Brother Hutchins Page #2

"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

								

secret, and he pictured this man going home and beating his wife
because she reproached him for breaking open the children’s money-box
to spend the savings on Irish whisky. At every point he made he
groaned, and the crew, as soon as they found they might groan too, did
so with extraordinary gusto, the boy’s groans being weird beyond
conception.

They reached Plymouth where they had to put out a few cases of goods,
just in time to save the mate’s reason, for the whole ship, owing to
Mr. Hutchins’ zeal was topsy turvy. The ship’s cat sat up all one night
cursing him and a blue ribbon he had tied round her neck, and even the
battered old tea-pot came down to meals bedizened with bows of the same
proselytising hue.

By the time they had got to their moorings it was too late to take the
hatches off, and the crew sat gazing longingly at the lights ashore.
Their delight when the visitor obtained permission for them to go
ashore with him for a little stroll was unbounded, and they set off
like schoolboys.

“They couldn’t be with a better man,” said the skipper, as the party
moved off; “when I think of the good that man’s done in under four days
it makes me ashamed of myself.”

“You had better ship ’im as mate,” said George. “There’d be a pair of
you then.”

“There’s greater work for ’im to do,” said the skipper solemnly.

He saw the mate’s face in the waning light and moved off with a sigh.
The mate, for his part, leaned against the side smoking, and as the
skipper declined to talk on any subject but Mr. Hutchins, relapsed into
a moody silence until the return of the crew some two hours later.

“Mr. Hutchins is coming on after, sir,” said the boy. “He told us to
say he was paying a visit to a friend.”

“What’s the name of the pub?” asked the mate quietly.

“If you can’t speak without showing your nasty temper, George, you’d
better hold your tongue,” said the skipper severely. “What’s your
opinion about Mr. Hutchins, my lads?”

“A more open ’arted man never breathed,” said Dan, the oldest of the
crew, warmly.

“Best feller I ever met in my life,” said another.

“You hear that?” said the skipper.

“I hear,” said the mate.

“’E’s a Christian,” said the boy. “I never knew what a Christian was
before I met ’im. What do you think ’e give us.”

“Give you?” said the skipper.

“A pound cash,” said the boy. “A golden sovring each. Tork about
Christians! I wish I knew a few more of ’em.”

“Well I never!” exclaimed the gratified skipper.

“An’ the way ’e did it was so nice,” said the oldest seamen. “’E ses,
‘that’s from me an’ the skipper,’ ’e ses. ‘Thank the skipper for it as
much as me,’ ’e ses.”

“Well now, don’t waste it,” said the skipper.

“I should bank it if I was you. It’ll make a nice little nest-egg.”

“I ’ope it was come by honest, that’s all,” said the mate.

“O’ course it was,” cried the skipper. “You’ve got a ’ard, cruel ’art,
George. P’raps if it ’ad been a little softer you’d ’ave ’ad one too.”

“Blast ’is sovrings,” said the surly mate. “I’d like to know where he
got ’em from, an’ wot ’e means by saying it come from you as much as
’im. I never knew you to give money away.”

“I s’pose,” said the skipper very softly, “he means that I put such
like thought s into ’is ’art. Well, you’d better turn in, my lads. We
start work at four.”

The hands went forward, and the skipper and mate descended to the cabin
and prepared for sleep. The skipper set a lamp on the table ready for
Mr. Hutchins when he should return, and after a short inward struggle
bade the mate “good-night,” and in a couple of minutes was fast asleep.

At four o’clock the mate woke suddenly to find the skipper standing by
his berth. The lamp still stood burning on the table, fighting feebly
against the daylight which was pouring in through the skylight.

“Not turned up yet?” said the mate, with a glance at the visitor’s
empty berth.

The skipper shook his head spiritlessly and pointed to the table. The
mate following his finger, saw a small canvas bag, and by the side of
it fourpence halfpenny in coppers and an unknown amount in brace
buttons.

“There was twenty-three pounds freight money in that bag when we left
London,” said the skipper, finding his voice at last.

“Well, what do you think’s become of it?” inquired the mate, taking up
the lamp and blowing it out.

“I can’t think,” said the skipper, “my’ed’s all confused. Bro—Mr.
Hutchins ain’t come back yet.”

“I s’pose he was late and didn’t like to disturb you,” said the mate
without moving a muscle, “but I’ve no doubt ’e’s all right. Don’t you
worry about him.”

“It’s very strange where it’s gone, George,” faltered the skipper,
“very strange.”

“Well, ’Utchins is a generous sort o’ chap,” said the mate, “’e give
the men five pounds for nothing, so perhaps he’ll give you
something—when ’e comes back.”

“Go an’ ask the crew to come down here,” said the skipper, sinking on a
locker and gazing at the brazen collection before him.

The mate obeyed, and a few minutes afterwards returned with the men,
who swarming into the cabin, listened sympathetically as the skipper
related his loss.

“It’s a mystery which nobody can understand, sir,” said old Dan when he
had finished, “and it’s no use tryin’.”

“One o’ them things what won’t never be cleared up properly,” said the
cook comfortably.

“Well, I don’t like to say it,” said the skipper, “but I must. The only
man who could have taken it was Hutchins.”

“Wot, sir,” said Dan, “that blessed man! Why, I’d laugh at the idea.”

“He couldn’t do it,” said the boy, “not if he tried he couldn’t. He was
too good.”

“He’s taken that twenty-three poun’,” said the skipper deliberately;
“eighteen, we’ll call it, because I’m goin’ to have five of it back.”

“You’re labourin’ under a great mistake, sir,” said Dan ambiguously.

“Are you going to give me that money?” said the skipper loudly.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, no,” said the cook, speaking for the rest as
he put his foot on the companion-ladder. “Brother ’Utchins gave us that
money for singing them ’ims so well. ’E said so, and we ain’t ’ad no
call to think as it warn’t honestly come by. Nothing could ever make us
think that, would it, mates?”

“Nothing,” said the others with exemplary firmness. “It couldn’t be
done.”

They followed the cook up on deck, and leaning over the side, gazed in
a yearning fashion toward the place where they had last seen their
benefactor. Then, with a sorrowful presentiment that they could never
look upon his like again, they turned away and prepared for the labours
of the day.
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