared above the geraniums, and, meeting her gaze, hastily vanished.
Martha Pepper sat still for a moment, and then, rising in a slow, dazed
fashion, crossed to the door and opened it. Mermaid Passage was empty!

“See anybody?” quavered Pepper.

His wife shook her head, but in a strangely quiet fashion, and, sitting
down, took up her knitting again.

For some time the click of the needles and the tick of the clock were
the only sounds audible, and the ex-pilot had just arrived at the
conclusion that his friend had abandoned him to his fate, when there
came a low tapping at the door.

“Come in!” cried Pepper, starting.

The door opened slowly, and the tall figure of Captain Crippen entered
and stood there eyeing them nervously. A neat little speech he had
prepared failed him at the supreme moment. He leaned against the wall,
and in a clumsy, shamefaced fashion lowered his gaze, and stammered out
the one word—“Martha!”

At that word Mrs. Pepper rose and stood with parted lips, eyeing him
wildly.
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