Odd Charges

"Odd Charges" is a collection of short stories by W. W. Jacobs that explores themes of humor, the supernatural, and the quirky aspects of human nature. Set primarily in the early 20th century, the stories often feature eccentric characters and unexpected twists. Jacobs's wit and observational prowess shine through as he weaves together narratives that blend the ordinary with the bizarre, reflecting the peculiarities of everyday life. The book showcases Jacobs's signature style, combining lighthearted storytelling with clever commentary on society and relationships, making it an enjoyable read for fans of classic British literature.

• Humour
• Short story

								
Seated at his ease in the warm tap-room of the Cauliflower, the
stranger had been eating and drinking for some time, apparently
unconscious of the presence of the withered ancient who, huddled up in
that corner of the settle which was nearer to the fire, fidgeted
restlessly with an empty mug and blew with pathetic insistence through
a churchwarden pipe which had long been cold. The stranger finished his
meal with a sigh of content and then, rising from his chair, crossed
over to the settle and, placing his mug on the time-worn table before
him, began to fill his pipe.


The old man took a spill from the table and, holding it with trembling
fingers to the blaze, gave him a light. The other thanked him, and
then, leaning back in his corner of the settle, watched the smoke of
his pipe through half-closed eyes, and assented drowsily to the old
man’s remarks upon the weather.

“Bad time o’ the year for going about,” said the latter, “though I
s’pose if you can eat and drink as much as you want it don’t matter. I
s’pose you mightn’t be a conjurer from London, sir?”

The traveller shook his head.

“I was ’oping you might be,” said the old man. The other manifested no
curiosity.

“If you ’ad been,” said the old man, with a sigh, “I should ha’ asked
you to ha’ done something useful. Gin’rally speaking, conjurers do
things that are no use to anyone; wot I should like to see a conjurer
do would be to make this ’ere empty mug full o’ beer and this empty
pipe full o’ shag tobacco. That’s wot I should ha’ made bold to ask you
to do if you’d been one.”

The traveller sighed, and, taking his short briar pipe from his mouth
by the bowl, rapped three times upon the table with it. In a very short
time a mug of ale and a paper cylinder of shag appeared on the table
before the old man.

“Wot put me in mind o’ your being a conjurer,” said the latter, filling
his pipe after a satisfying draught from the mug, “is that you’re
uncommon like one that come to Claybury some time back and give a
performance in this very room where we’re now a-sitting. So far as
looks go, you might be his brother.”

The traveller said that he never had a brother.

We didn’t know ’e was a conjurer at fust, said the old man. He ’ad come
down for Wickham Fair and, being a day or two before ’and, ’e was going
to different villages round about to give performances. He came into
the bar ’ere and ordered a mug o’ beer, and while ’e was a-drinking of
it stood talking about the weather. Then ’e asked Bill Chambers to
excuse ’im for taking the liberty, and, putting his ’and to Bill’s mug,
took out a live frog. Bill was a very partikler man about wot ’e drunk,
and I thought he’d ha’ had a fit. He went on at Smith, the landlord,
something shocking, and at last, for the sake o’ peace and quietness,
Smith gave ’im another pint to make up for it.

“It must ha’ been asleep in the mug,” he ses.

Bill said that ’e thought ’e knew who must ha’ been asleep, and was
just going to take a drink, when the conjurer asked ’im to excuse ’im
agin. Bill put down the mug in a ’urry, and the conjurer put his ’and
to the mug and took out a dead mouse. It would ha’ been a ’ard thing to
say which was the most upset, Bill Chambers or Smith, the landlord, and
Bill, who was in a terrible state, asked why it was everything seemed
to get into his mug.

“P’r’aps you’re fond o’ dumb animals, sir,” ses the conjurer. “Do you
’appen to notice your coat-pocket is all of a wriggle?”

He put his ’and to Bill’s pocket and took out a little green snake;
then he put his ’and to Bill’s trouser-pocket and took out a frog,
while pore Bill’s eyes looked as if they was coming out o’ their
sockets.

“Keep still,” ses the conjurer; “there’s a lot more to come yet.”

Bill Chambers gave a ’owl that was dreadful to listen to, and then ’e
pushed the conjurer away and started undressing ’imself as fast as he
could move ’is fingers. I believe he’d ha’ taken off ’is shirt if it
’ad ’ad pockets in it, and then ’e stuck ’is feet close together and ’e
kept jumping into the air, and coming down on to ’is own clothes in his
hobnailed boots.

“He ain’t fond o’ dumb animals, then,” ses the conjurer. Then he put
his ’and on his ’art and bowed.

“Gentlemen all,” he ses. “’Aving given you this specimen of wot I can
do, I beg to give notice that with the landlord’s kind permission I
shall give my celebrated conjuring entertainment in the tap-room this
evening at seven o’clock; ad—mission, three-pence each.”

They didn’t understand ’im at fust, but at last they see wot ’e meant,
and arter explaining to Bill, who was still giving little jumps, they
led ’im up into a corner and coaxed ’im into dressing ’imself agin. He
wanted to fight the conjurer, but ’e was that tired ’e could scarcely
stand, and by-and-by Smith, who ’ad said ’e wouldn’t ’ave anything to
do with it, gave way and said he’d risk it.

The tap-room was crowded that night, but we all ’ad to pay threepence
each—coining money, I call it. Some o’ the things wot he done was very
clever, but a’most from the fust start-off there was unpleasantness.
When he asked somebody to lend ’im a pocket-’andkercher to turn into a
white rabbit, Henery Walker rushed up and lent ’im ’is, but instead of
a white rabbit it turned into a black one with two white spots on it,
and arter Henery Walker ’ad sat for some time puzzling over it ’e got
up and went off ’ome without saying good-night to a soul.

Then the conjurer borrowed Sam Jones’s hat, and arter looking into it
for some time ’e was that surprised and astonished that Sam Jones lost
’is temper and asked ’im whether he ’adn’t seen a hat afore.

“Not like this,” ses the conjurer. And ’e pulled out a woman’s dress
and jacket and a pair o’ boots. Then ’e took out a pound or two o’
taters and some crusts o’ bread and other things, and at last ’e gave
it back to Sam Jones and shook ’is head at ’im, and told ’im if he
wasn’t very careful he’d spoil the shape of it.

Then ’e asked somebody to lend ’im a watch, and, arter he ’ad promised
to take the greatest care of it, Dicky Weed, the tailor, lent ’im a
gold watch wot ’ad been left ’im by ’is great-aunt when she died. Dicky
Weed thought a great deal o’ that watch, and when the conjurer took a
flat-iron and began to smash it up into little bits it took three men
to hold ’im down in ’is seat.

“This is the most difficult trick o’ the lot,” ses the conjurer,
picking off a wheel wot ’ad stuck to the flat-iron. “Sometimes I can do
it and sometimes I can’t. Last time I tried it it was a failure, and it
cost me eighteenpence and a pint o’ beer afore the gentleman the watch
’ad belonged to was satisfied. I gave ’im the bits, too.”

“If you don’t give me my watch back safe and sound,” ses Dicky Weed, in
a trembling voice, “it’ll cost you twenty pounds.”

“’Ow much?” ses the conjurer, with a start. “Well, I wish you’d told me

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