A Black Affair

"A Black Affair" by W. W. Jacobs is a captivating tale that explores themes of romance, intrigue, and the complexities of human relationships. Set against a backdrop of vivid characters and rich settings, the story delves into the emotional entanglements and moral dilemmas faced by its protagonists. Jacobs, known for his sharp wit and engaging storytelling, weaves a narrative that invites readers to reflect on love, loyalty, and the consequences of one's choices. With a blend of humor and poignancy, "A Black Affair" offers a compelling reading experience that resonates on multiple levels.

• Fiction

								
I didn’t want to bring it,” said Captain Gubson, regarding somewhat
unfavourably a grey parrot whose cage was hanging against the mainmast,
“but my old uncle was so set on it I had to. He said a sea-voyage would
set its ’elth up.”

“It seems to be all right at present,” said the mate, who was tenderly
sucking his forefinger; “best of spirits, I should say.”

“It’s playful,” assented the skipper. “The old man thinks a rare lot of
it. I think I shall have a little bit in that quarter, so keep your eye
on the beggar.”

“Scratch Poll!” said the parrot, giving its bill a preliminary strop on
its perch. “Scratch poor Polly!”

It bent its head against the bars, and waited patiently to play off
what it had always regarded as the most consummate practical joke in
existence. The first doubt it had ever had about it occurred when the
mate came forward and obligingly scratched it with the stem of his
pipe. It was a wholly unforeseen development, and the parrot, ruffling
its feathers, edged along its perch and brooded darkly at the other end
of it.

Opinion before the mast was also against the new arrival, the general
view being that the wild jealousy which raged in the bosom of the
ship’s cat would sooner or later lead to mischief.

“Old Satan don’t like it,” said the cook, shaking his head. “The
blessed bird hadn’t been aboard ten minutes before Satan was prowling
around. The blooming image waited till he was about a foot off the
cage, and then he did the perlite and asked him whether he’d like a
glass o’ beer. I never see a cat so took aback in all my life.
Never.”

“There’ll be trouble between ’em,” said old Sam, who was the cat’s
special protector, “mark my words.”

“I’d put my money on the parrot,” said one of the men confidently.
“It’s ’ad a crool bit out of the mate’s finger. Where ’ud the cat be
agin that beak?”

“Well, you’d lose your money,” said Sam. “If you want to do the cat a
kindness, every time you see him near that cage cuff his ’ed.”

The crew being much attached to the cat, which had been presented to
them when a kitten by the mate’s wife, acted upon the advice with so
much zest that for the next two days the indignant animal was like to
have been killed with kindness. On the third day, however, the parrot’s
cage being on the cabin table, the cat stole furtively down, and, at
the pressing request of the occupant itself, scratched its head for it.

The skipper was the first to discover the mischief, and he came on deck
and published the news in a voice which struck a chill to all hearts.

“Where’s that black devil got to?” he yelled.

“Anything wrong, sir?” asked Sam anxiously.

“Come and look here,” said the skipper. He led the way to the cabin,
where the mate and one of the crew were already standing, shaking their
heads over the parrot.

“What do you make of that?” demanded the skipper fiercely.

“Too much dry food, sir,” said Sam, after due deliberation.

“Too much what?” bellowed the skipper.

“Too much dry food,” repeated Sam firmly. “A parrot—a grey parrot—wants
plenty o’ sop. If it don’t get it, it moults.”

“It’s had too much cat,” said the skipper fiercely, “and you know it,
and overboard it goes.”

“I don’t believe it was the cat, sir,” interposed the other man; “it’s
too soft-hearted to do a thing like that.”

“You can shut your jaw,” said the skipper, reddening. “Who asked you to
come down here at all?”

“Nobody saw the cat do it,” urged the mate.

The skipper said nothing, but, stooping down, picked up a tail feather
from the floor, and laid it on the table. He then went on deck,
followed by the others, and began calling, in seductive tones, for the
cat. No reply forth coming from the sagacious animal, which had gone
into hiding, he turned to Sam, and bade him call it.

“No, sir, I won’t ’ave no ’and in it,” said the old man. “Putting aside
my liking for the animal, I’m not going to ’ave anything to do with
the killing of a black cat.”

“Rubbish!” said the skipper.

“Very good, sir,” said Sam, shrugging his shoulders, “you know best, o’
course. You’re eddicated and I’m not, an’ p’raps you can afford to make
a laugh o’ such things. I knew one man who killed a black cat an’ he
went mad. There’s something very pecooliar about that cat o’ ours.”

“It knows more than we do,” said one of the crew, shaking his head.
“That time you—I mean we—ran the smack down, that cat was expecting of
it ’ours before. It was like a wild thing.”

“Look at the weather we’ve ’ad—look at the trips we’ve made since he’s
been aboard,” said the old man. “Tell me it’s chance if you like, but I
know better.”

The skipper hesitated. He was a superstitious man even for a sailor,
and his weakness was so well known that he had become a sympathetic
receptacle for every ghost story which, by reason of its crudeness or
lack of corroboration, had been rejected by other experts. He was a
perfect reference library for omens, and his interpretations of dreams
had gained for him a widespread reputation.

“That’s all nonsense,” he said, pausing uneasily; “still, I only want
to be just. There’s nothing vindictive about me, and I’ll have no hand
in it myself. Joe, just tie a lump of coal to that cat and heave it
overboard.”

“Not me,” said the cook, following Sam’s lead, and working up a
shudder. “Not for fifty pun in gold. I don’t want to be haunted.”

“The parrot’s a little better now, sir,” said one of the men, taking
advantage of his hesitation, “he’s opened one eye.”

“Well, I only want to be just,” repeated the skipper. “I won’t do
anything in a hurry, but, mark my words, if the parrot dies that cat
goes overboard.”

Contrary to expectations, the bird was still alive when London was
reached, though the cook, who from his connection with the cabin had
suddenly reached a position of unusual importance, reported great loss
of strength and irritability of temper. It was still alive, but failing
fast on the day they were to put to sea again; and the fo’c’sle, in
preparation for the worst, stowed their pet away in the paint-locker,
and discussed the situation.

Their council was interrupted by the mysterious behaviour of the cook,
who, having gone out to lay in a stock of bread, suddenly broke in upon
them more in the manner of a member of a secret society than a humble
but useful unit of a ship’s company.

“Where’s the cap’n?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, as he took a seat on
the locker with the sack of bread between his knees.

“In the cabin,” said Sam, regarding his antics with some disfavour.
“What’s wrong, cookie?”

“What d’ yer think I’ve got in here?” asked the cook, patting the bag.

The obvious reply to this question was, of course, bread; but as it was
known that the cook had departed specially to buy some, and that he
could hardly ask a question involving such a simple answer, nobody gave
it.

“It come to me all of a sudden,” said the cook, in a thrilling whisper.
“I’d just bought the bread and left the shop, when I see a big black
cat, the very image of ours, sitting on a doorstep. I just stooped down

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