After the Inquest Page #2

"After the Inquest" by W. W. Jacobs is a captivating short story that explores themes of mystery, human folly, and the consequences of actions taken in haste. Following a peculiar incident that leads to an inquest, the narrative delves into the reactions and motivations of the characters involved. Jacobs, known for his wit and humor, skillfully intertwines elements of suspense and irony, ultimately revealing deeper truths about human nature and the complexities of social interactions. The story showcases his signature style, blending humor with a touch of the macabre, making it a memorable read.

• Fiction

								

ventured on deck. For some time he stood eagerly sniffing the cool,
sweet air, and then, after a look round, gingerly approached the mate,
who was at the helm.

“Give me a hold on her,” said he.

“You had better get below again, if you don’t want the missis to see
you,” said the mate. “She’s gettin’ up—nasty temper she’s in too.”

The skipper went forward grumbling. “Send down a good breakfast,
George,” said he.

To his great discomfort the mate suddenly gave a low whistle, and
regarded him with a look of blank dismay.

“Good gracious!” he cried, “I forgot all about it. Here’s a pretty
kettle of fish—well, well.”

“Forgot about what?” asked the skipper uneasily.

“The crew take their meals in the cabin now,” replied the mate, “’cos
the missis says it’s more cheerful for ’em, and she’s l’arning ’em to
eat their wittles properly.”

The skipper looked at him aghast. “You’ll have to smuggle me up some
grub,” he said at length. “I’m not going to starve for nobody.”

“Easier said than done,” said the mate. “The missis has got eyes like
needles; still, I’ll do the best I can for you. Look out! Here she
comes.”

The skipper fled hastily, and, safe down below, explained to the crew
how they were to secrete portions of their breakfast for his benefit.
The amount of explanation required for so simple a matter was
remarkable, the crew manifesting a denseness which irritated him almost
beyond endurance. They promised, however, to do the best they could for
him, and returned in triumph after a hearty meal, and presented their
enraged commander with a few greasy crumbs and the tail of a bloater.

For the next two days the wind was against them, and they made but
little progress. Mrs. Harbolt spent most of her time on deck, thereby
confining her husband to his evil-smelling quarters below. Matters were
not improved for him by his treatment of the crew, who, resenting his
rough treatment of them, were doing their best to starve him into
civility. Most of the time he kept in his bunk—or rather Jemmy’s bunk—a
prey to despondency and hunger of an acute type, venturing on deck only
at night to prowl uneasily about and bemoan his condition.

On the third night Mrs. Harbolt was later in retiring than usual, and
it was nearly midnight before the skipper, who had been indignantly
waiting for her to go, was able to get on deck and hold counsel with
the mate.

“I’ve done what I could for you,” said the latter, fishing a crust from
his pocket, which Harbolt took thankfully. “I’ve told her all the yarns
I could think of about people turning up after they was buried and the
like.”

“What’d she say?” queried the skipper eagerly, between his bites.

“Told me not to talk like that,” said the mate; “said it showed a want
o’ trust in Providence to hint at such things. Then I told her what you
asked me about the locket, only I made it a bracelet worth ten pounds.”

“That pleased her?” suggested the other hopefully.

The mate shook his head. “She said I was a born fool to believe you’d
been robbed of it,” he replied. “She said what you’d done was to give
it to one o’ them pore females. She’s been going on frightful about it
all the afternoon—won’t talk o’ nothing else.”

“I don’t know what’s to be done,” groaned the skipper despondently. “I
shall be dead afore we get to port this wind holds. Go down and get me
something to eat George; I’m starving.”

“Everything’s locked up, as I told you afore,” said the mate.

“As the master of this ship,” said the skipper, drawing himself up, “I
order you to go down and get me something to eat. You can tell the
missus it’s for you if she says anything.”

“I’m hanged if I will,” said the mate sturdily. “Why don’t you go down
and have it out with her like a man? She can’t eat you.”

“I’m not going to,” said the other shortly. “I’m a determined man, and
when I say a thing I mean it. It’s going to be broken to her gradual,
as I said; I don’t want her to be scared, poor thing.”

“I know who’d be scared the most,” murmured the mate.

The skipper looked at him fiercely, and then sat down wearily on the
hatches with his hands between his knees, rising, after a time, to get
the dipper and drink copiously from the water-cask. Then, replacing it
with a sigh, he bade the mate a surly good-night and went below.

To his dismay he found when he awoke in the morning that what little
wind there was had dropped in the night, and the billy-boy was just
rising and falling lazily on the water in a fashion most objectionable
to an empty stomach. It was the last straw, and he made things so
uncomfortable below that the crew were glad to escape on deck, where
they squatted down in the bows, and proceeded to review a situation
which was rapidly becoming unbearable.

“I’ve ’ad enough of it, Joe,” grumbled the boy. “I’m sore all over with
sleeping on the floor, and the old man’s temper gets wuss and wuss. I’m
going to be ill.”

“Whaffor?” queried Joe dully.

“You tell the missus I’m down below ill. Say you think I’m dying,”
responded the infant Machiavelli, “then you’ll see somethink if you
keep your eyes open.”

He went below again, not without a little nervousness, and, clambering
into Joe’s bunk, rolled over on his back and gave a deep groan.

“What’s the matter with you!” growled the skipper, who was lying in
the other bunk staving off the pangs of hunger with a pipe.

“I’m very ill—dying,” said Jemmy, with another groan.

“You’d better stay in bed and have your breakfast brought down here,
then,” said the skipper kindly.

“I don’t want no breakfast,” said Jem faintly.

“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t have it sent down, you unfeeling
little brute,” said the skipper indignantly. “You tell Joe to bring you
down a great plate o’ cold meat and pickles, and some coffee; that’s
what you want.”

“All right, sir,” said Jemmy. “I hope they won’t let the missus come
down here, in case it’s something catching. I wouldn’t like her to be
took bad.”

“Eh?” said the skipper, in alarm. “Certainly not. Here, you go up and
die on deck. Hurry up with you.”

“I can’t; I’m too weak,” said Jemmy.

“You get up on deck at once; d’ye hear me?” hissed the skipper, in
alarm.

“I c-c-c-can’t help it,” sobbed Jemmy, who was enjoying the situation
amazingly. “I b’lieve it’s sleeping on the hard floor’s snapped
something inside me.”

“If you don’t go I’ll take you,” said the skipper, and he was about to
rise to put his threat into execution when a shadow fell across the
opening, and a voice, which thrilled him to the core, said softly,
“Jemmy!”

“Yes ’m?” said Jemmy languidly, as the skipper flattened himself in his
bunk and drew the clothes over him.

“How do you feel?” inquired Mrs. Harbolt.

“Bad all over,” said Jemmy. “Oh, don’t come down, mum—please don’t.”

“Rubbish!” said Mrs. Harbolt tartly, as she came slowly and carefully
down backwards. “What a dark hole this is, Jemmy. No wonder you’re ill.
Put your tongue out.”

Jemmy complied.

“I can’t see properly here,” murmured the lady, “but it looks very
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