Low Water Page #3

"Low Water" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous short story that captures the misadventures of its characters in a coastal setting. The narrative revolves around the experiences of a group of locals dealing with the challenges posed by low tides, showcasing Jacobs' signature wit and keen observations of human nature. Through clever dialogue and a lighthearted plot, the story explores themes of resourcefulness and camaraderie, ultimately delivering a charming and entertaining glimpse into life by the sea.

• Fiction

								

respectful tributes to his genius tendered by the mate and
cook—flattery so delicate and so genuine withal that he opened another
bottle.

“There’s just one thing,” said the mate presently; “won’t the rum
affect the cooking a good deal?”

“I never thought o’ that,” admitted the skipper; “still, we musn’t
expect to have everything our own way.”

“No, no,” said the mate blankly, admiring the other’s choice of
pronouns.

Up to Friday afternoon the skipper went about with a smile of kindly
satisfaction on his face; but in the evening it weakened somewhat, and
by Saturday morning it had vanished altogether, and was replaced by an
expression of blank amazement and anxiety, for the crew shunned the
water cask as though it were poison, without appearing to suffer the
slightest inconvenience. A visible air of proprietorship appeared on
their faces whenever they looked at the skipper, and the now frightened
man inveighed fiercely to the mate against the improper methods of
conversion patronised by some religious bodies, and the aggravating
obstinacy of some of their followers.

“It’s wonderful what enthusiasm’ll do for a man,” said Bob
reflectively; “I knew a man once—”

“I don’t want none o’ your lies,” interposed the other rudely.

“An’ I don’t want your blamed rum and water, if it comes to that,” said
the mate, firing up. “When a man’s tea is made with rum, an’ his beef
is biled in it, he begins to wonder whether he’s shipped with a seaman
or a—a—”

“A what?” shouted the skipper. “Say it!”

“I can’t think o’ nothing foolish enough,” was the frank reply. “It’s
all right for you, becos it’s the last licker as you’ll be allowed to
taste, but it’s rough on me and the cook.”

“Damn you an’ the cook,” said the skipper, and went on deck to see
whether the men’s tongues were hanging out.

By Sunday morning he was frantic; the men were hale and well enough,
though, perhaps, a trifle thin, and he began to believe with the cook
that the age of miracles had not yet passed.

It was a broiling hot day, and, to add to his discomfort, the mate, who
was consumed by a raging thirst, lay panting in the shade of the
mainsail, exchanging condolences of a most offensive nature with the
cook every time he looked his way.

All the morning he grumbled incessantly, until at length, warned by an
offensive smell of rum that dinner was on the table, he got up and went
below.

At the foot of the ladder he paused abruptly, for the skipper was
leaning back in his seat, gazing in a fascinated manner at some object
on the table.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the mate in alarm.

The other, who did not appear to hear the question, made no answer, but
continued to stare in a most extraordinary fashion at a bottle which
graced the centre of the table.

“What is it?” inquired the mate, not venturing to trust his eyes.
“Water? Where did it come from?”

“Cook!” roared the skipper, turning a bloodshot eye on that worthy, as
his pallid face showed behind the mate, “what’s this? If you say it’s
water I’ll kill you.”

“I don’t know what it is, sir,” said the cook cautiously; “but Dick
sent it to you with his best respects, and I was to say as there’s
plenty more where that came from. He’s a nasty, under’anded, deceitful
old man, is Dick, sir, an’ it seems he laid in a stock o’ water in
bottles an’ the like afore you doctored the cask, an’ the men have had
it locked up in their chests ever since.”

“Dick’s a very clever old man,” remarked the mate, pouring himself out
a glass, and drinking it with infinite relish, “ain’t he, cap’n? It’ll
be a privilege to jine anything that man’s connected with, won’t it?”

He paused for a reply, but none came, for the cap’n, with dim eyes, was
staring blankly into a future so lonely and uncongenial that he had
lost the power of speech—even of that which, at other crises, had never
failed to afford him relief. The mate gazed at him curiously for a
moment, and then, imitating the example of the cook, quitted the cabin.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes