Prize Money

"Prize Money" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous short story that revolves around the misadventures of a group of friends who become entangled in a betting scheme. The narrative highlights the quirks of human nature, the folly of greed, and the unpredictability of luck. Jacobs' witty prose and colorful characters bring to life the charm of early 20th-century England, making it a delightful exploration of camaraderie and the consequences of unexpected fortune.

• Humour
• Short story

								
The old man stood by the window, gazing at the frozen fields beyond. The
sign of the Cauliflower was stiff with snow, and the breath of a pair of
waiting horses in a wagon beneath ascended in clouds of steam.

'The Sign of the Cauliflower Was Stiff With Snow.'

“Amusements” he said slowly, as he came back with a shiver and, resuming
his seat by the tap-room fire, looked at the wayfarer who had been idly
questioning him. “Claybury men don't have much time for amusements.
The last one I can call to mind was Bill Chambers being nailed up in a
pig-sty he was cleaning out, but there was such a fuss made over that
—by Bill—that it sort o' disheartened people.”

He got up again restlessly, and, walking round the table, gazed long and
hard into three or four mugs.

“Sometimes a little gets left in them,” he explained, meeting the
stranger's inquiring glance. The latter started, and, knocking on the
table with the handle of his knife, explained that he had been informed
by a man outside that his companion was the bitterest teetotaller in
Claybury.

“That's one o' Bob Pretty's larks,” said the old man, flushing. “I
see you talking to 'im, and I thought as 'ow he warn't up to no good.
Biggest rascal in Claybury, he is. I've said so afore, and I'll say so
agin.”

He bowed to the donor and buried his old face in the mug.

“A poacher!” he said, taking breath. “A thief!” he continued, after
another draught. “I wonder whether Smith spilt any of this a-carrying of
it in?”

He put down the empty mug and made a careful examination of the floor,
until a musical rapping on the table brought the landlord into the room
again.

“My best respects,” he said, gratefully, as he placed the mug on the
settle by his side and slowly filled a long clay pipe. Next time you see
Bob Pretty ask 'im wot happened to the prize hamper. He's done a good
many things has Bob, but it'll be a long time afore Claybury men'll look
over that.

It was Henery Walker's idea. Henery 'ad been away to see an uncle of
'is wife's wot had money and nobody to leave it to—leastways, so Henery
thought when he wasted his money going over to see 'im—and he came back
full of the idea, which he 'ad picked up from the old man.

“We each pay twopence a week till Christmas,” he ses, “and we buy a
hamper with a goose or a turkey in it, and bottles o' rum and whiskey
and gin, as far as the money'll go, and then we all draw lots for it,
and the one that wins has it.”

It took a lot of explaining to some of 'em, but Smith, the landlord,
helped Henery, and in less than four days twenty-three men had paid
their tuppences to Henery, who 'ad been made the seckitary, and told him
to hand them over to Smith in case he lost his memory.

Bob Pretty joined one arternoon on the quiet, and more than one of 'em
talked of 'aving their money back, but, arter Smith 'ad explained as 'ow
he would see fair play, they thought better of it.

“He'll 'ave the same chance as all of you,” he ses. “No more and no
less.”

“I'd feel more easy in my mind, though, if'e wasn't in it,” ses Bill
Chambers, staring at Bob. “I never knew 'im to lose anything yet.”

“You don't know everything, Bill,” ses Bob, shaking his 'ead. “You don't
know me; else you wouldn't talk like that. I've never been caught doing
wrong yet, and I 'ope I never shall.”

“It's all right, Bill,” ses George Kettle. “Mr. Smith'll see fair, and
I'd sooner win Bob Pretty's money than anybody's.”

“I 'ope you will, mate,” ses Bob; “that's what I joined for.”

“Bob's money is as good as anybody else's,” ses George Kettle, looking
round at the others. “It don't signify to me where he got it from.”

“Ah, I don't like to hear you talk like that George,” ses Bob Pretty.
“I've thought more than once that you 'ad them ideas.”

He drank up his beer and went off 'ome, shaking his 'ead, and, arter
three or four of 'em 'ad explained to George Kettle wot he meant, George
went off 'ome, too.

The week afore Christmas, Smith, the landlord, said as 'ow he 'ad got
enough money, and three days arter we all came up 'ere to see the prize
drawn. It was one o' the biggest hampers Smith could get; and there
was a fine, large turkey in it, a large goose, three pounds o' pork
sausages, a bottle o' whiskey, a bottle o' rum, a bottle o' brandy, a
bottle o' gin, and two bottles o' wine. The hamper was all decorated
with holly, and a little flag was stuck in the top.

On'y men as belonged was allowed to feel the turkey and the goose, and
arter a time Smith said as 'ow p'r'aps they'd better leave off, and 'e
put all the things back in the hamper and fastened up the lid.

“How are we going to draw the lottery?” ses John Biggs, the blacksmith.

“There'll be twenty-three bits o' paper,” ses Smith, “and they'll be
numbered from one to twenty-three. Then they'll be twisted up all the
same shape and put in this 'ere paper bag, which I shall 'old as each
man draws. The chap that draws the paper with the figger '1' on it wins.”

He tore up twenty-three bits o' paper all about the same size, and then
with a black-lead pencil 'e put the numbers on, while everybody leaned
over 'im to see fair play. Then he twisted every bit o' paper up and
held them in his 'and.

“Is that satisfactory?” he ses.

“Couldn't be fairer,” ses Bill Chambers.

“Mind,” ses Smith, putting them into a tall paper bag that had 'ad sugar
in it and shaking them up, “Number '1' wins the prize. Who's going to draw
fust?”

All of 'em hung back and looked at each other; they all seemed to think
they'd 'ave a better chance when there wasn't so many numbers left in
the bag.

“Come on,” ses Smith, the landlord. “Somebody must be fust.”

“Go on, George Kettle,” ses Bob Pretty. “You're sure to win. I 'ad a
dream you did.”

“Go on yourself,” ses George.

“I never 'ave no luck,” ses Bob; “but if Henery Walker will draw fust,
I'll draw second. Somebody must begin.”

“O' course they must,” ses Henery, “and if you're so anxious why don't
you 'ave fust try?”

Bob Pretty tried to laugh it off, but they wouldn't 'ave it, and at last
he takes out a pocket-'andkerchief and offers it to Smith, the landlord.

“All right, I'll go fust if you'll blindfold me,” he ses.

“There ain't no need for that, Bob,” ses Mr. Smith. “You can't see in
the bag, and even if you could it wouldn't help you.”

“Never mind; you blindfold me,” ses Bob; “it'll set a good example to
the others.”

Smith did it at last, and when Bob Pretty put his 'and in the bag and
pulled out a paper you might ha' heard a pin drop.

“Open it and see what number it is, Mr. Smith,” ses Bob Pretty.
“Twenty-three, I expect; I never 'ave no luck.”

Smith rolled out the paper, and then 'e turned pale and 'is eyes seemed
to stick right out of his 'ead.

“He's won it!” he ses, in a choky voice. “It's Number 1. Bob Pretty 'as
won the prize.”

'He's Won It!' he Ses, in a Choky Voice. 'it's Number 1.'

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