In Limehouse Reach Page #2

"In Limehouse Reach" is a captivating collection of short stories by W.W. Jacobs, known for his vivid characterizations and varied settings. Set in the gritty, atmospheric district of Limehouse in London, the tales often weave themes of humor, adventure, and the intricacies of human relationships. Jacobs' distinctive style highlights the quirks and foibles of his characters, providing a snapshot of life along the Thames. With a mix of lighthearted moments and poignant reflections, the stories offer a snapshot of early 20th-century London life, making them both entertaining and evocative.

• Fiction

								

lady, taking a modest draught.

“The young,” said the mate, who had not quite reached his twenty-fifth
year, “are often like that.”

“It spoils her,” said her mother. “She’s a good-looking girl, too, in
her way.”

“I don’t see how she can help being that,” said the mate.

“Oh, get away with you,” said the lady pleasantly. “She’ll get fat like
me as she gets older.”

“She couldn’t do better,” said the mate tenderly.

“Nonsense,” said the lady, smiling.

“You’re as like as two peas,” persisted the mate. “I made sure you were
sisters when I saw you first.”

“You ain’t the first that’s thought that,” said the other, laughing
softly; “not by a lot.”

“I like to see ladies about,” said the mate, who was trying desperately
for a return invitation. “I wish you could always sit there. You quite
brighten the cabin up.”

“You’re a flatterer,” said his visitor, as he replenished her glass,
and showed so little signs of making a move that the mate, making a
pretext of seeing the engineer, hurried up on deck to singe his wings
once more.

“Still reading?” he said softly, as he came abreast of the girl. “All
about love, I s’pose.”

“Have you left my mother down there all by herself?” inquired the girl
abruptly.

“Just a minute,” said the mate, somewhat crestfallen. “I just came up
to see the engineer.”

“Well, he isn’t here,” was the discouraging reply.

The mate waited a minute or two, the girl still reading quietly, and
then walked back to the cabin. The sound of gentle regular breathing
reached his ears, and, stepping softly, he saw to his joy that his
visitor slept.

“She’s asleep,” said he, going back, “and she looks so comfortable I
don’t think I’ll wake her.”

“I shouldn’t advise you to,” said the girl; “she always wakes up
cross.”

“How strange we should run up against each other like this,” said the
mate sentimentally; “it looks like Providence, doesn’t it?”

“Looks like carelessness,” said the girl.

“I don’t care,” replied the mate. “I’m glad I did let that line go
overboard. Best day’s work I ever did. I shouldn’t have seen you if I
hadn’t.”

“And I don’t suppose you’ll ever see me again,” said the girl
comfortably, “so I don’t see what good you’ve done yourself.”

“I shall run down to Limehouse every time we’re in port, anyway,” said
the mate; “it’ll be odd if I don’t see you sometimes. I daresay our
craft’ll pass each other sometimes. Perhaps in the night,” he added
gloomily.

“I shall sit up all night watching for you,” declared Miss Jansell
untruthfully.

In this cheerful fashion the conversation proceeded, the girl, who was
by no means insensible to his bright eager face and well-knit figure,
dividing her time in the ratio of three parts to her book and one to
him. Time passed all too soon for the mate, when they were interrupted
by a series of hoarse unintelligible roars proceeding from the
schooner’s cabin.

“That’s father,” said Miss Jansell, rising with a celerity which spoke
well for the discipline maintained on the Aquila; “he wants me to
mend his waistcoat for him.”

She put down her book and left, the mate watching her until she
disappeared down the companion-way. Then he sat down and waited.

One by one the crew returned to the steamer, but the schooner’s deck
showed no signs of life. Then the skipper came, and, having peered
critically over his vessel’s side, gave orders to get under way.

“If she’d only come up,” said the miserable mate to himself, “I’d risk
it, and ask whether I might write to her.”

This chance of imperilling a promising career did not occur, however;
the steamer slowly edged away from the schooner, and, picking her way
between a tier of lighters, steamed slowly into clearer water.

“Full speed ahead!” roared the skipper down the tube. The engineer
responded, and the mate gazed in a melancholy fashion at the water as
it rapidly widened between the two vessels. Then his face brightened up
suddenly as the girl ran up on deck and waved her hand. Hardly able to
believe his eyes, he waved his back. The girl gesticulated violently,
now pointing to the steamer, and then to the schooner.

“By Jove, that girl’s taken a fancy to you,” said the skipper. “She
wants you to go back.”

The mate sighed. “Seems like it,” he said modestly.

To his astonishment the girl was now joined by her men folk, who also
waved hearty farewells, and, throwing their arms about, shouted
incoherently.

“Blamed if they haven’t all took a fancy to you,” said the puzzled
skipper; “the old man’s got the speaking-trumpet now. What does he
say?”

“Something about life, I think,” said the mate.

“They’re more like jumping-jacks than anything else,” said the skipper.
“Just look at ’em.”

The mate looked, and, as the distance increased, sprang on to the side,
and, his eyes dim with emotion, waved tender farewells. If it had not
been for the presence of the skipper—a tremendous stickler for
decorum—he would have kissed his hand.

It was not until Gravesend was passed, and the side-lights of the
shipping were trying to show in the gathering dusk, that he awoke from
his tender apathy. It is probable that it would have lasted longer than
that but for a sudden wail of anguish and terror which proceeded from
the cabin and rang out on the still warm air.

“Sakes alive!” said the skipper, starting; “what’s that?”

Before the mate could reply, the companion was pushed back, and a
middle-aged woman, labouring under strong excitement, appeared on deck.

“You villain!” she screamed excitably, rushing up to the mate. “Take me
back; take me back!”

“What’s all this, Harry?” demanded the skipper sternly.

“He—he—he—asked me to go into the cab—cabin,” sobbed Mrs. Jansell, “and
sent me to sleep, and too—too—took me away. My husband’ll kill me; I
know he will. Take me back.”

“What do you want to be took back to be killed for?” interposed one of
the men judicially.

“I might ha’ known what he meant when he said I brightened the cabin
up,” said Mrs. Jansell; “and when he said he thought me and my daughter
were sisters. He said he’d like me to sit there always, the wretch!”

“Did you say that?” inquired the skipper fiercely.

“Well, I did,” said the miserable mate; “but I didn’t mean her to take
it that way. She went to sleep, and I forgot all about her.”

“What did you say such silly lies for, then?” demanded the skipper.

The mate hung his head.

“Old enough to be your mother too,” said the skipper severely. “Here’s
a nice thing to happen aboard my ship, and afore the boy too!”

“Blast the boy!” said the goaded mate.

“Take me back,” wailed Mrs. Jansell; “you don’t know how jealous my
husband is.”

“He won’t hurt you,” said the skipper kindly “he won’t be jealous of a
woman your time o’ life; that is, not if he’s got any sense. You’ll
have to go as far as Boston with us now. I’ve lost too much time
already to go back.”

“You must take me back,” said Mrs. Jansell passionately.

“I’m not going back for anybody,” said the skipper. “But you can make
your mind quite easy: you’re as safe aboard my ship as what you would
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