Peter's Pence

"Peter's Pence" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous novella that revolves around the misadventures of a young man named Peter, who becomes embroiled in a series of comical events stemming from misunderstandings and mistaken intentions. Set in a lively coastal town, the narrative explores themes of love, the quirks of human behavior, and the chaos that ensues when financial ambitions clash with romantic interests. Jacobs' wit and keen observation of character dynamics make this story a delightful exploration of the complexities of everyday life.

• Humour
• Short story

								
Sailormen don't bother much about their relations, as a rule, said the
night-watchman; sometimes because a railway-ticket costs as much as a
barrel o' beer, and they ain't got the money for both, and sometimes
because most relations run away with the idea that a sailorman has been
knocking about 'arf over the world just to bring them 'ome presents.

Then, agin, some relations are partikler about appearances, and they
don't like it if a chap don't wear a collar and tidy 'imself up. Dress
is everything nowadays; put me in a top 'at and a tail-coat, with a
twopenny smoke stuck in my mouth, and who would know the difference
between me and a lord? Put a bishop in my clothes, and you'd ask 'im to
'ave a 'arf-pint as soon as you would me—sooner, p'r'aps.

'Put a Bishop in My Clothes, and You'd Ask 'im to 'ave A 'arf-pint As
Soon As You Would Me.'

Talking of relations reminds me of Peter Russet's uncle. It's some years
ago now, and Peter and old Sam Small and Ginger Dick 'ad just come back
arter being away for nearly ten months. They 'ad all got money in their
pockets, and they was just talking about the spree they was going to
have, when a letter was brought to Peter, wot had been waiting for 'im
at the office.

He didn't like opening it at fust. The last letter he had 'ad kept 'im
hiding indoors for a week, and then made him ship a fortnight afore 'e
had meant to. He stood turning it over and over, and at last, arter Sam,
wot was always a curious man, 'ad told 'im that if he didn't open it
he'd do it for 'im, he tore it open and read it.

“It's from my old uncle, George Goodman,” he ses, staring. “Why, I ain't
seen 'im for over twenty years.”

“Do you owe 'im any money?” ses Sam.

Peter shook his 'ead. “He's up in London,” he ses, looking at the letter
agin, “up in London for the fust time in thirty-three years, and he
wants to come and stay with me so that I can show 'im about.”

“Wot is he?” ses Sam.

“He's retired,” ses Peter, trying not to speak proud.

“Got money?” ses Sam, with a start.

“I b'leeve so,” ses Peter, in a off-hand way. “I don't s'pose 'e lives
on air.”

“Any wives or children?” ses Sam.

“No,” ses Peter. “He 'ad a wife, but she died.”

“Then you have 'im, Peter,” ses Sam, wot was always looking out for
money. “Don't throw away a oppertunity like that. Why, if you treat 'im
well he might leave it all to you.”

“No such luck,” ses Peter.

“You do as Sam ses,” ses Ginger. “I wish I'd got an uncle.”

“We'll try and give 'im a good time,” ses Sam, “and if he's anything
like Peter we shall enjoy ourselves.”

“Yes; but he ain't,” ses Peter. “He's a very solemn, serious-minded
man, and a strong teetotaller. Wot you'd call a glass o' beer he'd call
pison. That's 'ow he got on. He's thought a great deal of in 'is place,
I can tell you, but he ain't my sort.”

“That's a bit orkard,” ses Sam, scratching his 'ead. “Same time, it
don't do to throw away a chance. If 'e was my uncle I should pretend to
be a teetotaller while 'e was here, just to please 'im.”

“And when you felt like a drink, Peter,” ses Ginger, “me and Sam would
look arter 'im while you slipped off to get it.”

“He could 'ave the room below us,” ses Sam. “It is empty.”

Peter gave a sniff. “Wot about you and Ginger?” he ses.

“Wot about us?” ses Sam and Ginger, both together.

“Why, you'd 'ave to be teetotallers, too,” ses Peter. “Wot's the good o'
me pretending to be steady if 'e sees I've got pals like you?”

Sam scratched his 'ead agin, ever so long, and at last he ses, “Well,
mate,” he ses, “drink don't trouble me nor Ginger. We can do without it,
as far as that goes; and we must all take it in turns to keep the old
gentleman busy while the others go and get wot they want. You'd better
go and take the room downstairs for 'im, afore it goes.”

Peter looked at 'im in surprise, but that was Sam all over. The idea o'
knowing a man with money was too much for 'im, and he sat there giving
good advice to Peter about 'is behavior until Peter didn't know whether
it was 'is uncle or Sam's. 'Owever, he took the room and wrote the
letter, and next arternoon at three o'clock Mr. Goodman came in
a four-wheel cab with a big bag and a fat umbrella. A short,
stiffish-built man of about sixty he was, with 'is top lip shaved and a
bit o' short gray beard. He 'ad on a top 'at and a tail-coat, black kid
gloves and a little black bow, and he didn't answer the cabman back a
single word.

'Mr. Goodman Came in a Four-wheel Cab With A Big Bag and A Fat
Umbrella.'

He seemed quite pleased to see Peter, and by and by Sam, who was
bursting with curiosity, came down-stairs to ask Peter to lend 'im a
boot-lace, and was interduced. Then Ginger came down to look for Sam,
and in a few minutes they was all talking as comfortable as possible.

“I ain't seen Peter for twenty years,” ses Mr. Goodman—“twenty long
years!”

Sam shook his 'ead and looked at the floor.

“I happened to go and see Peter's sister—my niece Polly,” ses Mr.
Goodman, “and she told me the name of 'is ship. It was quite by chance,
because she told me it was the fust letter she had 'ad from him in seven
years.”

“I didn't think it was so long as that,” ses Peter. “Time passes so
quick.”

His uncle nodded. “Ah, so it does,” 'e ses. “It's all the same whether
we spend it on the foaming ocean or pass our little lives ashore. Afore
we can turn round, in a manner o' speaking, it 'as gorn.”

“The main thing,” ses Peter, in a good voice, “is to pass it properly.”

“Then it don't matter,” ses Ginger.

“So it don't,” ses Sam, very serious.

“I held 'im in my arms when 'e was a baby,” ses Mr. Goodman, looking at
Peter.

“Fond o' children?” ses Sam.

Mr. Goodman nodded. “Fond of everybody,” he ses.

“That's 'ow Peter is,” ses Ginger; “specially young——”

Peter Russet and Sam both turned and looked at 'im very sharp.

“Children,” ses Ginger, remembering 'imself, “and teetotallers. I s'pose
it is being a teetotaller 'imself.”

“Is Peter a teetotaller?” ses Mr. Goodman. “I'd no idea of it. Wot a
joyful thing!”

“It was your example wot put it into his 'ead fust, I b'leeve,” ses Sam,
looking at Peter for 'im to notice 'ow clever he was.

“And then, Sam and Ginger Dick being teetotallers too,” ses Peter, “we
all, natural-like, keep together.”

Mr. Goodman said they was wise men, and, arter a little more talk, he
said 'ow would it be if they went out and saw a little bit of the great
wicked city? They all said they would, and Ginger got quite excited
about it until he found that it meant London.

They got on a bus at Aldgate, and fust of all they went to the British
Museum, and when Mr. Goodman was tired o' that—and long arter the others
was—they went into a place and 'ad a nice strong cup of tea and a piece
o' cake each. When they come out o' there they all walked about looking
at the shops until they was tired out, and arter wot Mr. Goodman said

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