Homeward Bound Page #3

"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

								

a more complicated nature than he had expected, and it was not without
forebodings that he came back at nine o'clock that night accompanied by
a boy with his baggage.

His gloom disappeared the moment the door opened. The air inside was
warm and comfortable, and pervaded by an appetizing smell of cooked
meats. Upstairs a small bright fire and a neatly laid supper-table
awaited his arrival.

He sank into an easy-chair and rubbed his hands. Then his gaze fell on a
small bell on the table, and opening the door he rang for supper.

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Hatchard, entering the room. “Supper, please,”
said the new lodger, with dignity.

Mrs. Hatchard looked bewildered. “Well, there it is,” she said,
indicating the table. “You don't want me to feed you, do you?”

The lodger eyed the small, dry piece of cheese, the bread and butter,
and his face fell. “I—I thought I smelled something cooking,” he said at
last.

'i—i Thought I Smelled Something Cooking,' he Said.'

“Oh, that was my supper,” said Mrs. Hatchard, with a smile.

“I—I'm very hungry,” said Mr. Hatchard, trying to keep his temper.

“It's the cold weather, I expect,” said Mrs. Hatchard, thoughtfully;
“it does affect some people that way, I know. Please ring if you want
anything.”

She left the room, humming blithely, and Mr. Hatchard, after sitting for
some time in silent consternation, got up and ate his frugal meal. The
fact that the water-jug held three pints and was filled to the brim gave
him no satisfaction.

He was still hungry when he arose next morning, and, with curiosity
tempered by uneasiness, waited for his breakfast. Mrs. Hatchard came in
at last, and after polite inquiries as to how he had slept proceeded to
lay breakfast. A fresh loaf and a large teapot appeared, and the smell
of frizzling bacon ascended from below. Then Mrs. Hatchard came in
again, and, smiling benevolently, placed an egg before him and withdrew.
Two minutes later he rang the bell.

“You can clear away,” he said, as Mrs. Hatchard entered the room.

“What, no breakfast?” she said, holding up her hands. “Well, I've heard
of you single young men, but I never thought——”

“The tea's cold and as black as ink,” growled the indignant lodger, “and
the egg isn't eatable.”

“I'm afraid you're a bit of a fault-finder,” said Mrs. Hatchard, shaking
her head at him. “I'm sure I try my best to please. I don't mind what I
do, but if you're not satisfied you'd better go.”

“Look here, Emily—” began her husband.

“Don't you 'Emily' me!” said Mrs. Hatchard, quickly. “The idea! A
lodger, too! You know the arrangement. You'd better go, I think, if you
can't behave yourself.”

“I won't go till my three weeks are up,” said Mr. Hatchard, doggedly,
“so you may as well behave yourself.”

“I can't pamper you for a pound a week,” said Mrs. Hatchard, walking to
the door. “If you want pampering, you had better go.”

A week passed, and the additional expense caused by getting most of
his meals out began to affect Mr. Hatchard's health. His wife, on the
contrary, was in excellent spirits, and, coming in one day, explained
the absence of the easy-chair by stating that it was wanted for a new
lodger.

“He's taken my other two rooms,” she said, smiling—“the little back
parlor and the front bedroom—I'm full up now.”

“Wouldn't he like my table, too?” inquired Mr. Hatchard, with bitter
sarcasm.

His wife said that she would inquire, and brought back word next day
that Mr. Sadler, the new lodger, would like it. It disappeared during
Mr. Hatchard's enforced absence at business, and a small bamboo table,
weak in the joints, did duty in its stead.

The new lodger, a man of middle age with a ready tongue, was a success
from the first, and it was only too evident that Mrs. Hatchard was
trying her best to please him. Mr. Hatchard, supping on bread and
cheese, more than once left that wholesome meal to lean over the
balusters and smell the hot meats going into Mr. Sadler.

“You're spoiling him,” he said to Mrs. Hatchard, after the new lodger
had been there a week. “Mark my words—he'll get above himself.”

“That's my look-out,” said his wife briefly.

“Don't come to me if youget into trouble, that's all,” said the other.

Mrs. Hatchard laughed derisively. “You don't like him, that's what it
is,” she remarked. “He asked me yesterday whether he had offended you in
any way.”

“Oh! He did, did he?” snarled Mr. Hatchard. “Let him keep himself to
himself, and mind his own business.”

“He said he thinks you have got a bad temper,” continued his wife. “He
thinks, perhaps, it's indigestion, caused by eating cheese for supper
always.”

Mr. Hatchard affected not to hear, and, lighting his pipe, listened fer
some time to the hum of conversation between his wife and Mr. Sadler
below. With an expression of resignation on his face that was almost
saintly he knocked out his pipe at last and went to bed.

Half an hour passed, and he was still awake. His wife's voice had
ceased, but the gruff tones of Mr. Sadler were still audible. Then he
sat up in bed and listened, as a faint cry of alarm and the sound of
somebody rushing upstairs fell on his ears. The next moment the door
of his room burst open, and a wild figure, stumbling in the darkness,
rushed over to the bed and clasped him in its arms.

“Help!” gasped his wife's voice. “Oh, Alfred! Alfred!”

“Ma'am!” said Mr. Hatchard in a prim voice, as he struggled in vain to
free himself.

“I'm so—so—fr-frightened!” sobbed Mrs. Hatchard.

“That's no reason for coming into a lodger's room and throwing your arms
round his neck,” said her husband, severely.

“Don't be stu-stu-stupid,” gasped Mrs. Hatchard. “He—he's sitting
downstairs in my room with a paper cap on his head and a fire-shovel in
his hand, and he—he says he's the—the Emperor of China.”

“He? Who?” inquired her husband.

“Mr. Sad-Sadler,” replied Mrs. Hatchard, almost strangling him. “He made
me kneel in front o' him and keep touching the floor with my head.”

The chair-bedstead shook in sympathy with Mr. Hatchard's husbandly
emotion.

“Well, it's nothing to do with me,” he said at last.

“He's mad,” said his wife, in a tense whisper; “stark staring mad. He
says I'm his favorite wife, and he made me stroke his forehead.”

The bed shook again.

“I don't see that I have any right to interfere,” said Mr. Hatchard,
after he had quieted the bedstead. “He's your lodger.”

“You're my husband,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “Ho!” said Mr. Hatchard.
“You've remembered that, have you?”

“Yes, Alfred,” said his wife.

“And are you sorry for all your bad behavior?” demanded Mr. Hatchard.

Mrs. Hatchard hesitated. Then a clatter of fire-irons downstairs moved
her to speech.

“Ye-yes,” she sobbed.

“And you want me to take you back?” queried the generous Mr. Hatchard.

“Ye-ye-yes,” said his wife.

Mr. Hatchard got out of bed and striking a match lit the candle, and,

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