Pickled Herring

"Pickled Herring" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous short story that showcases the author's knack for wit and character-driven narratives. The tale revolves around a comical misunderstanding involving a character's obsession with pickled herring, leading to amusing situations and revealing the quirks of human nature. Jacobs skillfully blends humor with everyday scenarios, making it a delightful read that highlights the absurdities of life and relationships. The story, typical of Jacobs' style, offers a charming glimpse into early 20th-century British life and the humorous predicaments that can arise from seemingly innocuous choices.

• Fiction

								
There was a sudden uproar on deck, and angry shouts accompanied by an
incessant barking; the master of the brig Arethusa stopped with his
knife midway to his mouth, and exchanging glances with the mate, put it
down and rose to his feet.

“They’re chevying that poor animal again,” he said hotly. “It’s
scandalous.”

“Rupert can take care of himself,” said the mate calmly, continuing his
meal. “I expect, if the truth’s known, it’s him’s been doin’ the
chevying.”

“You’re as bad as the rest of ’em,” said the skipper angrily, as a
large brown retriever came bounding into the cabin. “Poor old Rube!
what have they been doin’ to you?”

The dog, with a satisfied air, sat down panting by his chair, listening
quietly to the subdued hub-bub which sounded from the companion.

“Well, what is it?” roared the skipper, patting his favourite’s head.

“It’s that blasted dawg, sir,” cried an angry voice from above. “Go
down and show ’im your leg, Joe.”

“An ’ave another lump took out of it, I s’pose,” said another voice
sourly. “Not me.”

“I don’t want to look at no legs while I’m at dinner,” cried the
skipper. “O’ course the dog’ll bite you if you’ve been teasing him.”

“There’s nobody been teasing ’im,” said the angry voice again. “That’s
the second one ’e’s bit, and now Joe’s goin’ to have ’im killed—ain’t
you, Joe?”

Joe’s reply was not audible, although the infuriated skipper was
straining his ears to catch it.

“Who’s going to have the dog killed?” he demanded, going up on deck,
while Rupert, who evidently thought he had an interest in the
proceedings, followed unobtrusively behind.

“I am, sir,” said Joe Bates, who was sitting on the hatch while the
cook bathed an ugly wound in his leg. “A dog’s only allowed one bite,
and he’s ’ad two this week.”

“He bit me on Monday,” said the seaman who had spoken before. “Now he’s
done for hisself.”

“Hold your tongue!” said the skipper angrily. “You think you know a lot
about the law, Sam Clark; let me tell you a dog’s entitled to have as
many bites as ever he likes, so as he don’t bite the same person
twice.”

“That ain’t the way I’ve ’eard it put afore,” said Clark, somewhat
taken back.

“He’s the cutest dog breathing,” said the skipper fondly, “and he knows
all about it. He won’t bite either of you again.”

“And wot about them as ’asn’t been bit yet, sir?” inquired the cook.

“Don’t halloo before you’re hurt,” advised the skipper. “If you don’t
tease him he won’t bite you.”

He went down to his dinner, followed by the sagacious Rupert, leaving
the hands to go forward again, and to mutinously discuss a situation
which was becoming unbearable.

“It can’t go on no longer, Joe,” said Clark firmly; “this settles it.”

“Where is the stuff?” inquired the cook in a whisper.

“In my chest,” said Clark softly. “I bought It the night he bit me.”

“It’s a risky thing to do,” said Bates.

“’Ow risky?” asked Sam scornfully. “The dog eats the stuff and dies.
Who’s going to say what he died of? As for suspicions, let the old man
suspect as much as he likes. It ain’t proof.”

The stronger mind had its way, as usual, and the next day the skipper,
coming quietly on deck, was just in time to see Joe Bates throw down a
fine fat bloater in front of the now amiable Rupert. He covered the
distance between himself and the dog in three bounds, and seizing it by
the neck, tore the fish from its eager jaws and held it aloft.

“I just caught ’im in the act!” he cried, as the mate came on deck.
“What did you give that to my dog for?” he inquired of the conscience
stricken Bates.

“I wanted to make friends with him,” stammered the other.

“It’s poisoned, you rascal, and you know it,” said the skipper
vehemently.

“Wish I may die, sir,” began Joe.

“That’ll do,” said the skipper harshly. “You’ve tried to poison my
dog.”

“I ain’t,” said Joe firmly.

“You ain’t been trying to kill ’im with a poisoned bloater?” demanded
the skipper.

“Certainly not, sir,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t do such a thing. I couldn’t
if I tried.”

“Very good then,” said the skipper; “if it’s all right you eat it, and
I’ll beg your pardon.”

“I ain’t goin’ to eat after a dog,” said Joe, shuffling.

“The dog’s as clean as you are,” said the skipper. “I’d sooner eat
after him than you.”

“Well, you eat it then, sir,” said Bates desperately. “If it’s poisoned
you’ll die, and I’ll be hung for it. I can’t say no fairer than that,
can I?”

There was a slight murmur from the men, who stood by watching the
skipper with an air of unholy expectancy.

“Well, the boy shall eat it then,” said the skipper, “Eat that bloater,
boy, and I’ll give you sixpence.”

The boy came forward slowly, and looking from the men to the skipper,
and from the skipper back to the men, began to whimper.

“If you think it’s poisoned,” interrupted the mate, “you oughtn’t to
make the boy eat it. I don’t like boys, but you must draw the line
somewhere.”

“It’s poisoned,” said the skipper, shaking it at Bates, “and they know
it. Well, I’ll keep it till we get to port, and then I’ll have it
analysed. And it’ll be a sorry day for you, Bates, when I hear it’s
poisoned. A month’s hard labour is what you’ll get.”

He turned away and went below with as much dignity as could be expected
of a man carrying a mangled herring, and placing it on a clean plate,
solemnly locked it up in his state-room.

For two days the crew heard no more about it, though the skipper’s eyes
gleamed dangerously each time that they fell upon the shrinking Bates.
The weather was almost tropical, with not an air stirring, and the
Arethusa, bearing its dread secret still locked in its state-room,
rose and fell upon a sea of glassy smoothness without making any
progress worth recording.

“I wish you’d keep that thing in your berth, George,” said the skipper,
as they sat at tea the second evening; “it puts me in a passion every
time I look at it.”

“I couldn’t think of it, cap’n,” replied the mate firmly; “it makes me
angry enough as it is. Every time I think of ’em trying to poison that
poor dumb creature I sort o’ choke. I try to forget it.”

The skipper, eyeing him furtively, helped himself to another cup of
tea.

“You haven’t got a tin box with a lid to it, I s’pose?” he remarked
somewhat shamefacedly.

The mate shook his head. “I looked for one this morning,” he said.
“There ain’t so much as a bottle aboard we could shove it into, and it
wants shoving into something—bad, it does.”

“I don’t like to be beat,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “All
them grinning monkeys for’ard ’ud think it a rare good joke. I’d throw
it overboard if it wasn’t for that. We can’t keep it this weather.”

“Well, look ’ere; ’ere’s a way out of it,” said the mate. “Call Joe
down, and make him keep it in the fo’c’s’le and take care of it.”

“Why, you idiot, he’d lose it!” rapped out the other impatiently.

“O’ course he would,” said the mate; “but that’s the most dignerified
way out of it for you. You can call ’im all sorts of things, and abuse
’im for the rest of his life. They’ll prove themselves guilty by

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