Double Dealing Page #3

"Double Dealing" by W. W. Jacobs is a comedic short story that revolves around themes of deception and cleverness. The plot centers on a cunning protagonist who attempts to outsmart others through a series of tricks and schemes. Set against a backdrop of wit and humor, Jacobs weaves a narrative that explores human nature and the consequences of manipulative behavior. With his trademark storytelling style, Jacobs delivers an engaging tale filled with twists and a whimsical outlook on the complexities of social interactions.

• Humour
• Short story

								


“Evening, Mr. Evans,” said a young man, putting his head in. “Why,
halloa! Bert! Well, of all the——”

“Halloa!” said Mr. Carter, with attempted enthusiasm, as he rose from
his chair.

“I thought you was lost,” said the other, stepping in and gripping his
hand. “I never thought I was going to set eyes on you again. Well, this
is a surprise. You ain't forgot Joe Wilson, have you?”

“Course I haven't, Joe,” said Mr. Carter. “I'd have known you anywhere.”

He shook hands effusively, and Mr. Wilson, after a little pretended
hesitation, accepted a chair and began to talk about old times.

“I lay you ain't forgot one thing, Bert,” he said at last.

“What's that?” inquired the other.

“That arf-quid I lent you,” said Mr. Wilson.

Mr. Carter, after the first shock of surprise, pretended to think, Mr.
Wilson supplying him with details as to time and place, which he was in
no position to dispute. He turned to Mr. Evans, who was still acting
as his banker, and, after a little hesitation, requested him to pay the
money. Conversation seemed to fail somewhat after that, and Mr. Wilson,
during an awkward pause, went off whistling.

“Same old Joe,” said Mr. Carter, lightly, after he had gone. “He hasn't
altered a bit.”

Miss Evans glanced at him, but said nothing. She was looking instead
towards a gentleman of middle age who was peeping round the door
indulging in a waggish game of peep-bo with the unconscious Mr. Carter.
Finding that he had at last attracted his attention, the gentleman came
inside and, breathing somewhat heavily after his exertions, stood before
him with outstretched hand.

'A Gentleman of Middle Age Was Peeping Round the Door.'

“How goes it?” said Mr. Carter, forcing a smile and shaking hands.

“He's grown better-looking than ever,” said the gentleman, subsiding
into a chair.

“So have you,” said Mr. Carter. “I should hardly have known you.”

“Well, I' m glad to see you again,” said the other in a more subdued
fashion. “We're all glad to see you back, and I 'ope that when the
wedding cake is sent out there'll be a bit for old Ben Prout.”

“You'll be the first, Ben,” said Mr. Carter, quickly.

Mr. Prout got up and shook hands with him again. “It only shows what
mistakes a man can make,” he said, resuming his seat. “It only shows how
easy it is to misjudge one's fellow-creeturs. When you went away sudden
four years ago, I says to myself, 'Ben Prout,' I says, 'make up your
mind to it, that two quid has gorn.'”

The smile vanished from Mr. Carter's face, and a sudden chill descended
upon the company.

“Two quid?” he said, stiffly. “What two quid?”

“The two quid I lent you,” said Mr. Prout, in a pained voice.

“When?” said Mr. Carter, struggling.

“When you and I met him that evening on the pier,” said Miss Evans, in a
matter-of-fact voice.

Mr. Carter started, and gazed at her uneasily. The smile on her lip and
the triumphant gleam in her eye were a revelation to him. He turned to
Mr. Evans and in as calm a voice as he could assume, requested him to
discharge the debt. Mr. Prout, his fingers twitching, stood waiting
“Well, it's your money,” said Mr. Evans, grudgingly extracting a purse
from his trouser-pocket; “and I suppose you ought to pay your debts;
still——”

He put down two pounds on the table and broke off in sudden amazement
as Mr. Prout, snatching up the money, bolted headlong from the room.
His surprise was shared by his son, but the other two made no sign. Mr.
Carter was now prepared for the worst, and his voice was quite calm as
he gave instructions for the payment of the other three gentlemen who
presented claims during the evening endorsed by Miss Evans. As the last
departed Mr. Evans, whose temper had been gradually getting beyond his
control, crossed over and handed him his watch and chain, a few coppers,
and the return half of his railway ticket.

“I think we can do without you, after all,” he said, breathing thickly.
“I've no doubt you owe money all over England. You're a cadger, that's
what you are.”

He pointed to the door, and Mr. Carter, after twice opening his lips
to speak and failing, blundered towards it. Miss Evans watched him
curiously.

“Cheats never prosper,” she said, with gentle severity.

“Good-by,” said Mr. Carter, pausing at the door.

“It's your own fault,” continued Miss Evans, who was suffering from a
slight touch of conscience. “If you hadn't come here pretending to be
Bert Simmons and calling me 'Nan' as if you had known me all my life, I
wouldn't have done it.”

“It doesn't matter,” said Mr. Carter. “I wish I was Bert Simmons, that's
all. Good-by.”

“Wish you was!” said Mr. Evans, who had been listening in open-mouthed
astonishment. “Look here! Man to man—are you Bert Simmons or are you
not?”

“No,” said Mr. Carter.

“Of course not,” said Nancy.

“And you didn't owe that money?”

“Nobody owed it,” said Nancy. “It was done just to punish him.”

Mr. Evans, with a strange cry, blundered towards the door. “I'll have
that money out of 'em,” he roared, “if I have to hold 'em up and shake
it out of their trouser-pockets. You stay here.”

He hurried up the road, and Jim, with the set face of a man going into
action against heavy odds, followed him.

“Your father told me to stay,” said Mr. Carter, coming farther into the
room.

Nancy looked up at him through her eyelashes. “You need not unless you
want to,” she said, very softly.
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