The Boatswain’s Watch Page #4

"The Boatswain’s Watch" by W. W. Jacobs is a classic collection of humorous short stories that feature the exploits of a group of sailors and their whimsical adventures. Through Jacobs' witty narrative and vivid characterizations, readers are drawn into the nautical life, experiencing the mishaps and misadventures that come with life at sea. The stories often blend comedy with a touch of human insight, reflecting the camaraderie and quirks of seafaring folk. Jacobs' distinctive style captures the charm and camaraderie of maritime life, making it an engaging read for fans of maritime literature and light-hearted storytelling.

• Fiction

								

with a very woebegone face on the stone itself.

“You did very well, miss,” said the boatswain, who thought he could
afford to be generous. “You needn’t be offended about it.”

“It’s my ankle,” said Chrissie with a little whimper. “Oh! I twisted it
right round.”

The boatswain stood regarding her in silent consternation

“It’s no use looking like that,” said Chrissie sharply, “you great
clumsy thing. If you hadn’t have run so hard it wouldn’t have happened.
It’s all your fault.”

“If you don’t mind leaning on me a bit,” said Tucker, “we might get
along.”

Chrissie took his arm petulantly, and they started on their return
journey, at the rate of about four hours a mile, with little cries and
gasps at every other yard.

“It’s no use,” said Chrissie as she relinquished his arm, and, limping
to the side of the road, sat down. The boatswain pricked up his ears
hopefully at the sound of approaching wheels.

“What’s the matter with the young lady?” inquired a groom who was
driving a little trap, as he pulled up and regarded with interest a
grimace of extraordinary intensity on the young lady’s face.

“Broke her ankle, I think,” said the boatswain glibly. “Which way are
you going?”

“Well, I’m going to Barborough,” said the groom; “but my guvnor’s
rather pertickler.”

“I’ll make it all right with you,” said the boatswain.

The groom hesitated a minute, and then made way for Chrissie as the
boatswain assisted her to get up beside him; then Tucker, with a grin
of satisfaction at getting a seat once more, clambered up behind, and
they started.

“Have a rug, mate,” said the groom, handing the reins to Chrissie and
passing it over; “put it round your knees and tuck the ends under you.”

“Ay, ay, mate,” said the boatswain as he obeyed the instructions.

“Are you sure you are quite comfortable?” said the groom
affectionately.

“Quite,” said the other.

The groom said no more, but in a quiet business-like fashion placed his
hands on the seaman’s broad back, and shot him out into the road. Then
he snatched up the reins and drove off at a gallop.

Without the faintest hope of winning, Mr. Tucker, who realised clearly,
appearances notwithstanding, that he had fallen into a trap, rose after
a hurried rest and started on his fifth race that morning. The prize
was only a second-rate groom with plated buttons, who was waving cheery
farewells to him with a dingy top hat; but the boatswain would have
sooner had it than a silver tea-service.

He ran as he had never ran before in his life, but all to no purpose,
the trap stopping calmly a little further on to take up another
passenger, in whose favour the groom retired to the back seat; then,
with a final wave of the hand to him, they took a road to the left and
drove rapidly out of sight. The boatswain’s watch was over.
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