Brother Hutchins

"Brother Hutchins" by W. W. Jacobs is a light-hearted short story that revolves around the character of Brother Hutchins, a well-meaning but somewhat bumbling figure who finds himself in humorous predicaments. Set in a coastal village, the narrative explores themes of community, friendship, and the quirks of human nature. Jacobs' trademark wit and keen observations bring to life the interactions among the townsfolk, resulting in both amusing situations and insightful commentary on social dynamics. This charming tale showcases Jacobs' ability to blend humor with relatable characters, making it an engaging read.

• Fiction

								
“I’ve got a friend coming down with us this trip, George,” said the
master of the Wave as they sat on deck after tea watching the river.
“One of our new members, Brother Hutchins.”

“From the Mission, I s’pose?” said the mate coldly.

“From the Mission,” confirmed the skipper. “You’ll like him, George;
he’s been one o’ the greatest rascals that ever breathed.”

“Well, I don’t know what you mean,” said the mate, looking up
indignantly.

“He’s ’ad a most interestin’ life,” said the skipper; “he’s been in
half the jails of England. To hear ’im talk is as good as reading a
book, And ’e’s as merry as they make ’em.”

“Oh, and is ’e going to give us prayers afore breakfast like that
fat-necked, white-faced old rascal what came down with us last summer
and stole my boots?” demanded the mate.

“He never stole ’em, George,” said the skipper.

“If yo’d ’eard that man cry when I mentioned to ’im your unjust
suspicions, you’d never have forgiven yourself. He told ’em at the
meetin’, an’ they had prayers for you.”

“You an’ your Mission are a pack o’ fools,” said the mate scornfully.
“You’re always being done. A man comes to you an’ ses ’e’s found grace,
and you find ’im a nice, easy, comfortable living. ’E sports a bit of
blue ribbon and a red nose at the same time. Don’t tell me. You ask me
why I don’t join you, and I tell you it’s because I don’t want to lose
my common sense.”

“You’ll know better one o’ these days, George,” said the skipper,
rising. “I earnestly hope you’ll ’ave some great sorrow or affliction,
something almost too great for you to bear. It’s the only thing that’ll
save you.”

“I expect that fat chap what stole my boots would like to see it too,”
said the mate.

“He would,” said the skipper solemnly. “He said so.”

The mate got up, fuming and knocking his pipe out with great violence
against the side of the schooner, stamped up and down the deck two or
three times, and then, despairing of regaining his accustomed calm on
board, went ashore.

It was late when he returned. A light burnt in the cabin, and the
skipper with his spectacles on was reading aloud from an old number of
the Evangelical Magazine to a thin, white-faced man dressed in black.

“That’s my mate,” said the skipper, looking up from his book.

“Is he one of our band?” inquired the stranger.

The skipper shook his head despondently.

“Not yet,” said the stranger encouragingly.

“Seen too many of ’em,” said the mate bluntly. “The more I see of ’em,
the less I like ’em. It makes me feel wicked to look at ’em.”

“Ah, that ain’t you speaking now, it’s the Evil One,” said Mr. Hutchins
confidently.

“I s’pose you know ’im pretty well,” said the mate simply.

“I lived with him thirty years,” said Mr. Hutchins solemnly, “then I
got tired of him.”

“I should think he got a bit sick too,” said the mate. “Thirty days ’ud
ha’ been too long for me.”

He went to his berth to give Mr. Hutchins time to frame a suitable
reply and returned with a full bottle of whisky and a tumbler, and
having drawn the cork with a refreshing pop, mixed himself a stiff
glass and lit his pipe. Mr. Hutchins with a deep groan gazed
reproachfully at the skipper and shook his head at the bottle.

“You know I don’t like you to bring that filthy stuff in the cabin,
George,” said the skipper.

“It’s not for me,” said the mate flippantly. “It’s for the Evil One. He
ses the sight of his old pal ’Utchins ’as turned his stomach.”

He glanced at the stranger and saw to his astonishment that he appeared
to be struggling with a strong desire to laugh. His lips tightened and
his shifty little eyes watered, but he conquered himself in a moment,
and rising to his feet delivered a striking address—in favor of
teetotalism. He condemned whisky as not only wicked, but unnecessary,
declaring with a side glance at the mate that two acidulated drops
dissolved in water were an excellent substitute.

The sight of the whisky appeared to madden him, and the skipper sat
spell-bound at his eloquence, until at length, after apostrophising the
bottle in a sentence which left him breathless, he snatched it up and
dashed it to pieces on the floor.

For a moment the mate was struck dumb with fury, then with a roar he
leaped up and rushed for the lecturer, but the table was between them,
and before he could get over it the skipper sprang up and seizing him
by the arm, pushed him into the state-room.

“Lea’ go,” foamed the mate. “Let me get at him.”

“George,” said the skipper, still striving with him, “I’m ashamed of
you.”

“Ashamed, be damned,” yelled the mate struggling. “What did he chuck my
whisky away for?”

“He’s a saint,” said the skipper, relaxing his hold as he heard Mr.
Hutchins lock himself in. “He’s a saint, George. Seein’ ’is beautiful
words ’ad no effect on you, he ’ad recourse to strong measures.”

“Wait till I get hold of ’im,” said the mate menacingly. “Only wait,
I’ll saint ’im.”

“Is he better, dear friend?” came the voice of Mr. Hutchins from beyond
the door, “because I forgot the tumbler.”

“Come out,” roared the mate, “come out and upset it.”

Mr. Hutchins declined the invitation, but from behind the door pleaded
tearfully with the mate to lead a better life, and even rebuked the
skipper for allowing the bottle of sin to be produced in the cabin. The
skipper took the rebuke humbly, and after requesting Mr. Hutchins to
sleep in the state-room that night in order to frustrate the evident
designs of the mate, went on deck for a final look round and then came
below and turned in himself.

The crew of the schooner were early astir next morning getting under
way, but Mr. Hutchins kept his bed, although the mate slipped down to
the cabin several times and tapped at his door. When he did come up the
mate was at the wheel and the men down below getting breakfast.

“Sleep well?” inquired Mr. Hutchins softly, as he took a seat on the
hatches, a little distance from him.

“I’ll let you know when I haven’t got this wheel,” said the mate
sourly.

“Do,” said Mr. Hutchins genially. “We shall see you at our meeting
to-night?” he asked blandly.

The mate disdained to reply, but his wrath when at Mr. Hutchins’
request the cabin was invaded by the crew that evening, cannot be put
into words.

For three nights they had what Mr. Hutchins described as love-feasts,
and the mate as blamed bear-gardens. The crew were not particularly
partial to hymns, considered as such, but hymns shouted out with the
full force of their lungs while sharing the skipper’s hymn book
appealed to them strongly. Besides, it maddened the mate, and to know
that they were defying their superior, and at the same time doing good
to their own souls, was very sweet. The boy, whose voice was just
breaking, got off some surprising effects, and seemed to compass about
five octaves without distress.

When they were exhausted with singing Mr. Hutchins would give them a
short address, generally choosing as his subject a strong,
violent-tempered man given to drink and coarse language. The speaker
proved conclusively that a man who drank would do other things in

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