In Borrowed Plumes Page #3

"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

								


“You git it out,” said the skipper, with a knowing toss of his head.
“Ah, there we are. Now go in my state-room and take those off.”

The wondering Tommy, who thought that great grief had turned his
kinsman’s brain, complied, and emerged shortly afterwards in a blanket,
bringing his clothes under his arm.

“Now, do you know what I’m going to do?” inquired the skipper, with a
big smile.

“No.”

“Fetch me the scissors, then. Now do you know what I’m going to do?”

“Cut up the two suits and make ’em into one,” hazarded the
horror-stricken Tommy. “Here, stop it! Leave off!”

The skipper pushed him impatiently off, and, placing the clothes on the
table, took up the scissors, and, with a few slashing strokes, cut them
garments into their component parts.

“What am I to wear,” said Tommy, beginning to blubber. “You didn’t
think of that?”

“What are you to wear, you selfish young pig?” said the skipper
sternly. “Always thinking about yourself. Go and git some needles and
thread, and if there’s any left over, and you’re a good boy, I’ll see
whether I can’t make something for you out of the leavings.”

“There ain’t no needles here,” whined Tommy, after a lengthened search.

“Go down the fo’c’sle and git the case of sail-makers’ needles, then,”
said the skipper, “Don’t let anyone see what you’re after, an’ some
thread.”

“Well, why couldn’t you let me go in my clothes before you cut ’em up,”
moaned Tommy. “I don’t like going up in this blanket. They’ll laugh at
me.”

“You go at once!” thundered the skipper, and, turning his back on him,
whistled softly, and began to arrange the pieces of cloth.

“Laugh away, my lads,” he said cheerfully, as an uproarious burst of
laughter greeted the appearance of Tommy on deck. “Wait a bit.”

He waited himself for nearly twenty minutes, at the end of which time
Tommy, treading on his blanket, came flying down the companion-ladder,
and rolled into the cabin.

“There ain’t a needle aboard the ship,” he said solemnly, as he picked
himself up and rubbed his head. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

“What?” roared the skipper, hastily concealing the pieces of cloth.
“Here, Ted! Ted!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” said Ted, as he came below.

“I want a sail-maker’s needle,” said the skipper glibly. “I’ve got a
rent in this skirt.”

“I broke the last one yesterday,” said Ted, with an evil grin.

“Any other needle then,” said the skipper, trying to conceal his
emotion.

“I don’t believe there’s such a thing aboard the ship,” said Ted, who
had obeyed the mate’s thoughtful injunction. “Nor thread. I was only
saying so to the mate yesterday.”

The skipper sank again to the lowest depths, waved him away, and then,
getting on a corner of the locker, fell into a gloomy reverie.

“It’s a pity you do things in such a hurry,” said Tommy, sniffing
vindictively. “You might have made sure of the needle before you
spoiled my clothes. There’s two of us going about ridiculous now.”

The master of the Sarah Jane allowed this insolence to pass unheeded.
It is in moments of deep distress that the mind of man, naturally
reverting to solemn things, seeks to improve the occasion by a lecture.
The skipper, chastened by suffering and disappointment, stuck his right
hand in his pocket, after a lengthened search for it, and gently
bidding the blanketed urchin in front of him to sit down, began:

“You see what comes of drink and cards,” he said mournfully. “Instead
of being at the helm of my ship, racing all the other craft down the
river, I’m skulkin’ down below here like—like”—

“Like an actress,” suggested Tommy.

The skipper eyed him all over. Tommy, unconscious of offence, met his
gaze serenely.

“If,” continued the skipper, “at any time you felt like taking too
much, and you stopped with the beer-mug half-way to your lips, and
thought of me sitting in this disgraceful state, what would you do?”

“I dunno,” replied Tommy, yawning.

“What would you do?” persisted the skipper, with great expression.

“Laugh, I s’pose,” said Tommy, after a moment’s thought.

The sound of a well-boxed ear rang through the cabin.

“You’re an unnatural, ungrateful little toad,” said the skipper
fiercely. “You don’t deserve to have a good, kind uncle to look after
you.”

“Anybody can have him for me,” sobbed the indignant Tommy, as he
tenderly felt his ear. “You look a precious sight more like an aunt
than an uncle.”

After firing this shot he vanished in a cloud of blanket, and the
skipper, reluctantly abandoning a hastily-formed resolve of first
flaying him alive and then flinging him overboard, sat down again and
lit his pipe.

Once out of the river he came on deck again, and, ignoring by a great
effort the smiles of the crew and the jibes of the mate, took command.
The only alteration he made in his dress was to substitute his
sou’-wester for the bonnet, and in this guise he did his work, while
the aggrieved Tommy hopped it in blankets. The three days at sea passed
like a horrid dream. So covetous was his gaze, that the crew
instinctively clutched their nether garments and looked to the
buttoning of their coats as they passed him. He saw coats in the
mainsail, and fashioned phantom trousers out of the flying jib, and
towards the end began to babble of blue serges and mixed tweeds.
Oblivious of fame, he had resolved to enter the harbour of Battlesea by
night; but it was not to be. Near home the wind dropped, and the sun
was well up before Battlesea came into view, a grey bank on the
starboard bow.

Until within a mile of the harbour, the skipper held on, and then his
grasp on the wheel relaxed somewhat, and he looked round anxiously for
the mate.

“Where’s Bob?” he shouted.

“He’s very ill, sir,” said Ted, shaking his head.

“Ill?” gasped the startled skipper. “Here, take the wheel a minute.”

He handed it over, and grasping his skirts went hastily below. The mate
was half lying, half sitting, in his bunk, groaning dismally.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the skipper.

“I’m dying,” said the mate. “I keep being tied up all in knots inside.
I can’t hold myself straight.”

The other cleared his throat. “You’d better take off your clothes and
lie down a bit,” he said kindly. “Let me help you off with them.”

“No—don’t—trouble,” panted the mate.

“It ain’t no trouble,” said the skipper, in a trembling voice.

“No, I’ll keep ’em on,” said the mate faintly. “I’ve always had an idea
I’d like to die in my clothes. It may be foolish, but I can’t help it.”

“You’ll have your wish some day, never fear, you infernal rascal,”
shouted the overwrought skipper. “You’re shamming sickness to make me
take the ship into port.”

“Why shouldn’t you take her in,” asked the mate, with an air of
innocent surprise. “It’s your duty as cap’n. You’d better get above
now. The bar is always shifting.”

The skipper, restraining himself by a mighty effort, went on deck
again, and, taking the wheel, addressed the crew. He spoke feelingly of
the obedience men owed their superior officers, and the moral
obligation they were under to lend them their trousers when they
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