A Safety Match

"A Safety Match" by W. W. Jacobs is a short story that blends humor and suspense. It follows the tale of a man who finds himself embroiled in a peculiar situation concerning a mysterious package and a safety match. As he navigates through misunderstandings and comedic twists, the story ultimately highlights themes of human folly and the unpredictability of everyday life. Jacobs' clever use of dialogue and character development adds to the charm of this engaging narrative.

• Fiction

								
Mr. Boom, late of the mercantile marine, had the last word, but only by
the cowardly expedient of getting out of earshot of his daughter first,
and then hurling it at her with a voice trained to compete with
hurricanes. Miss Boom avoided a complete defeat by leaning forward with
her head on one side in the attitude of an eager but unsuccessful
listener, a pose which she abandoned for one of innocent joy when her
sire, having been deluded into twice repeating his remarks, was fain to
relieve his overstrained muscles by a fit of violent coughing.

“I b’lieve she heard it all along,” said Mr. Boom sourly, as he
continued his way down the winding lane to the little harbour below.
“The only way to live at peace with wimmen is to always be at sea; then
they make a fuss of you when you come home—if you don’t stay too long,
that is.”

He reached the quay, with its few tiny cottages and brown nets spread
about to dry in the sun, and walking up and down, grumbling, regarded
with a jaundiced eye a few small smacks, which lay in the harbour, and
two or three crusted amphibians lounging aimlessly about.

“Mornin’, Mr. Boom,” said a stalwart youth in sea-boots, appearing
suddenly over the edge of the quay from his boat.

“Mornin’, Dick,” said Mr. Boom affably; “just goin’ off?”

“’Bout an hour’s time,” said the other; “Miss Boom well, sir?”

“She’s a’ right,” said Mr. Boom; “me an’ her ’ve just had a few words.
She picked up something off the floor what she said was a cake o’ mud
off my heel. Said she wouldn’t have it,” continued Mr. Boom, his voice
rising. “My own floor too. Swep’ it up off the floor with a dustpan and
brush, and held it in front of me to look at.”

Dick Tarrell gave a grunt which might mean anything—Mr. Boom took it
for sympathy.

“I called her old maid,” he said with gusto; “‘you’re a fidgety old
maid,’ I said. You should ha’ seen her look. Do you know what I think,
Dick?”

“Not exactly,” said Tarrell cautiously.

“I b’leeve she’s that savage that she’d take the first man that asked
her,” said the other triumphantly; “she’s sitting up there at the door
of the cottage, all by herself.”

Tarrell sighed.

“With not a soul to speak to,” said Mr. Boom pointedly.

The other kicked at a small crab which was passing, and returned it to
its native element in sections.

“I’ll walk up there with you if you’re going that way,” he said at
length.

“No, I’m just having a look round,” said Mr. Boom, “but there’s nothing
to hinder you going, Dick, if you’ve a mind to.”

“There’s no little thing you want, as I’m going there, I s’pose?”
suggested Tarrell. “It’s awkward when you go there and say, ‘Good
morning,’ and the girl says, ‘Good morning,’ and then you don’t say any
more and she don’t say any more. If there was anything you wanted that
I could help her look for, it ’ud make talk easier.”

“Well—go for my baccy pouch,” said Mr. Boom, after a minute’s thought,
“it’ll take you a long time to find that.”

“Why?” inquired the other.

“’Cos I’ve got it here,” said the unscrupulous Mr. Boom, producing it,
and placidly filling his pipe. “You might spend—ah—the best part of an
hour looking for that.”

He turned away with a nod, and Tarrell, after looking about him in a
hesitating fashion to make sure that his movements were not attracting
the attention his conscience told him they deserved, set off in the
hang-dog fashion peculiar to nervous lovers up the road to the cottage.
Kate Boom was sitting at the door as her father had described, and, in
apparent unconsciousness of his approach, did not raise her eyes from
her book.

“Good morning,” said Tarrell, in a husky voice.

Miss Boom returned the salutation, and, marking the place in her book
with her forefinger, looked over the hedge on the other side of the
road to the sea beyond.

“Your father has left his pouch behind, and being as I was coming this
way, asked me to call for it,” faltered the young man.

Miss Boom turned her head, and, regarding him steadily, noted the
rising colour and the shuffling feet.

“Did he say where he had left it?” she inquired.

“No,” said the other.

“Well, my time’s too valuable to waste looking for pouches,” said Kate,
bending down to her book again, “but if you like to go in and look for
it, you may!”

She moved aside to let him pass, and sat listening with a slight smile
as she heard him moving about the room.

“I can’t find it,” he said, after a pretended search.

“Better try the kitchen now then,” said Miss Boom, without looking up,
“and then the scullery. It might be in the woodshed or even down the
garden. You haven’t half looked.”

She heard the kitchen door close behind him, and then, taking her book
with her, went upstairs to her room. The conscientious Tarrell, having
duly searched all the above-mentioned places, returned to the parlour
and waited. He waited a quarter of an hour, and then going out by the
front door stood irresolute.

“I can’t find it,” he said at length, addressing himself to the bedroom
window.

“No. I was coming down to tell you,” said Miss Boom, glancing sedately
at him from over the geraniums. “I remember seeing father take it out
with him this morning.”

Tarrell affected a clumsy surprise. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “How
nice your geraniums are.”

“Yes, they’re all right,” said Miss Boom briefly.

“I can’t think how you keep ’em so nice,” said Tarrell.

“Well, don’t try,” said Miss Boom kindly. “You’d better go back and
tell father about the pouch. Perhaps he’s waiting for a smoke all this
time.”

“There’s no hurry,” said the young man; “perhaps he’s found it.”

“Well, I can’t stop to talk,” said the girl; “I’m busy reading.”

With these heartless words, she withdrew into the room, and the
discomfited swain, only too conscious of the sorry figure he cut, went
slowly back to the harbour, to be met by Mr. Boom with a wink of
aggravating and portentous dimensions.

“You’ve took a long time,” he said slyly, “There’s nothing like a
little scheming in these things.”

“It didn’t lead to much,” said the discomfited Tarrell.

“Don’t be in a hurry, my lad,” said the elder man, after listening to
his experiences. “I’ve been thinking over this little affair for some
time now, an’ I think I’ve got a plan.”

“If it’s anything about baccy pouches——” began the young man
ungratefully.

“It ain’t,” interrupted Mr. Boom, “it’s quite diff’rent. Now, you’d
best get aboard your craft and do your duty. There’s more young men won
girls’ ’arts while doing of their duty than—than—if they warn’t doing
their duty. Do you understand me?”

It is inadvisable to quarrel with a prospective father-in-law, so that
Tarrell said he did, and with a moody nod tumbled into his boat and put
off to the smack. Mr. Boom having walked up and down a bit, and
exchanged a few greetings, bent his steps in the direction of the
“Jolly Sailor,” and, ordering two mugs of ale, set them down on a small
bench opposite his old friend Raggett.

“I see young Tarrell go off grumpy-like,” said Raggett, drawing a mug
towards him and gazing at the fast-receding boats.

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