In Borrowed Plumes

"In Borrowed Plumes" by W. W. Jacobs is a collection of humorous short stories that showcase Jacobs' signature wit and keen observational skills. The narratives often revolve around the lives of quirky characters and their misadventures, highlighting themes of human folly and the absurdities of everyday life. With a blend of comedy and realism, Jacobs crafts engaging tales that reflect his understanding of social dynamics and the peculiarities of human behavior. The stories are infused with a light-hearted tone, making them enjoyable for readers seeking a blend of laughter and insight.

• Fiction

								
The master of the Sarah Jane had been missing for two days, and all
on board, with the exception of the boy, whom nobody troubled about,
were full of joy at the circumstance. Twice before had the skipper,
whose habits might, perhaps, be best described as irregular, missed his
ship, and word had gone forth that the third time would be the last.
His berth was a good one, and the mate wanted it in place of his own,
which was wanted by Ted Jones, A. B.

“Two hours more,” said the mate anxiously to the men, as they stood
leaning against the side, “and I take the ship out.”

“Under two hours’ll do it,” said Ted, peering over the side and
watching the water as it slowly rose over the mud. “What’s got the old
man, I wonder?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” said the mate. “You chaps stand by me
and it’ll be good for all of us. Mr. Pearson said distinct the last
time that if the skipper ever missed his ship again it would be his
last trip in her, and he told me afore the old man that I wasn’t to
wait two minutes at any time, but to bring her out right away.”

“He’s an old fool,” said Bill Loch, the other hand; “and nobody’ll miss
him but the boy, and he’s been looking reg’lar worried all the morning.
He looked so worried at dinner time that I give ’im a kick to cheer him
up a bit. Look at him now.”

The mate gave a supercilious glance in the direction of the boy, and
then turned away. The boy, who had no idea of courting observation,
stowed himself away behind the windlass; and, taking a letter from his
pocket, perused it for the fourth time.

“Dear Tommy,” it began. “I take my pen in and to inform you that I’m
stayin here and cant get away for the reason that I lorst my cloes at
cribage larst night, also my money, and everything beside. Don’t speek
to a living sole about it as the mate wants my birth, but pack up sum
cloes and bring them to me without saying nuthing to noboddy. The mates
cloths will do becos I havent got enny other soot, dont tell ’im. You
needen’t trouble about soks as I’ve got them left. My bed is so bad I
must now conclude. Your affecshunate uncle and captin Joe Bross. P.S.
Dont let the mate see you come, or else he wont let you go.”

“Two hours more,” sighed Tommy, as he put the letter back in his
pocket. “How can I get any clothes when they’re all locked up? And aunt
said I was to look after ’im and see he didn’t get into no mischief.”

He sat thinking deeply, and then, as the crew of the Sarah Jane
stepped ashore to take advantage of a glass offered by the mate, he
crept down to the cabin again for another desperate look round. The
only articles of clothing visible belonged to Mrs. Bross, who up to
this trip had been sailing in the schooner to look after its master. At
these he gazed hard.

“I’ll take ’em and try an’ swop ’em for some men’s clothes,” said he
suddenly, snatching the garments from the pegs. “She wouldn’t mind”;
and hastily rolling them into a parcel, together with a pair of carpet
slippers of the captain’s, he thrust the lot into an old biscuit bag.
Then he shouldered his burden, and, going cautiously on deck, gained
the shore, and set off at a trot to the address furnished in the
letter.

It was a long way, and the bag was heavy. His first attempt at barter
was alarming, for the pawnbroker, who had just been cautioned by the
police, was in such a severe and uncomfortable state of morals, that
the boy quickly snatched up his bundle again and left. Sorely troubled
he walked hastily along, until, in a small bye street, his glance fell
upon a baker of mild and benevolent aspect, standing behind the counter
of his shop.

“If you please, sir,” said Tommy, entering, and depositing his bag on
the counter, “have you got any cast-off clothes you don’t want?”

The baker turned to a shelf, and selecting a stale loaf cut it in
halves, one of which he placed before the boy.

“I don’t want bread,” said Tommy desperately; “but mother has just
died, and father wants mourning for the funeral. He’s only got a new
suit with him, and if he can change these things of mother’s for an old
suit, he’d sell his best ones to bury her with.”

He shook the articles out on the counter, and the baker’s wife, who had
just come into the shop, inspected them rather favourably.

“Poor boy, so you’ve lost your mother,” she said, turning the clothes
over. “It’s a good skirt, Bill.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tommy dolefully.

“What did she die of?” inquired the baker.

“Scarlet fever,” said Tommy, tearfully, mentioning the only disease he
knew.

“Scar—Take them things away,” yelled the baker, pushing the clothes on
to the floor, and following his wife to the other end of the shop.
“Take ’em away directly, you young villain.”

His voice was so loud, his manner so imperative, that the startled boy,
without stopping to argue, stuffed the clothes pell-mell into the bag
again and departed. A farewell glance at the clock made him look almost
as horrified as the baker.

“There’s no time to be lost,” he muttered, as he began to run; “either
the old man’ll have to come in these or else stay where he is.”

He reached the house breathless, and paused before an unshaven man in
time-worn greasy clothes, who was smoking a short clay pipe with much
enjoyment in front of the door.

“Is Cap’n Bross here?” he panted.

“He’s upstairs,” said the man, with a leer, “sitting in sackcloth and
ashes, more ashes than sackcloth. Have you got some clothes for him?”

“Look here,” said Tommy. He was down on his knees with the mouth of the
bag open again, quite in the style of the practised hawker. “Give me an
old suit of clothes for them. Hurry up. There’s a lovely frock.”

“Blimey,” said the man, staring, “I’ve only got these clothes. Wot
d’yer take me for? A dook?”

“Well, get me some somewhere,” said Tommy. “If you don’t the cap’n ’ll
have to come in these, and I’m sure he won’t like it.”

“I wonder what he’d look like,” said the man, with a grin. “Damme if I
don’t come up and see.”

“Get me some clothes,” pleaded Tommy.

“I wouldn’t get you clothes, no, not for fifty pun,” said the man
severely. “Wot d’yer mean wanting to spoil people’s pleasure in that
way? Come on, come and tell the cap’n what you’ve got for ’im, I want
to ’ear what he ses. He’s been swearing ’ard since ten o’clock this
morning, but he ought to say something special over this.”

He led the way up the bare wooden stairs, followed by the harassed boy,
and entered a small dirty room at the top, in the centre of which the
master of the Sarah Jane sat to deny visitors, in a pair of socks and
last week’s paper.

“Here’s a young gent come to bring you some clothes, cap’n,” said the
man, taking the sack from the boy.

“Why didn’t you come before?” growled the captain, who was reading the
advertisements.

The man put his hand in the sack, and pulled out the clothes. “What do
you think of ’em?” he asked expectantly.

The captain strove vainly to tell him, but his tongue mercifully
forsook its office, and dried between his lips. His brain rang with

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