Homeward Bound Page #2

"Homeward Bound" by W. W. Jacobs is a collection of humorous short stories that capture the essence of life in early 20th-century England. Known for his witty observations and character-driven narratives, Jacobs often focuses on the quirks and idiosyncrasies of everyday people, particularly those from the working class. Through a blend of comedy and poignancy, the stories explore themes of home, relationships, and the often absurd situations that arise in the pursuit of happiness. Jacobs’ engaging storytelling and sharp dialogue make this collection a delightful reflection on the human experience.

• Short story

								

reply. He wrote again, referring to them in laudatory terms, and got a
brief reply to the effect that they had been exchanged in part payment
on a pair of valuable pink vases, the pieces of which he could have by
paying the carriage.

In six weeks Mr. Hatchard changed his lodgings twice. A lack of those
home comforts which he had taken as a matter of course during his
married life was a source of much tribulation, and it was clear that
his weekly bills were compiled by a clever writer of fiction. It was his
first experience of lodgings, and the difficulty of saying unpleasant
things to a woman other than his wife was not the least of his troubles.
He changed his lodgings for a third time, and, much surprised at his
wife's continued silence, sought out a cousin of hers named Joe Pett,
and poured his troubles into that gentleman's reluctant ear.

“If she was to ask me to take her back,” he concluded, “I'm not sure,
mind you, that I wouldn't do so.”

“It does you credit,” said Mr. Pett. “Well, ta-ta; I must be off.”

“And I expect she'd be very much obliged to anybody that told her so,”
said Mr. Hatchard, clutching at the other's sleeve.

Mr. Pett, gazing into space, said that he thought it highly probable.

“It wants to be done cleverly, though,” said Mr. Hatchard, “else she
might get the idea that I wanted to go back.”

“I s'pose you know she's moved?” said Mr. Pett, with the air of a man
anxious to change the conversation.

“Eh?” said the other.

“Number thirty-seven, John Street,” said Mr. Pett. “Told my wife she's
going to take in lodgers. Calling herself Mrs. Harris, after her maiden
name.”

He went off before Mr. Hatchard could recover, and the latter at once
verified the information in part by walking round to his old house. Bits
of straw and paper littered the front garden, the blinds were down,
and a bill was pasted on the front parlor window. Aghast at such
determination, he walked back to his lodgings in gloomy thought.

On Saturday afternoon he walked round to John Street, and from the
corner of his eye, as he passed, stole a glance at No. 37. He recognized
the curtains at once, and, seeing that there was nobody in the
room, leaned over the palings and peered at a card that stood on the
window-sash:

    FURNISHED APARTMENTS FOR SINGLE YOUNG MAN BOARD IF DESIRED.

He walked away whistling, and after going a little way turned and
passed it again. He passed in all four times, and then, with an odd grin
lurking at the corners of his mouth, strode up to the front door and
knocked loudly. He heard somebody moving about inside, and, more with
the idea of keeping his courage up than anything else, gave another
heavy knock at the door. It was thrown open hastily, and the astonished
face of his wife appeared before him.

“What do you want?” she inquired, sharply.

Mr. Hatchard raised his hat. “Good-afternoon, ma'am,” he said, politely.

“What do you want?” repeated his wife.

“I called,” said Mr. Hatchard, clearing his throat—“I called about the
bill in the window.”

'i Called About the Bill in The Window.'

Mrs. Hatchard clutched at the door-post.

“Well?” she gasped.

“I'd like to see the rooms,” said the other.

“But you ain't a single young man,” said his wife, recovering.

“I'm as good as single,” said Mr. Hatchard. “I should say, better.”

“You ain't young,” objected Mrs. Hatchard. “I'm three years younger than
what you are,” said Mr. Hatchard, dispassionately.

His wife's lips tightened and her hand closed on the door; Mr. Hatchard
put his foot in.

“If you don't want lodgers, why do you put a bill up?” he inquired.

“I don't take the first that comes,” said his wife.

“I'll pay a week in advance,” said Mr. Hatchard, putting his hand in his
pocket. “Of course, if you're afraid of having me here—afraid o' giving
way to tenderness, I mean——”

“Afraid?” choked Mrs. Hatchard. “Tenderness! I—I——”

“Just a matter o' business,” continued her husband; “that's my way of
looking at it—that's a man's way. I s'pose women are different. They
can't——”

“Come in,” said Mrs. Hatchard, breathing hard. Mr. Hatchard obeyed, and
clapping a hand over his mouth ascended the stairs behind her. At the
top she threw open the door of a tiny bedroom, and stood aside for him
to enter. Mr. Hatchard sniffed critically.

“Smells rather stuffy,” he said, at last.

“You needn't have it,” said his wife, abruptly. “There's plenty of other
fish in the sea.”

“Yes; and I expect they'd stay there if they saw this room,” said the
other.

“Don't think I want you to have it; because I don't,” said Mrs.
Hatchard, making a preliminary movement to showing him downstairs.

“They might suit me,” said Mr. Hatchard, musingly, as he peeped in at
the sitting-room door. “I shouldn't be at home much. I'm a man that's
fond of spending his evenings out.”

Mrs. Hatchard, checking a retort, eyed him grimly.

“I've seen worse,” he said, slowly; “but then I've seen a good many. How
much are you asking?”

“Seven shillings a week,” replied his wife. “With breakfast, tea, and
supper, a pound a week.”

Mr. Hatchard nearly whistled, but checked himself just in time.

“I'll give it a trial,” he said, with an air of unbearable patronage.

Mrs. Hatchard hesitated.

“If you come here, you quite understand it's on a business footing,” she
said.

“O' course,” said the other, with affected surprise. “What do you think
I want it on?”

“You come here as a stranger, and I look after you as a stranger,”
continued his wife.

“Certainly,” said the other. “I shall be made more comfortable that way,
I'm sure. But, of course, if you're afraid, as I said before, of giving
way to tender——”

“Tender fiddlesticks!” interrupted his wife, flushing and eying him
angrily.

“I'll come in and bring my things at nine o'clock to-night,” said Mr.
Hatchard. “I'd like the windows open and the rooms aired a bit. And what
about the sheets?”

“What about them?” inquired his wife.

“Don't put me in damp sheets, that's all,” said Mr. Hatchard. “One place
I was at——”

He broke off suddenly.

“Well!” said his wife, quickly.

“Was very particular about them,” said Mr. Hatchard, recovering. “Well,
good-afternoon to you, ma'am.”

“I want three weeks in advance,” said his wife.

“Three—” exclaimed the other. “Three weeks in advance? Why——”

“Those are my terms,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “Take 'em or leave 'em.
P'r'aps it would be better if you left 'em.”

Mr. Hatchard looked thoughtful, and then with obvious reluctance took
his purse from one pocket and some silver from another, and made up the
required sum.

“And what if I'm not comfortable here?” he inquired, as his wife hastily
pocketed the money. “It'll be your own fault,” was the reply.

Mr. Hatchard looked dubious, and, in a thoughtful fashion, walked
downstairs and let himself out. He began to think that the joke was of

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