Lawyer Quince Page #3

"Lawyer Quince" by W.W. Jacobs is a humorous short story that explores the world of a clever and resourceful lawyer, Mr. Quince, who navigates a series of comic misadventures. Set in a seaside town, the narrative showcases Jacobs' signature style of wit and commentary on human folly. As Quince interacts with various eccentric characters, the tale reveals both the absurdities of legal practice and the complexities of human relationships, ultimately offering a delightful blend of humor and insight into human nature.

• Humour
• Short story

								

awe, as being far too dangerous a man for the lay mind to tamper with,
and at one stroke the farmer had revealed the hollowness of his
pretensions. Only that morning the wife of a labourer had called and
asked him to hurry the mending of a pair of boots. She was a voluble
woman, and having overcome her preliminary nervousness more than hinted
that if he gave less time to the law and more to his trade it would be
better for himself and everybody else.

Miss Rose accepted her lot in a spirit of dutiful resignation, and on
Saturday morning after her father’s admonition not to forget that the
coach left the White Swan at two sharp, set off to pay a few farewell
visits. By half-past twelve she had finished, and Lawyer Quince
becoming conscious of a shadow on his work looked up to see her
standing before the window. He replied to a bewitching smile with a
short nod and became intent upon his work again.

For a short time Celia lingered, then to his astonishment she opened
the gate and walked past the side of the house into the garden. With
growing astonishment he observed her enter his tool-shed and close the
door behind her.

For ten minutes he worked on and then, curiosity getting the better of
him, he walked slowly to the tool-shed and, opening the door a little
way, peeped in. It was a small shed, crowded with agricultural
implements. The floor was occupied by an upturned wheelbarrow, and
sitting on the barrow, with her soft cheek leaning against the wall,
sat Miss Rose fast asleep. Mr. Quince coughed several times, each cough
being louder than the last, and then, treading softly, was about to
return to the workshop when the girl stirred and muttered in her sleep.
At first she was unintelligible, then he distinctly caught the words
“idiot” and “blockhead.”

“She’s dreaming of somebody,” said Mr. Quince to himself with
conviction. “Wonder who it is?”

“Can’t see—a thing—under—his—nose,” murmured the fair sleeper.

“Celia!” said Mr. Quince, sharply. “Celia!”

He took a hoe from the wall and prodded her gently with the handle. A
singularly vicious expression marred the soft features, but that was
all.

“Ce-lia!” said the shoemaker, who feared sun-stroke.

“Fancy if he—had—a moment’s common sense,” murmured Celia, drowsily,
“and locked—the door.”

Lawyer Quince dropped the hoe with a clatter and stood regarding her
open-mouthed. He was a careful man with his property, and the stout
door boasted a good lock. He sped to the house on tip-toe, and taking
the key from its nail on the kitchen dresser returned to the shed, and
after another puzzled glance at the sleeping girl locked her in.

For half an hour he sat in silent enjoyment of the situation—enjoyment
which would have been increased if he could have seen Mr. Rose standing
at the gate of Holly Farm, casting anxious glances up and down the
road. Celia’s luggage had gone down to the White Swan, and an excellent
cold luncheon was awaiting her attention in the living-room.

Half-past one came and no Celia, and five minutes later two farm
labourers and a boy lumbered off in different directions in search of
the missing girl, with instructions that she was to go straight to the
White Swan to meet the coach. The farmer himself walked down to the
inn, turning over in his mind a heated lecture composed for the
occasion, but the coach came and, after a cheerful bustle and the
consumption of sundry mugs of beer, sped on its way again.

He returned home in silent consternation, seeking in vain for a
satisfactory explanation of the mystery. For a robust young woman to
disappear in broad daylight and leave no trace behind her was
extraordinary. Then a sudden sinking sensation in the region of the
waistcoat and an idea occurred simultaneously.

He walked down to the village again, the idea growing steadily all the
way. Lawyer Quince was hard at work, as usual, as he passed. He went by
the window three times and gazed wistfully at the cottage. Coming to
the conclusion at last that two heads were better than one in such a
business, he walked on to the mill and sought Mr. Hogg.

“That’s what it is,” said the miller, as he breathed his suspicions. “I
thought all along Lawyer Quince would have the laugh of you. He’s
wonderful deep. Now, let’s go to work cautious like. Try and look as if
nothing had happened.”

Mr. Rose tried.

“Try agin,” said the miller, with some severity. “Get the red out o’
your face and let your eyes go back and don’t look as though you’re
going to bite somebody.”

Mr. Rose swallowed an angry retort, and with an attempt at careless
ease sauntered up the road with the miller to the shoemaker’s. Lawyer
Quince was still busy, and looked up inquiringly as they passed before
him.

“I s’pose,” said the diplomatic Mr. Hogg, who was well acquainted with
his neighbour’s tidy and methodical habits—“I s’pose you couldn’t lend
me your barrow for half an hour? The wheel’s off mine.”

Mr. Quince hesitated, and then favoured him with a glance intended to
remind him of his scurvy behaviour three days before.

“You can have it,” he said at last, rising.

Mr. Hogg pinched his friend in his excitement, and both watched Mr.
Quince with bated breath as he took long, slow strides toward the
tool-shed. He tried the door and then went into the house, and even
before his reappearance both gentlemen knew only too well what was
about to happen. Red was all too poor a word to apply to Mr. Rose’s
countenance as the shoemaker came toward them, feeling in his
waistcoat pocket with hooked fingers and thumb, while Mr. Hogg’s
expressive features were twisted into an appearance of rosy
appreciation.

“Did you want the barrow very particular?” inquired the shoemaker, in a
regretful voice.

“Very particular,” said Mr. Hogg.

Mr. Quince went through the performance of feeling in all his pockets,
and then stood meditatively rubbing his chin.

“The door’s locked,” he said, slowly, “and what I’ve done with that
there key——”

“You open that door,” vociferated Mr. Rose, “else I’ll break it in.
You’ve got my daughter in that shed and I’m going to have her out.”

“Your daughter?” said Mr. Quince, with an air of faint surprise. “What
should she be doing in my shed?”

“You let her out,” stormed Mr. Rose, trying to push past him.

“Don’t trespass on my premises,” said Lawyer Quince, interposing his
long, gaunt frame. “If you want that door opened you’ll have to wait
till my boy Ned comes home. I expect he knows where to find the key.”

Mr. Rose’s hands fell limply by his side and his tongue, turning
prudish, refused its office. He turned and stared at Mr. Hogg in silent
consternation.

“Never known him to be beaten yet,” said that admiring weather-cock.

“Ned’s been away three days,” said the shoemaker, “but I expect him
home soon.”

Mr. Rose made a strange noise in his throat and then, accepting his
defeat, set off at a rapid pace in the direction of home. In a

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