Mrs. Bunker’s Chaperon Page #2

"Mrs. Bunker’s Chaperon" is a comedic short story by W.W. Jacobs that revolves around the misadventures of Mrs. Bunker, a well-meaning but overly zealous chaperon. Tasked with overseeing the romantic escapades of a young couple, she often finds herself caught in humorous situations that highlight her lack of understanding of youthful romance. The story cleverly combines wit and charm, showcasing Jacobs' knack for character development and social observation while offering a lighthearted exploration of the complications and misunderstandings that arise in matters of the heart.

• Fiction

								

had lasted long enough to be unendurable. “If anything happens, a
collision or anything, don’t be afraid to let me know.”

The skipper promised, and, shaking hands, bade his passenger
good-night. She descended, somewhat clumsily, it is true, into the
little cabin, and the skipper, sitting by the helm, which he lazily
manœuvred as required, smoked his short clay and fell into a lover’s
reverie.

So he sat and smoked until the barge, which had, by the help of the
breeze, been making its way against the tide, began to realise that
that good friend had almost dropped, and at the same time bethought
itself of a small anchor which hung over the bows ready for emergencies
such as these.

“We must bring up, Bill,” said the skipper.

“Ay, ay!” said Bill, sleepily raising himself from the hatchway. “Over
she goes.”

With no more ceremony than this he dropped the anchor; the sail, with
two strong men hauling on to it, creaked and rustled its way close to
the mast, and the Sir Edmund Lyons was ready for sleep.

“I can do with a nap,” said Bill. “I’m dog-tired.”

“So am I,” said the other. “It’ll be a tight fit down for’ard, but we
couldn’t ask a lady to sleep there.”

Bill gave a non-committal grunt, and as the captain, after the manner
of his kind, took a last look round before retiring, placed his hands
on the hatch and lowered himself down. The next moment he came up with
a wild yell, and, sitting on the deck, rolled up his trousers and
fondled his leg.

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

“That blessed dog’s down there, that’s all,” said the injured Bill.
“He’s evidently mistook it for his kennel, and I don’t wonder at it. I
thought he’d been wonderful quiet.”

“We must talk him over,” said the skipper, advancing to the hatchway.
“Poor dog! Poor old chap! Come along, then! Come along!” He patted his
leg and whistled, and the dog, which wanted to get to sleep again,
growled like a small thunderstorm.

“Come on, old fellow!” said the skipper enticingly. “Come along, come
on, then!”

The dog came at last, and then the skipper, instead of staying to pat
him, raced Bill up the ropes, while the brute, in execrable taste,
paced up and down the deck daring them to come down. Coming to the
conclusion, at last, that they were settled for the night, he returned
to the forecastle and, after a warning bark or two, turned in again.
Both men, after waiting a few minutes, cautiously regained the deck.

“You call him up again,” said Bill, seizing a boat-hook, and holding it
at the charge.

“Certainly not,” said the other. “I won’t have no blood spilt aboard my
ship.”

“Who’s going to spill blood?” asked the Jesuitical Bill; “but if he
likes to run hisself on to the boat-hook “—

“Put it down,” said the skipper sternly, and Bill sullenly obeyed.

“We’ll have to snooze on deck,” said Codd.

“And mind we don’t snore,” said the sarcastic Bill, “’cos the dog
mightn’t like it.”

Without noticing this remark the captain stretched himself on the
hatches, and Bill, after a few more grumbles, followed his example, and
both men were soon asleep.

Day was breaking when they awoke and stretched their stiffened limbs,
for the air was fresh, with a suspicion of moisture in it. Two or three
small craft were, like them selves, riding at anchor, their decks wet
and deserted; others were getting under way to take advantage of the
tide, which had just turned.

“Up with the anchor,” said the skipper, seizing a handspike and
thrusting it into the windlass.

As the rusty chain came in, an ominous growling came from below, and
Bill snatched his handspike out and raised it aloft. The skipper gazed
meditatively at the shore, and the dog, as it came bounding up, gazed
meditatively at the handspike. Then it yawned, an easy, unconcerned
yawn, and commenced to pace the deck, and coming to the conclusion that
the men were only engaged in necessary work, regarded their efforts
with a lenient eye, and barked encouragingly as they hoisted the sail.

It was a beautiful morning. The miniature river waves broke against the
blunt bows of the barge, and passed by her sides rippling musically.
Over the flat Essex marshes a white mist was slowly dispersing before
the rays of the sun, and the trees on the Kentish hills were black and
drenched with moisture.

A little later smoke issued from the tiny cowl over the fo’c’sle and
rolled in a little pungent cloud to the Kentish shore. Then a delicious
odour of frying steak rose from below, and fell like healing balm upon
the susceptible nostrils of the skipper as he stood at the helm.

“Is Mrs. Bunker getting up?” inquired the mate, as he emerged from the
fo’c’sle and walked aft.

“I believe so,” said the skipper. “There’s movements below.”

“’Cos the steak’s ready and waiting,” said the mate. “I’ve put it on a
dish in front of the fire.”

“Ay, ay!” said the skipper.

The mate lit his pipe and sat down on the hatchway, slowly smoking. He
removed it a couple of minutes later, to stare in bewilderment at the
unwonted behaviour of the dog, which came up to the captain and
affectionately licked his hands.

“He’s took quite a fancy to me,” said the delighted man.

“Love me love my dog,” quoted Bill waggishly, as he strolled forward
again.

The skipper was fondly punching the dog, which was now on its back with
its four legs in the air, when he heard a terrible cry from the
fo’c’sle, and the mate came rushing wildly on deck.

“Where’s that ———— dog?” he cried.

“Don’t you talk like that aboard my ship. Where’s your manners?” cried
the skipper hotly.

“—— the manners!” said the mate, with tears in his eyes. “Where’s that
dog’s manners? He’s eaten all that steak.”

Before the other could reply, the scuttle over the cabin was drawn, and
the radiant face of Mrs. Bunker appeared at the opening.

“I can smell breakfast,” she said archly.

“No wonder, with that dog so close,” said Bill grimly. Mrs. Bunker
looked at the captain for an explanation.

“He’s ate it,” said that gentleman briefly. “A pound and a ’arf o’ the
best rump steak in Wapping.”

“Never mind,” said Mrs. Bunker sweetly, “cook some more. I can wait.”

“Cook some more,” said the skipper to the mate, who still lingered.

“I’ll cook some bloaters. That’s all we’ve got now,” replied the mate
sulkily.

“It’s a lovely morning,” said Mrs. Bunker, as the mate retired, “the
air is so fresh. I expect that’s what has made Rover so hungry. He
isn’t a greedy dog. Not at all.”

“Very likely,” said Codd, as the dog rose, and, after sniffing the air,
gently wagged his tail and trotted forward. “Where’ she off to now?”

“He can smell the bloaters, I expect,” said Mrs. Bunker, laughing.
“It’s wonderful what intelligence he’s got. Come here, Rover!”

“Bill!” cried the skipper warningly, as the dog continued on his way.
“Look out! He’s coming!”

“Call him off!” yelled the mate anxiously. “Call him off!”

Mrs. Bunker ran up, and, seizing her chaperon by the collar, hauled him
away.

“It’s the sea air,” said she apologetically; “and he’s been on short
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