Keeping Up Appearances

"Keeping Up Appearances" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous short story that explores themes of social status and the lengths to which people will go to maintain their reputations. Set in a quaint coastal village, the narrative follows a well-meaning but misguided protagonist who attempts to impress his neighbors and elevate his social standing. As the story unfolds, Jacobs masterfully blends wit and irony, exposing the absurdities of pretentiousness and the superficiality of societal expectations. With memorable characters and comedic situations, the tale offers a lighthearted critique of human nature and the pursuit of outward appearances.

• Humour
• Short story

								
“Everybody is superstitious,” said the night-watchman, as he gave
utterance to a series of chirruping endearments to a black cat with one
eye that had just been using a leg of his trousers as a serviette; “if
that cat 'ad stole some men's suppers they'd have acted foolish, and
suffered for it all the rest of their lives.”

He scratched the cat behind the ear, and despite himself his face
darkened. “Slung it over the side, they would,” he said, longingly, “and
chucked bits o' coke at it till it sank. As I said afore, everybody is
superstitious, and those that ain't ought to be night-watchmen for a
time—that 'ud cure 'em. I knew one man that killed a black cat, and
arter that for the rest of his life he could never get three sheets in
the wind without seeing its ghost. Spoilt his life for 'im, it did.”

He scratched the cat's other ear. “I only left it a moment, while I
went round to the Bull's Head,” he said, slowly filling his pipe, “and I
thought I'd put it out o' reach. Some men——”

His fingers twined round the animal's neck; then, with a sigh, he rose
and took a turn or two on the jetty.

Superstitiousness is right and proper, to a certain extent, he said,
resuming his seat; but, o' course, like everything else, some people
carry it too far—they'd believe anything. Weak-minded they are, and
if you're in no hurry I can tell you a tale of a pal o' mine, Bill
Burtenshaw by name, that'll prove my words.

'Superstitiousness is Right and Proper, to a Certain Extent.'

His mother was superstitious afore 'im, and always knew when 'er friends
died by hearing three loud taps on the wall. The on'y mistake she ever
made was one night when, arter losing no less than seven friends, she
found out it was the man next door hanging pictures at three o'clock in
the morning. She found it out by 'im hitting 'is thumb-nail.

For the first few years arter he grew up Bill went to sea, and that on'y
made 'im more superstitious than ever. Him and a pal named Silas Winch
went several v'y'ges together, and their talk used to be that creepy
that some o' the chaps was a'most afraid to be left on deck alone of a
night. Silas was a long-faced, miserable sort o' chap, always looking
on the black side o' things, and shaking his 'ead over it. He thought
nothing o' seeing ghosts, and pore old Ben Huggins slept on the floor
for a week by reason of a ghost with its throat cut that Silas saw in
his bunk. He gave Silas arf a dollar and a neck-tie to change bunks with
'im.

When Bill Burtenshaw left the sea and got married he lost sight of Silas
altogether, and the on'y thing he 'ad to remind him of 'im was a piece
o' paper which they 'ad both signed with their blood, promising that
the fust one that died would appear to the other. Bill agreed to it one
evenin' when he didn't know wot he was doing, and for years arterwards
'e used to get the cold creeps down 'is back when he thought of Silas
dying fust. And the idea of dying fust 'imself gave 'im cold creeps all
over.

Bill was a very good husband when he was sober, but 'is money was two
pounds a week, and when a man has all that and on'y a wife to keep out
of it, it's natural for 'im to drink. Mrs. Burtenshaw tried all sorts o'
ways and means of curing 'im, but it was no use. Bill used to think o'
ways, too, knowing the 'arm the drink was doing 'im, and his fav'rite
plan was for 'is missis to empty a bucket o' cold water over 'im every
time he came 'ome the worse for licker. She did it once, but as she 'ad
to spend the rest o' the night in the back yard it wasn't tried again.

Bill got worse as he got older, and even made away with the furniture to
get drink with. And then he used to tell 'is missis that he was drove to
the pub because his 'ome was so uncomfortable.

Just at that time things was at their worst Silas Winch, who 'appened to
be ashore and 'ad got Bill's address from a pal, called to see 'im. It
was a Saturday arternoon when he called, and, o' course, Bill was out,
but 'is missis showed him in, and, arter fetching another chair from the
kitchen, asked 'im to sit down.

Silas was very perlite at fust, but arter looking round the room and
seeing 'ow bare it was, he gave a little cough, and he ses, “I thought
Bill was doing well?” he ses.

'Silas Was Very Perlite at Fust.'

“So he is,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.

Silas Winch coughed again.

“I suppose he likes room to stretch 'imself about in?” he ses, looking
round.

Mrs. Burtenshaw wiped 'er eyes and then, knowing 'ow Silas had been an
old friend o' Bill's, she drew 'er chair a bit closer and told him 'ow
it was. “A better 'usband, when he's sober, you couldn't wish to see,”
she ses, wiping her eyes agin. “He'd give me anything—if he 'ad it.”

Silas's face got longer than ever. “As a matter o' fact,” he ses, “I'm
a bit down on my luck, and I called round with the 'ope that Bill could
lend me a bit, just till I can pull round.”

Mrs. Burtenshaw shook her 'ead.

“Well, I s'pose I can stay and see 'im?” ses Silas. “Me and 'im used to
be great pals at one time, and many's the good turn I've done him. Wot
time'll he be 'ome?”

“Any time after twelve,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw; “but you'd better not be
here then. You see, 'im being in that condition, he might think you was
your own ghost come according to promise and be frightened out of 'is
life. He's often talked about it.”

Silas Winch scratched his head and looked at 'er thoughtful-like.

“Why shouldn't he mistake me for a ghost?” he ses at last; “the shock
might do 'im good. And, if you come to that, why shouldn't I pretend to
be my own ghost and warn 'im off the drink?”

Mrs. Burtenshaw got so excited at the idea she couldn't 'ardly speak,
but at last, arter saying over and over agin she wouldn't do such a
thing for worlds, she and Silas arranged that he should come in at about
three o'clock in the morning and give Bill a solemn warning. She gave
'im her key, and Silas said he'd come in with his 'air and cap all wet
and pretend he'd been drowned.

“It's very kind of you to take all this trouble for nothing,” ses Mrs.
Burtenshaw as Silas got up to go.

“Don't mention it,” ses Silas. “It ain't the fust time, and I don't
suppose it'll be the last, that I've put myself out to help my
feller-creeturs. We all ought to do wot we can for each other.”

“Mind, if he finds it out,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw, all of a tremble,
“I don't know nothing about it. P'r'aps to make it more life-like I'd
better pretend not to see you.”

“P'r'aps it would be better,” ses Silas, stopping at the street door.
“All I ask is that you'll 'ide the poker and anything else that might be
laying about handy. And you 'ad better oil the lock so as the key won't
make a noise.”

Mrs. Burtenshaw shut the door arter 'im, and then she went in and 'ad
a quiet sit-down all by 'erself to think it over. The only thing that
comforted 'er was that Bill would be in licker, and also that 'e would

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