Odd Man Out

"Odd Man Out" by W. W. Jacobs is a collection of humorous short stories that capture the quirks and eccentricities of everyday life. Set in early 20th-century England, Jacobs' witty narrative style brings to life a cast of vivid characters, often highlighting their humorous misadventures and misunderstandings. The stories blend comedy with keen social observations, making them both entertaining and reflective of human nature. Jacobs' masterful storytelling invites readers to appreciate the absurdities of life through a lighthearted lens.

• Humour
• Short story

								
The night watchman pursed up his lips and shook his head. Friendship, he
said, decidedly, is a deloosion and a snare. I've 'ad more friendships
in my life than most people—owing to being took a fancy to for some
reason or other—and they nearly all came to a sudden ending.

'Friendship, he Said, Decidedly, is a Deloosion and A Snare.'

I remember one man who used to think I couldn't do wrong; everything
I did was right to 'im; and now if I pass 'im in the street he makes
a face as if he'd got a hair in 'is mouth. All because I told 'im the
truth one day when he was thinking of getting married. Being a bit
uneasy-like in his mind, he asked me 'ow, supposing I was a gal, his
looks would strike me.

It was an orkard question, and I told him that he 'ad got a good 'art
and that no man could 'ave a better pal. I said he 'ad got a good temper
and was free with 'is money. O' course, that didn't satisfy 'im, and at
last he told me to take a good look at 'im and tell him wot I thought of
'is looks. There was no getting out of it, and at last I 'ad to tell him
plain that everybody 'ad diff'rent ideas about looks; that looks wasn't
everything; and that 'andsome is as 'andsome does. Even then 'e wasn't
satisfied, and at last I told 'im, speaking as a pal to a pal, that if
I was a gal and he came along trying to court me, I should go to the
police about it.

I remember two young fellers that was shipmates with me some years ago,
and they was such out-and-out pals that everybody called 'em the Siamese
twins. They always shipped together and shared lodgings together when
they was ashore, and Ted Denver would no more 'ave thought of going out
without Charlie Brice than Charlie Brice would 'ave thought of going
out without 'im. They shared their baccy and their money and everything
else, and it's my opinion that if they 'ad only 'ad one pair o' boots
between 'em they'd 'ave hopped along in one each.

They 'ad been like it for years, and they kept it up when they left the
sea and got berths ashore. Anybody knowing them would ha' thought that
nothing but death could part 'em; but it happened otherwise.

There was a gal in it, of course. A gal that Ted Denver got into
conversation with on top of a bus, owing to her steadying 'erself by
putting her hand on 'is shoulder as she passed 'im. Bright, lively sort
o' gal she seemed, and, afore Ted knew where he was, they was talking
away as though they 'ad known each other for years.

Charlie didn't seem to care much for it at fust, but he didn't raise no
objection; and when the gal got up to go he stopped the bus for 'er by
poking the driver in the back, and they all got off together. Ted went
fust to break her fall, in case the bus started off too sudden, and
Charlie 'elped her down behind by catching hold of a lace collar she
was wearing. When she turned to speak to 'im about it, she knocked
the conductor's hat off with 'er umbrella, and there was so much
unpleasantness that by the time they 'ad got to the pavement she told
Charlie that she never wanted to see his silly fat face agin.

“It ain't fat,” ses Ted, speaking up for 'im; “it's the shape of it.”

“And it ain't silly,” ses Charlie, speaking very quick; “mind that!”

“It's a bit o' real lace,” ses the gal, twisting her 'ead round to look
at the collar; “it cost me one and two-three only last night.”

“One an' wot?” ses Charlie, who, not being a married man, didn't
understand 'er.

“One shilling,” ses the gal, “two pennies, and three farthings. D'ye
understand that?”

“Yes,” ses Charlie.

“He's cleverer than he looks,” ses the gal, turning to Ted. “I s'pose
you're right, and it is the shape after all.”

Ted walked along one side of 'er and Charlie the other, till they came
to the corner of the road where she lived, and then Ted and 'er stood
there talking till Charlie got sick and tired of it, and kept tugging at
Ted's coat for 'im to come away.

“I'm coming,” ses Ted, at last. “I s'pose you won't be this way
to-morrow night?” he ses, turning to the gal.

“I might if I thought there was no chance of seeing you,” she ses,
tossing her 'ead.

“You needn't be alarmed,” ses Charlie, shoving in his oar; “we're going
to a music-'all to-morrow night.”

“Oh, go to your blessed music-'all,” ses the gal to Ted; “I don't want
you.”

She turned round and a'most ran up the road, with Ted follering 'er and
begging of 'er not to be so hasty, and afore they parted she told 'im
that 'er name was Emma White, and promised to meet 'im there the next
night at seven.

O' course Mr. Charlie Brice turned up alongside o' Ted the next night,
and at fust Emma said she was going straight off 'ome agin. She did go
part o' the way, and then, when she found that Ted wouldn't send his
mate off, she came back and, woman-like, said as 'ow she wasn't going to
go 'ome just to please Charlie Brice. She wouldn't speak a word to 'im,
and when they all went to the music-'all together she sat with her face
turned away from 'im and her elbow sticking in 'is chest. Doing that and
watching the performance at the same time gave 'er a stiff neck, and she
got in such a temper over it she wouldn't hardly speak to Ted, and when
Charlie—meaning well—told 'er to rub it with a bit o' mutton-fat she
nearly went off her 'ead.

“Who asked you to come with us?” she ses, as soon as she could speak.
“'Ow dare you force yourself where you ain't wanted?”

“Ted wants me,” ses Charlie.

“We've been together for years,” ses Ted. “You'll like Charlie when you
get used to 'im—everybody does.”

“Not me!” ses Emma, with a shiver. “It gives me the fair creeps to look
at him. You'll 'ave to choose between us. If he comes, I sha'n't. Which
is it to be?”

Neither of 'em answered 'er, but the next night they both turned up as
usual, and Emma White stood there looking at 'em and nearly crying with
temper.

“'Ow would you like it if I brought another young lady with me?” she ses
to Ted.

“It wouldn't make no difference to me,” ses Ted. “Any friend o' yours is
welcome.”

Emma stood looking at 'em, and then she patted 'er eyes with a
pocket-'ankercher and began to look more cheerful.

“You ain't the only one that has got a dear friend,” she says, looking
at 'im and wiping 'er lips with the 'ankercher. “I've got one, and if
Charlie Brice don't promise to stay at 'ome to-morrow night I'll bring
her with me.”

“Bring 'er, and welcome,” ses Ted.

“I sha'n't stay at 'ome for fifty dear friends,” ses Charlie.

“Have it your own way,” ses Emma. “If you come, Sophy Jennings comes,
that's all.”

She was as good as 'er word, too, and next night when they turned up
they found Emma and 'er friend waiting for them. Charlie thought it was
the friend's mother at fust, but he found out arterwards that she was a
widder-woman. She had 'ad two husbands, and both of 'em 'ad passed away
with a smile on their face. She seemed to take a fancy to Charlie the

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