Homeward Bound Page #4

"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

								

taking his overcoat from a peg behind the door, put it on and marched
downstairs. Mrs. Hatchard, still trembling, followed behind.

“What's all this?” he demanded, throwing the door open with a flourish.

Mr. Sadler, still holding the fire-shovel sceptre-fashion and still with
the paper cap on his head, opened his mouth to reply. Then, as he saw
the unkempt figure of Mr. Hatchard with the scared face of Mrs. Hatchard
peeping over his shoulder, his face grew red, his eyes watered, and his
cheeks swelled.

“K-K-K-Kch! K-Kch!” he said, explosively. “Talk English, not Chinese,”
said Mr. Hatchard, sternly.

'K-k-k-kch! K-kch!' he Said, Explosively.'

Mr. Sadler threw down the fire-shovel, and to Mr. Hatchard's great
annoyance, clapped his open hand over his mouth and rocked with
merriment.

“Sh—sh—she—she—” he spluttered.

“That'll do,” said Mr. Hatchard, hastily, with a warning frown.

“Kow-towed to me,” gurgled Mr. Sadler. “You ought to have seen it, Alf.
I shall never get over it—never. It's—no—no good win-winking at me; I
can't help myself.”

He put his handkerchief to his eyes and leaned back exhausted. When he
removed it, he found himself alone and everything still but for a murmur
of voices overhead. Anon steps sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Hatchard,
grave of face, entered the room.

“Outside!” he said, briefly.

“What!” said the astounded Mr. Sadler. “Why, it's eleven o'clock.”

“I can't help it if it's twelve o'clock,” was the reply. “You shouldn't
play the fool and spoil things by laughing. Now, are you going, or have
I got to put you out?”

He crossed the room and, putting his hand on the shoulder of the
protesting Mr. Sadler, pushed him into the passage, and taking his coat
from the peg held it up for him. Mr. Sadler, abandoning himself to his
fate, got into it slowly and indulged in a few remarks on the subject of
ingratitude.

“I can't help it,” said his friend, in a low voice. “I've had to swear
I've never seen you before.”

“Does she believe you?” said the staring Mr. Sadler, shivering at the
open door.

“No,” said Mr. Hatchard, slowly, “but she pretends to.”
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