“Choice Spirits” Page #3

"Choice Spirits" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous collection of short stories that explores the quirks and eccentricities of human nature, often set against the backdrop of working-class life in early 20th-century England. Featuring memorable characters and witty dialogue, Jacobs delves into themes of class, camaraderie, and the unpredictability of life, all while highlighting the amusing and sometimes absurd situations that arise in everyday interactions. The book showcases Jacobs' talent for blending comedy with insights into human behavior, making it a delightful read for fans of classic British literature.

• Fiction

								

on about the grub. What’s the matter with it?”

“It’s pizon, sir,” said Ned, shaking his head. “The meat’s awful.”

“It’s as sweet as nuts,” said the skipper. “Well, you can have it out
of the other tank if you like. Will that satisfy you?”

The men brightened up a little and nudged each other.

“The butters bad too, sir,” said Bill.

“Butter bad!” said the skipper frowning, “how’s that, cook?”

“I ain’t done nothing to it, sir,” said the cook helplessly.

“Give ’em butter out o’ the firkin in the cabin,” growled the skipper.
“It’s my firm belief you’d been ill-using that boy, the food was
delicious.”

He walked off, taking the letter with him, and, propping it up against
the sugar-basin, made but a poor breakfast.

For that day the men lived, as Ned put it, on the fat of the land, in
addition to the other luxuries figgy duff, a luxury hitherto reserved
for Sundays, being also served out to them. Bill was regarded as a
big-brained benefactor of the human race; joy reigned in the foc’sle,
and at night the hatch was taken off and the prisoner regaled with a
portion which had been saved for him. He ate it ungratefully, and put
churlish and inconvenient questions as to what was to happen at the end
of the voyage.

“We’ll smuggle you ashore all right,” said Bill, “none of us are going
to sign back in this old tub. I’ll take you aboard some ship with
me—Eh?”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Tommy untruthfully.

To the wrath and confusion of the crew next day their commanding
officer put them back on the old diet again. The old meat was again
served out, and the grass-fed luxury from the cabin stopped. Bill
shared the fate of all leaders when things go wrong, and, from being
the idol of his fellows, became a butt for their gibes.

“What about your little idea now?” grunted old Ned, scornfully, that
evening as he broke his biscuit roughly with his teeth, and dropped it
into his basin of tea.

“You ain’t as clever as you thought you was, Bill,” said the cook with
the air of a discoverer.

“And there’s that pore dear boy shut up in the dark for nothing,” said
Simpson, with somewhat belated thoughtfulness. “An’ cookie doing his
work.”

“I’m not going to be beat,” said Bill blackly, “the old man was badly
scared yesterday. We must have another sooicide, that’s all.”

“Let Tommy do it again,” suggested the cook flippantly, and they all
laughed.

“Two on one trip’ll about do the old man up,” said Bill, regarding the
interruption unfavourably. “Now, who’s going to be the next?”

“We’ve had enough o’ this game,” said Simpson, shrugging his shoulders,
“you’ve gone cranky, Bill.”

“No, I ain’t,” said Bill; “I’m not going to be beat, that’s all.
Whoever goes down they ’ll have a nice, easy, lazy time. Sleep all day
if he likes, and nothing to do. You ain’t been looking very well
lately, Ned.”

“Oh?” said the old man coldly.

“Well, settle it between you,” said Bill carelessly, “it’s all one to
me, which of you goes.”

“Ho, an’ what about you?” demanded Simpson.

“Me?” inquired Bill in astonishment. “Why, I’ve got to stay up here and
manage it.”

“Well, we’ll stay up and help you,” said Simpson derisively.

Ned and the cook laughed, Simpson joined in. Bill rose, and going to
his bunk, fished out a pack of greasy cards from beneath his bedding.

“Larst cut, sooicide,” he said briefly. “I’m in it.”

He held the pack before the cook. The cook hesitated, and looked at the
other two.

“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said Simpson.

“Why, do you funk it?” sneered Bill.

“It’s a fool’s game, I tell you,” said Simpson.

“Well, you ’elped me start it,” said the other. “You’re afraid, that’s
what you are, afraid. You can let the boy go down there, but when it
comes to yourselves you turn chicken-’arted.”

“All right,” said Simpson recklessly, “let Bill ’ave ’is way; out,
cookie.”

Sorely against his better sense the cook complied, and drew a ten; Ned,
after much argument, cut and drew seven; Simpson, with a king in his
fist, leaned back on the locker and fingered his beard nonchalantly.
“Go on, Bill,” he said, “see what you can do.”

Bill took the pack and shuffled it. “I orter be able to beat seven,” he
said slowly. He handed the pack to Ned, drew a card, and the other
three sat back and laughed boisterously.

“Three!” said Simpson. “Bravo, Bill! Ill write your letter for you;
he’d know your writing. What shall I say?”

“Say what you like,” retorted Bill, breathing hard as he thought of the
hold.

He sat back, sneering disdainfully, as the other three merrily sat down
to compose his letter, replying only by a contemptuous silence when
Simpson asked him whether he wanted any kisses put in. When the letter
was handed over for his inspection he only made one remark.

“I thought you could write better than that, George,” he said
haughtily.

“I’m writing it for you,” said Simpson.

Bill’s hauteur vanished, and he became his old self again. “If you want
a plug in the eye, George,” he said feelingly, “you’ve only got to say
so, you know.”

His temper was so unpleasant that half the pleasure of the evening was
spoiled, and instead of being conducted to his hiding-place with quips
and light laughter, the proceedings were more like a funeral than
anything else. The crowning touch to his ill-nature was furnished by
Tommy, who upon coming up and learning that Bill was to be his
room-mate, gave way to a fit of the most unfeigned horror.

“There’s another letter for you this morning,” said the mate, as the
skipper came out of his state-room buttoning up his waistcoat.

“Another what?” demanded the other, turning pale.

The mate jerked his thumb upwards. “Old Ned has got it,” he continued,
“I can’t think what’s come over the men.”

The skipper dashed up on deck, and mechanically took the letter from
Ned and read it through. He stood for some time like a man in a dream,
and then stumbled down the foc’sle, and looked in all the bunks and
even under the table, then he came up and stood by the hold with his
head on one side. The men held their breath.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded at length, sitting limply
on the hatch, with his eyes down.

“Bad grub, sir,” said Simpson, gaining courage from his manner; “that’s
what we’ll have to say when we get ashore.”

“You’re not to say a word about it?” said the other, firing up.

“It’s our dooty, sir,” said Ned impressively.

“Look here now,” said the skipper, and he looked at the remaining
members of the crew entreatingly. “Don’t let’s have no more suicides.
The old meat’s gone now, and you can start the other, and when we get
to port I’ll ship in some fresh butter and vegetables. But I don’t want
you to say anything about the food being bad, or about these letters
when we get to port. I shall simply say the two of ’em disappeared, an’
I want you to say the same.”

“It can’t be done, sir,” said Simpson, firmly.

The skipper rose and walked to the side. “Would a fi’pun note make any
difference?” he asked in a low voice.

“It ’ud make a little difference,” said Ned cautiously.
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