“Choice Spirits” Page #4

"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

								


The skipper looked up at Simpson. On the face of Simpson was an
expression of virtuous arithmetical determination.

The skipper looked down again. “Or a fi’pun note each?” he said, in a
low voice. “I can’t go beyond that.”

“Call it twenty pun and it’s a bargain, ain’t it, mates?” said Simpson.

Ned said it was, and even the cook forgot his nervousness, and said it
was evident the skipper must do the generous thing, and they’d stand by
him.

“Where’s the money coming from?” inquired the mate as the skipper went
down to breakfast, and discussed the matter with him. “They wouldn’t
get nothing out of me!”

The skylight was open; the skipper with a glance at it bent forward and
whispered in his ear.

“Wot!” said the mate. He endeavoured to suppress his laughter with hot
coffee and bacon, with the result that he had to rise from his seat,
and stand patiently while the skipper dealt him some hearty thumps on
the back.

With the prospect of riches before them the men cheerfully faced the
extra work; the cook did the boy’s, while Ned and Simpson did Bill’s
between them. When night came they removed the hatch again, and with a
little curiosity waited to hear how their victims were progressing.

“Where’s my dinner?” growled Bill hungrily, as he drew himself up on
deck.

“Dinner!” said Ned, in surprise; “why, you ain’t got none.”

“Wot?” said Bill ferociously.

“You see the skipper only serves out for three now,” said the cook.

“Well, why didn’t you save us some?” demanded the other.

“There ain’t enough of it, Bill, there ain’t in-deed,” said Ned. “We
have to do more work now, and there ain’t enough even for us. You’ve
got biscuit and water, haven’t you?”

Bill swore at him.

“I’ve ’ad enough o’ this,” he said fiercely. “I’m coming up, let the
old man do what he likes. I don’t care.”

“Don’t do that, Bill,” said the old man persuasively. “Everything’s
going beautiful. You was quite right what you said about the old man.
We was wrong. He’s skeered fearful, and he’s going to give us twenty
pun to say nothing about it when we get ashore.”

“I’m going to have ten out o’ that,” said Bill, brightening a little,
“and it’s worth it too, I get the ’orrors shut up down there all day.”

“Ay, ay,” said Ned, with a side kick at the cook, who was about to
question Bill’s method of division.

“The old man sucked it all in beautiful,” said the cook. “He’s in a
dreadful way. He’s got all your clothes and things, and the boy’s, and
he’s going to ’and ’em over to your friends. It’s the best joke I ever
heard.”

“You’re a fool!” said Bill shortly, and lighting his pipe went and
squatted in the bows to wrestle grimly with a naturally bad temper.

For the ensuing four days things went on smoothly enough. The weather
being fair, the watch at night was kept by the men, and regularly they
had to go through the unpleasant Jack-in-the-box experience of taking
the lid off Bill. The sudden way he used to pop out and rate them about
his sufferings and their callousness was extremely trying, and it was
only by much persuasion and reminder of his share of the hush-money
that they could persuade him to return again to his lair at daybreak.

Still undisturbed they rounded the Land’s End. The day had been close
and muggy, but towards night the wind freshened, and the schooner began
to slip at a good pace through the water. The two prisoners, glad to
escape from the stifling atmosphere of the hold, sat in the bows with
an appetite which the air made only too keen for the preparations made
to satisfy it.

Ned was steering, and the other two men having gone below and turned
in, there were no listeners to their low complaints about the food.

“It’s a fool’s game, Tommy,” said Bill, shaking his head.

“Game?” said Tommy, sniffing. “’Ow are we going to get away when we
get to Northsea?”

“You leave that to me,” said Bill. “Old Ned seems to ha’ got a bad
cough,” he added.

“He’s choking, I should think,” said Tommy, leaning forward. “Look!
he’s waving his hand at us.”

Both sprang up hastily, but ere they could make any attempt to escape
the skipper and mate emerged from the companion and walked towards
them.

“Look here,” said the skipper, turning to the mate, and indicating the
culprits with his hand; “perhaps you’ll disbelieve in dreams now.”

“’Strordinary!” said the mate, rubbing his eyes, as Bill stood sullenly
waiting events, while the miserable Tommy skulked behind him.

“I’ve heard o’ such things,” continued the skipper, in impressive
tones, “but I never expected to see it. You can’t say you haven’t seen
a ghost now, Bob.”

“’Strordinary!” said the mate, shaking his head again. “Lifelike!”

“The ship’s haunted, Ned,” cried the skipper in hollow tones. “Here’s
the sperrits o’ Bill and the boy standing agin the windlass.”

The bewildered old seaman made no reply; the smaller spirit sniffed and
wiped his nose on his cuff, and the larger one began to whistle softly.

“Poor things!” said the skipper, after they had discussed these
extraordinary apparitions for some time. “Can you see the windlass
through the boy, Bob?”

“I can see through both of ’em,” said the mate slyly.

They stayed on deck a little longer, and then coming to the conclusion
that their presence on deck could do no good, and indeed seemed only to
embarrass their visitors, went below again, leaving all hands a prey to
the wildest astonishment.

“Wot’s ’is little game?” asked Simpson, coming cautiously up on deck.

“Damned if I know,” said Bill savagely.

“He don’t really think you’re ghosts?” suggested the cook feebly.

“O’ course not,” said Bill scornfully. “He’s got some little game on.
Well, I’m going to my bunk. You’d better come too, Tommy. We’ll find
out what it all means tomorrer, I’ve no doubt.”

On the morrow they received a little enlightenment, for after breakfast
the cook came forward nervously to break the news that meat and
vegetables had only been served out for three. Consternation fell upon
all.

“I’ll go an’ see ’im,” said Bill ravenously.

He found the skipper laughing heartily over something with the mate. At
the seaman’s approach he stepped back and eyed him coolly.

“Mornin’, sir,” said Bill, shuffling up. “We’d like to know, sir, me
an’ Tommy, whether we can have our rations for dinner served out now
same as before?”

“Dinner?” said the skipper in surprise. “What do you want dinner
for?”

“Eat,” said Bill, eyeing him reproachfully.

“Eat?” said the skipper. “What’s the good o’ giving dinner to a ghost?
Why you’ve got nowhere to put it.”

By dint of great self-control Bill smiled in a ghastly fashion, and
patted his stomach.

“All air,” said the skipper turning away.

“Can we have our clothes and things then?” said Bill grinding his
teeth. “Ned says as how you’ve got ’em.”

“Certainly not,” said the skipper. “I take ’em home and give ’em to
your next o’ kin. That’s the law, ain’t it, Bob?”

“It is,” said the mate.

“They’ll ’ave your effects and your pay up to the night you committed
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