A Spirit of Avarice Page #3

"A Spirit of Avarice" is a gripping short story by W. W. Jacobs that delves into themes of greed and the supernatural. The narrative follows a character whose insatiable desire for wealth leads him to a mysterious encounter that tests the limits of his ambition. Jacobs skillfully blends humor with an eerie atmosphere, showcasing the consequences of avarice and the moral dilemmas that arise when one becomes blinded by desire. The story serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of letting greed govern one's actions, ultimately revealing the unpredictable nature of greed and its impact on the human soul.

• Short story

								

tell him that his surmise as to his friends’ mistake was correct. All
Gravelton was thrilled by the news that the spiritual part of Mr. John
Blows was walking the earth, and much exercised as to his reasons for
so doing.

“Seemed such a monkey trick for ’im to do,” complained Mr. Carter, to
the listening circle at the Peal o’ Bells. “‘I’m a-looking at you,
Joe,’ he ses, and he waggled his ’ead as if it was made of
india-rubber.”

“He’d got something on ’is mind what he wanted to tell you,” said a
listener, severely; “you ought to ’ave stopped, Joe, and asked ’im what
it was.”

“I think I see myself,” said the shivering Mr. Carter. “I think I see
myself.”

“Then he wouldn’t ’ave troubled you any more,” said the other.

Mr. Carter turned pale and eyed him fixedly. “P’r’aps it was only a
death-warning,” said another man.

“What d’ye mean, ‘only a death-warning’?” demanded the unfortunate
Mr. Carter; “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I ’ad an uncle o’ mine see a ghost once,” said a third man, anxious to
relieve the tension.

“And what ’appened?” inquired the first speaker.

“I’ll tell you after Joe’s gone,” said the other, with rare
consideration.

Mr. Carter called for some more beer and told the barmaid to put a
little gin in it. In a pitiable state of “nerves” he sat at the extreme
end of a bench, and felt that he was an object of unwholesome interest
to his acquaintances. The finishing touch was put to his discomfiture
when a well-meaning friend in a vague and disjointed way advised him to
give up drink, swearing, and any other bad habits which he might have
contracted.

The committee of the Ancient Order of Camels took the news calmly, and
classed it with pink rats and other abnormalities. In reply to Mrs.
Blows’s request for the capital sum, they expressed astonishment that
she could be willing to tear herself away from the hero’s grave, and
spoke of the pain which such an act on her part would cause him in the
event of his being conscious of it. In order to show that they were
reasonable men, they allowed her an extra shilling that week.

The hero threw the dole on the bedroom floor, and in a speech bristling
with personalities, consigned the committee to perdition. The
confinement was beginning to tell upon him, and two nights afterward,
just before midnight, he slipped out for a breath of fresh air.

It was a clear night, and all Gravelton with one exception, appeared to
have gone to bed. The exception was Police-constable Collins, and he,
after tracking the skulking figure of Mr. Blows and finally bringing it
to bay in a doorway, kept his for a fortnight. As a sensible man, Mr.
Blows took no credit to himself for the circumstance, but a natural
feeling of satisfaction at the discomfiture of a member of a force for
which he had long entertained a strong objection could not be denied.

Gravelton debated this new appearance with bated breath, and even the
purblind committee of the Camels had to alter their views. They no
longer denied the supernatural nature of the manifestations, but, with
a strange misunderstanding of Mr. Blows’s desires, attributed his
restlessness to dissatisfaction with the projected tombstone, and,
having plenty of funds, amended their order for a plain stone at ten
guineas to one in pink marble at twenty-five.

“That there committee,” said Mr. Blows to his wife, in a trembling
voice, as he heard of the alteration—“that there committee seem to
think that they can play about with my money as they like. You go and
tell ’em you won’t ’ave it. And say you’ve given up the idea of going
to Australia and you want the money to open a shop with. We’ll take a
little pub somewhere.”

Mrs. Blows went, and returned in tears, and for two entire days her
husband, a prey to gloom, sat trying to evolve fresh and original ideas
for the possession of the money. On the evening of the second day he
became low-spirited, and going down to the kitchen took a glass from
the dresser and sat down by the beer-cask.

Almost insensibly he began to take a brighter view of things. It was
Saturday night and his wife was out. He shook his head indulgently as
he thought of her, and began to realise how foolish he had been to
entrust such a delicate mission to a woman. The Ancient Order of Camels
wanted a man to talk to them—a man who knew the world and could assail
them with unanswerable arguments. Having applied every known test to
make sure that the cask was empty, he took his cap from a nail and
sallied out into the street.

Old Mrs. Martin, a neighbour, saw him first, and announced the fact
with a scream that brought a dozen people round her. Bereft of speech,
she mouthed dumbly at Mr. Blows.

“I ain’t touch—touched her,” said that gentleman, earnestly. “I
ain’t—been near ’er.”

The crowd regarded him wild-eyed. Fresh members came running up, and
pushing for a front place fell back hastily on the main body and
watched breathlessly. Mr. Blows, disquieted by their silence, renewed
his protestations.

“I was coming ’long——”

He broke off suddenly and, turning round, gazed with some heat at a
gentleman who was endeavouring to ascertain whether an umbrella would
pass through him. The investigator backed hastily into the crowd again,
and a faint murmur of surprise arose as the indignant Mr. Blows rubbed
the place.

“He’s alive, I tell you,” said a voice. “What cheer, Jack!”

“Ullo, Bill,” said Mr. Blows, genially.

Bill came forward cautiously, and, first shaking hands, satisfied
himself by various little taps and prods that his friend was really
alive.

“It’s all right,” he shouted; “come and feel.”

At least fifty hands accepted the invitation, and, ignoring the threats
and entreaties of Mr. Blows, who was a highly ticklish subject,
wandered briskly over his anatomy. He broke free at last and, supported
by Bill and a friend, set off for the Peal o’ Bells.

By the time he arrived there his following had swollen to immense
proportions. Windows were thrown up, and people standing on their
doorsteps shouted inquiries. Congratulations met him on all sides, and
the joy of Mr. Joseph Carter was so great that Mr. Blows was quite
affected.

In high feather at the attention he was receiving, Mr. Blows pushed his
way through the idlers at the door and ascended the short flight of
stairs which led to the room where the members of the Ancient Order of
Camels were holding their lodge. The crowd swarmed up after him.

The door was locked, but in response to his knocking it opened a couple
of inches, and a gruff voice demanded his business. Then, before he
could give it, the doorkeeper reeled back into the room, and Mr. Blows
with a large following pushed his way in.

The president and his officers, who were sitting in state behind a long
table at the end of the room, started to their feet with mingled cries

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