Breaking a Spell Page #2

"Breaking a Spell" by W. W. Jacobs is a captivating short story that blends elements of humor and the supernatural. It follows a group of characters who become embroiled in a series of comedic and unexpected events when they encounter a spell that disrupts their ordinary lives. Jacobs, known for his wit and storytelling skills, explores themes of magic, human nature, and the often unforeseen consequences of meddling with forces beyond comprehension. The narrative is rich with humor and character-driven charm, making it a delightful read for fans of classic literature.

• Humour
• Short story

								

a long face.

“When you’ve got the ha’pennies,” ses Mrs. Prince, “bring ’em to me and
I’ll tell you wot to do with ’em. Don’t lose no time, because I can see
that something worse is going to ’appen if it ain’t prevented.”

“Is it anything to do with my wife’s mother getting worse?” ses Joe
Barlcomb, who was a careful man and didn’t want to waste six shillings.

“No, something to you,” ses Mrs. Prince.

Joe Barlcomb went cold all over, and then he put down a couple of eggs
he’d brought round for ’er and went off ’ome agin, and Mrs. Prince
stood in the doorway with a cat on each shoulder and watched ’im till
’e was out of sight.

That night Joe Barlcomb came up to this ’ere Cauliflower public-house,
same as he’d been told, and by-and-by, arter he ’ad ’ad a pint, he
looked round, and taking a shilling out of ’is pocket put it on the
table, and he ses, “Who’ll give me a ha’penny for that?” he ses.

None of ’em seemed to be in a hurry. Bill Jones took it up and bit it,
and rang it on the table and squinted at it, and then he bit it agin,
and turned round and asked Joe Barlcomb wot was wrong with it.

“Wrong?” ses Joe; “nothing.”

Bill Jones put it down agin. “You’re wide awake, Joe,” he ses, “but so
am I.”

“Won’t nobody give me a ha’penny for it?” ses Joe, looking round.

Then Peter Lamb came up, and he looked at it and rang it, and at last
he gave Joe a ha’penny for it and took it round, and everybody ’ad a
look at it.

“It stands to reason it’s a bad ’un,” ses Bill Jones, “but it’s so well
done I wish as I’d bought it.”

“H-s-h!” ses Peter Lamb; “don’t let the landlord ’ear you.”

The landlord ’ad just that moment come in, and Peter walked up and
ordered a pint, and took his tenpence change as bold as brass. Arter
that Joe Barbcomb bought five more ha’pennies afore you could wink
a’most, and every man wot sold one went up to the bar and ’ad a pint
and got tenpence change, and drank Joe Barlcomb’s health.

“There seems to be a lot o’ money knocking about to-night,” ses the
landlord, as Sam Martin, the last of ’em, was drinking ’is pint.

Sam Martin choked and put ’is pot down on the counter with a bang, and
him and the other five was out o’ that door and sailing up the road
with their tenpences afore the landlord could get his breath. He stood
to the bar scratching his ’ead and staring, but he couldn’t understand
it a bit till a man wot was too late to sell his ha’penny up and told
’im all about it. The fuss ’e made was terrible. The shillings was in a
little heap on a shelf at the back o’ the bar, and he did all sorts o’
things to ’em to prove that they was bad, and threatened Joe Barlcomb
with the police. At last, however, ’e saw wot a fool he was making of
himself, and arter nearly breaking his teeth ’e dropped them into a
drawer and stirred ’em up with the others.

Joe Barlcomb went round the next night to see Mrs. Prince, and she
asked ’im a lot o’ questions about the men as ’ad sold ’im the
ha’pennies.

“The fust part ’as been done very well,” she ses, nodding her ’ead at
’im; “if you do the second part as well, you’ll soon know who your
enemy is.”

“Nothing’ll bring the pig back,” ses Joe.

“There’s worse misfortunes than that, as I’ve told you,” ses Mrs.
Prince, sharply. “Now, listen to wot I’m going to say to you. When the
clock strikes twelve to-night——”

“Our clock don’t strike,” ses Joe.

“Then you must borrow one that does,” ses Mrs. Prince, “and when it
strikes twelve you must go round to each o’ them six men and sell them
a ha’penny for a shilling.”

Joe Barlcomb looked at ’er. “’Ow?” he ses, short-like.

“Same way as you sold ’em a shilling for a ha’-penny,” ses Mrs. Prince;
“it don’t matter whether they buy the ha’pennies or not. All you’ve got
to do is to go and ask ’em, and the man as makes the most fuss is the
man that ’as put the trouble on you.”

“It seems a roundabout way o’ going to work,” ses Joe.

“Wot!” screams Mrs. Prince, jumping up and waving her arms about.
“Wot! Go your own way; I’ll have nothing more to do with you. And
don’t blame me for anything that happens. It’s a very bad thing to come
to a witch for advice and then not to do as she tells you. You ought to
know that.”

“I’ll do it, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb, trembling.

“You’d better,” ses Mrs. Prince; “and mind—not a word to anybody.”

Joe promised her agin, and ’e went off and borrered a clock from Albert
Price, and at twelve o’clock that night he jumped up out of bed and
began to dress ’imself and pretend not to ’ear his wife when she asked
’im where he was going.

It was a dark, nasty sort o’ night, blowing and raining, and, o’
course, everybody ’ad gone to bed long since. The fust cottage Joe came
to was Bill Jones’s, and, knowing Bill’s temper, he stood for some time
afore he could make up ’is mind to knock; but at last he up with ’is
stick and banged away at the door.

A minute arterward he ’eard the bedroom winder pushed open, and then
Bill Jones popped his ’ead out and called to know wot was the matter
and who it was.

“It’s me—Joe Barlcomb,” ses Joe, “and I want to speak to you very
partikler.”

“Well, speak away,” ses Bill. “You go into the back room,” he ses,
turning to his wife.

“Whaffor?” ses Mrs. Jones.

“’Cos I don’t know wot Joe is going to say,” ses Bill. “You go in now,
afore I make you.”

His wife went off grumbling, and then Bill told Joe Barlcomb to hurry
up wot he’d got to say as ’e ’adn’t got much on and the weather wasn’t
as warm as it might be.

“I sold you a shilling for a ha’penny last night, Bill,” ses Joe.

“Do you want to sell any more?” ses Bill Jones, putting his ’and down
to where ’is trouser pocket ought to be.

“Not exactly that,” ses Joe Barlcomb. “This time I want you to sell me
a shilling for a ha’penny.”

Bill leaned out of the winder and stared down at Joe Barlcomb, and then
he ses, in a choking voice, “Is that wot you’ve come disturbing my
sleep for at this time o’ night?” he ses.

“I must ’ave it, Bill,” ses Joe.

“Well, if you’ll wait a moment,” ses Bill, trying to speak perlitely,
“I’ll come down and give it to you.”

Joe didn’t like ’is tone of voice, but he waited, and all of a sudden
Bill Jones came out o’ that door like a gun going off and threw ’imself
on Joe Barlcomb. Both of ’em was strong men, and by the time they’d
finished they was so tired they could ’ardly stand. Then Bill Jones
went back to bed, and Joe Barlcomb, arter sitting down on the doorstep
to rest ’imself, went off and knocked up Peter Lamb.

Peter Lamb was a little man and no good as a fighter, but the things he
said to Joe Barlcomb as he leaned out o’ the winder and shook ’is fist
at him was ’arder to bear than blows. He screamed away at the top of
’is voice for ten minutes, and then ’e pulled the winder to with a bang
and went back to bed.

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