The Castaway Page #2

"The Castaway" by W. W. Jacobs is a short story that follows the life of a shipwrecked sailor who finds himself stranded on a deserted island. The narrative explores themes of isolation, survival, and the human spirit as the protagonist navigates the challenges of his new environment. Through a blend of humor and poignancy, Jacobs highlights the unexpected twists of fate and the resilience required to face adversity. The story captures the essence of adventure and the profound impact of solitude on one's character and perspective.

• Short story

								


“Well, look ’ere,” said Mr. Boxer, twisting his short, blunt nose into
as near an imitation of a sneer as he could manage, “I’ve told you my
story and I’ve got witnesses to prove it. You can write to the master
of the Marston Towers if you like, and other people besides. Very
well, then; let’s go and see your precious old fortune-teller. You
needn’t say who I am; say I’m a friend, and tell ’im never to mind
about making mischief, but to say right out where I am and what I’ve
been doing all this time. I have my ’opes it’ll cure you of your
superstitiousness.”


“We’ll go round after we’ve shut up, mother,” said Mrs. Boxer. “We’ll
have a bit o’ supper first and then start early.”

Mrs. Gimpson hesitated. It is never pleasant to submit one’s
superstitions to the tests of the unbelieving, but after the attitude
she had taken up she was extremely loath to allow her son-in-law a
triumph.

“Never mind, we’ll say no more about it,” she said, primly, “but I ’ave
my own ideas.”

“I dessay,” said Mr. Boxer; “but you’re afraid for us to go to your old
fortune-teller. It would be too much of a show-up for ’im.”

“It’s no good your trying to aggravate me, John Boxer, because you
can’t do it,” said Mrs. Gimpson, in a voice trembling with passion.

“O’ course, if people like being deceived they must be,” said Mr.
Boxer; “we’ve all got to live, and if we’d all got our common sense
fortune-tellers couldn’t. Does he tell fortunes by tea-leaves or by the
colour of your eyes?”

“Laugh away, John Boxer,” said Mrs. Gimpson, icily; “but I shouldn’t
have been alive now if it hadn’t ha’ been for Mr. Silver’s warnings.”

“Mother stayed in bed for the first ten days in July,” explained Mrs.
Boxer, “to avoid being bit by a mad dog.”

“Tchee—tchee—tchee,” said the hapless Mr. Boxer, putting his hand
over his mouth and making noble efforts to restrain himself;
“tchee—tch——”

“I s’pose you’d ha’ laughed more if I ’ad been bit?” said the glaring
Mrs. Gimpson.

“Well, who did the dog bite after all?” inquired Mr. Boxer, recovering.

“You don’t understand,” replied Mrs. Gimpson, pityingly; “me being safe
up in bed and the door locked, there was no mad dog. There was no use
for it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Boxer, “me and Mary’s going round to see that old
deceiver after supper, whether you come or not. Mary shall tell ’im I’m
a friend, and ask him to tell her everything about ’er husband. Nobody
knows me here, and Mary and me’ll be affectionate like, and give ’im to
understand we want to marry. Then he won’t mind making mischief.”

“You’d better leave well alone,” said Mrs. Gimpson.

Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I was always one for a bit o’ fun,” he said,
slowly. “I want to see his face when he finds out who I am.”

Mrs. Gimpson made no reply; she was looking round for the
market-basket, and having found it she left the reunited couple to keep
house while she went out to obtain a supper which should, in her
daughter’s eyes, be worthy of the occasion.

She went to the High Street first and made her purchases, and was on
the way back again when, in response to a sudden impulse, as she passed
the end of Crowner’s Alley, she turned into that small by-way and
knocked at the astrologer’s door.

A slow, dragging footstep was heard approaching in reply to the
summons, and the astrologer, recognising his visitor as one of his most
faithful and credulous clients, invited her to step inside. Mrs.
Gimpson complied, and, taking a chair, gazed at the venerable white
beard and small, red-rimmed eyes of her host in some perplexity as to
how to begin.

“My daughter’s coming round to see you presently,” she said, at last.

The astrologer nodded.

“She—she wants to ask you about ’er husband,” faltered Mrs. Gimpson;
“she’s going to bring a friend with her—a man who doesn’t believe in
your knowledge. He—he knows all about my daughter’s husband, and he
wants to see what you say you know about him.”

The old man put on a pair of huge horn spectacles and eyed her
carefully.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said, at last; “you’d better
tell me everything.”

Mrs. Gimpson shook her head.

“There’s some danger hanging over you,” continued Mr. Silver, in a low,
thrilling voice; “some danger in connection with your son-in-law.
There,” he waved a lean, shrivelled hand backward and forward as though
dispelling a fog, and peered into distance—“there is something forming
over you. You—or somebody—are hiding something from me.”

Mrs. Gimpson, aghast at such omniscience, sank backward in her chair.

“Speak,” said the old man, gently; “there is no reason why you should
be sacrificed for others.”

Mrs. Gimpson was of the same opinion, and in some haste she reeled off
the events of the evening. She had a good memory, and no detail was
lost.

“Strange, strange,” said the venerable Mr. Silver, when he had
finished. “He is an ingenious man.”

“Isn’t it true?” inquired his listener. “He says he can prove it. And
he is going to find out what you meant by saying you were afraid of
making mischief.”

“He can prove some of it,” said the old man, his eyes snapping
spitefully. “I can guarantee that.”

“But it wouldn’t have made mischief if you had told us that,” ventured
Mrs. Gimpson. “A man can’t help being cast away.”

“True,” said the astrologer, slowly; “true. But let them come and
question me; and whatever you do, for your own sake don’t let a soul
know that you have been here. If you do, the danger to yourself will be
so terrible that even I may be unable to help you.”

Mrs. Gimpson shivered, and more than ever impressed by his marvellous
powers made her way slowly home, where she found the unconscious Mr.
Boxer relating his adventures again with much gusto to a married couple
from next door.

“It’s a wonder he’s alive,” said Mr. Jem Thompson, looking up as the
old woman entered the room; “it sounds like a story-book. Show us that
cut on your head again, mate.”

The obliging Mr. Boxer complied.

“We’re going on with ’em after they’ve ’ad supper,” continued Mr.
Thompson, as he and his wife rose to depart. “It’ll be a fair treat to
me to see old Silver bowled out.”

Mrs. Gimpson sniffed and eyed his retreating figure disparagingly; Mrs.
Boxer, prompted by her husband, began to set the table for supper.

It was a lengthy meal, owing principally to Mr. Boxer, but it was over
at last, and after that gentleman had assisted in shutting up the shop
they joined the Thompsons, who were waiting outside, and set off for
Crowner’s Alley. The way was enlivened by Mr. Boxer, who had thrills of
horror every ten yards at the idea of the supernatural things he was
about to witness, and by Mr. Thompson, who, not to be outdone,
persisted in standing stock-still at frequent intervals until he had
received the assurances of his giggling better-half that he would not
be made to vanish in a cloud of smoke.

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