A Rash Experiment

"A Rash Experiment" by W. W. Jacobs is a short story that explores themes of curiosity, human folly, and the unpredictability of experimentation. The narrative follows a character who embarks on an ill-considered scientific endeavor, leading to humorous and unexpected consequences. Jacobs' trademark wit and keen observation of human nature are evident as the story unfolds, showcasing the complexities of ambition and the lessons learned from taking reckless risks. Through clever dialogue and engaging storytelling, Jacobs captivates readers with his blend of comedy and cautionary tale.

• Fiction

								
The hands on the wharf had been working all Saturday night and well
into the Sunday morning to finish the Foam, and now, at ten o’clock,
with hatches down and freshly-scrubbed decks, the skipper and mate
stood watching the tide as it rose slowly over the smooth Thames mud.

“What time’s she coming?” inquired the skipper, turning a lazy eye up
at the wharf.

“About ha’-past ten, she said,” replied the mate. “It’s very good o’
you to turn out and let her have your state-room.”

“Don’t say another word about that,” said the skipper impressively.
“I’ve met your wife once or twice, George, an’ I must say that a nicer
spoken woman, an’ a more well-be’aved one, I’ve seldom seen.”

“Same to you,” said the mate; “your wife I mean.”

“Any man,” continued the skipper, “’s would lay in a comfortable
state-room, George, and leave a lady a-trying to turn and to dress and
ondress herself in a pokey little locker ought to be ashamed of
himself.”

“You see, it’s the luggage they bring,” said the mate, slowly refilling
his pipe. “What they want with it all I can’t think. As soon as my old
woman makes up her mind to come for a trip, tomorrow being Bank
Holiday, an’ she being in the mind for a outing, what does she do? Goes
down Commercial Road and buys a bonnet far beyond her station.”

“They’re all like it,” said the skipper; “mine’s just as bad. What does
that boy want?”

The boy approached the edge of the jetty, and, peering down at them,
answered for himself.

“Who’s Captain Bunnett?” he demanded, shrilly.

“That’s me, my lad,” said the skipper, looking up.

“I’ve got a letter for yer,” said the boy, holding it out.

The skipper held out his hands and caught it; and, after reading the
contents, felt his beard and looked at the mate.

“It never rains but it pours,” he said figuratively.

“What’s up?” inquired the other.

“Ere’s my old woman coming now,” said the skipper. “Sent a note to say
she’s getting ready as fast as she can, an’ I’m not to sail on any
account till she comes.”

“That’s awkward,” said the mate, who felt that he was expected to say
something.

“It never struck me to tell her your wife was coming,” said the
skipper. “Where we’re to put ’em both I don’t know. I s’pose it’s quite
certain your wife’ll come?”

“Certain,” said the mate.

“No chance of ’er changing ’er mind?” suggested the skipper, looking
away from him.

“Not now she’s got that bonnet,” replied the mate. “I s’pose there’s no
chance of your wife changing hers?”

The skipper shook his head. “There’s one thing,” he said hopefully,
“they’ll be nice company for each other. They’ll have to ’ave the
state-room between ’em. It’s a good job my wife ain’t as big as yours.”

“We’ll be able to play four ’anded wist sometimes,” said the mate, as
he followed the skipper below to see what further room could be made.

“Crowded but jolly,” said the other.

The two cabs drove up almost at the same moment while they were below,
and Mrs. Bunnett’s cabman had no sooner staggered on to the jetty with
her luggage than Mrs. Fillson’s arrived with hers. The two ladies, who
were entire strangers, stood regarding each other curiously as they
looked down at the bare deck of the Foam.

“George!” cried Mrs. Fillson, who was a fine woman, raising her voice
almost to a scream in the effort to make herself heard above the winch
of a neighbouring steamer.

It was unfortunate perhaps that both officers of the schooner bore the
same highly-respectable Christian name.

“George!” cried Mrs. Bunnett, glancing indignantly at the other lady.

“Ge-orge!” cried Mrs. Fillson, returning her looks with interest.

“Hussey,” said Mrs. Bunnett under her breath, but not very much under.

“George!”

There was no response.

“George!” cried both ladies together.

Still no response, and they made a louder effort.

There was yet another George on board, in the fo’c’sle, and, in
response to pushes from curious friends below, he came up, and regarded
the fair duettists open-mouthed.

“What d’yer want?” he said, at length sheepishly.

“Will you tell Captain Bunnett that his wife, Mrs. Bunnett, is here?”
said that lady, a thin, little woman with bright black eyes.

“Yes, mum,” said the seaman, and was hurrying off when Mrs. Fillson
called him back.

“Will you tell Mr. Fillson that his wife, Mrs. Fillson, is up here?”
she said politely.

“All right, mum,” said the other, and went be-low to communicate the
pleasing tidings. Both husbands came up on deck hastily, and a glance
served to show them how their wives stood.

“How do you do, Cap’n Bunnett,” said Mrs. Fillson, with a fascinating
smile.

“Good-morning, marm,” said the skipper, trying to avoid his wife’s
eyes; “that’s my wife, Mrs. Bunnett.”

“Good-morning, ma’am,” said Mrs. Fillson, adjusting the new bonnet with
the tips of her fingers.

“Good-morning to you,” said Mrs. Bunnett in a cold voice, but
patronising. “You have come to bring your husband some of his things, I
suppose?”

“She’s coming with us,” said the skipper, in a hurry to have it over.
“Wait half a moment, and I’ll help you down.”

He got up on to the side and helped them both to the deck, and, with a
great attempt at cheery conversation, led the way below, where, in the
midst of an impressive silence, he explained that the ladies would have
to share the state-room between them.

“That’s the only way out of it,” said the mate, after waiting in vain
for them to say something.

“It’s a fairish size when you come to look at it,” said the skipper,
putting his head on one side to see whether the bunk looked larger that
way.

“Pack three in there at a pinch,” said the mate hardily.

Still the ladies said nothing, but there was a storm-signal hoisted in
Mrs. Bunnett’s cheek, which boded no good to her husband. There was
room only for one trunk in the state-room, and by prompt generalship
Mrs. Fillson got hers in first. Having seen it safe she went up on deck
for a look round.

“George,” said Mrs. Bunnett fiercely, as soon as they were alone.

“Yes, my dear,” said her husband.

“Pack that woman off home,” said Mrs. Bunnett sharply.

“I couldn’t do that,” said the skipper firmly. “It’s your own fault;
you should have said you was coming.”

“Oh, I know you didn’t want me to come,” said Mrs. Bunnett, the roses
on her bonnet trembling. “The mate can think of a little pleasure for
his wife, but I can stay at home and do your mending and keep the
house clean. Oh, I know; don’t tell me.”

“Well, it’s too late to alter it,” said her husband. “I must get up
above now; you’d better come too.”

Mrs. Bunnett followed him on deck, and, getting as far from the mate’s
wife as possible, watched with a superior air of part ownership the
movements of the seamen as they got under way. A favorable westerly
breeze was blowing, and the canvas once set she stood by her husband as
he pointed out the various objects of interest on the banks of the
river.

They were still in the thick of the traffic at dinner time, so that the
skipper was able, to his secret relief, to send the mate below to do

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