The Castaway Page #3

"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

								


By the time they reached Mr. Silver’s abode the party had regained its
decorum, and, except for a tremendous shudder on the part of Mr. Boxer
as his gaze fell on a couple of skulls which decorated the magician’s
table, their behaviour left nothing to be desired. Mrs. Gimpson, in a
few awkward words, announced the occasion of their visit. Mr. Boxer she
introduced as a friend of the family from London.

“I will do what I can,” said the old man, slowly, as his visitors
seated themselves, “but I can only tell you what I see. If I do not see
all, or see clearly, it cannot be helped.”

Mr. Boxer winked at Mr. Thompson, and received an understanding pinch
in return; Mrs. Thompson in a hot whisper told them to behave
themselves.

The mystic preparations were soon complete. A little cloud of smoke,
through which the fierce red eyes of the astrologer peered keenly at
Mr. Boxer, rose from the table. Then he poured various liquids into a
small china bowl and, holding up his hand to command silence, gazed
steadfastly into it. “I see pictures,” he announced, in a deep voice.
“The docks of a great city; London. I see an ill-shaped man with a bent
left leg standing on the deck of a ship.”

Mr. Thompson, his eyes wide open with surprise, jerked Mr. Boxer in the
ribs, but Mr. Boxer, whose figure was a sore point with him, made no
response.

“The ship leaves the docks,” continued Mr. Silver, still peering into
the bowl. “As she passes through the entrance her stern comes into view
with the name painted on it. The—the—the——”

“Look agin, old chap,” growled Mr. Boxer, in an undertone.

“The North Star,” said the astrologer. “The ill-shaped man is still
standing on the fore-part of the ship; I do not know his name or who he
is. He takes the portrait of a beautiful young woman from his pocket
and gazes at it earnestly.”

Mrs. Boxer, who had no illusions on the subject of her personal
appearance, sat up as though she had been stung; Mr. Thompson, who was
about to nudge Mr. Boxer in the ribs again, thought better of it and
assumed an air of uncompromising virtue.

“The picture disappears,” said Mr. Silver. “Ah! I see; I see. A ship in
a gale at sea. It is the North Star; it is sinking. The ill-shaped
man sheds tears and loses his head. I cannot discover the name of this
man.”

Mr. Boxer, who had been several times on the point of interrupting,
cleared his throat and endeavoured to look unconcerned.

“The ship sinks,” continued the astrologer, in thrilling tones. “Ah!
what is this? a piece of wreckage with a monkey clinging to it? No,
no-o. The ill-shaped man again. Dear me!”

His listeners sat spellbound. Only the laboured and intense breathing
of Mr. Boxer broke the silence.

“He is alone on the boundless sea,” pursued the seer; “night falls. Day
breaks, and a canoe propelled by a slender and pretty but dusky maiden
approaches the castaway. She assists him into the canoe and his head
sinks on her lap, as with vigorous strokes of her paddle she propels
the canoe toward a small island fringed with palm trees.”

“Here, look ’ere—” began the overwrought Mr. Boxer.

“H’sh, h’sh!” ejaculated the keenly interested Mr. Thompson. “W’y
don’t you keep quiet?”

“The picture fades,” continued the old man. “I see another: a native
wedding. It is the dusky maiden and the man she rescued. Ah! the
wedding is interrupted; a young man, a native, breaks into the group.
He has a long knife in his hand. He springs upon the ill-shaped man and
wounds him in the head.”

Involuntarily Mr. Boxer’s hand went up to his honourable scar, and the
heads of the others swung round to gaze at it. Mrs. Boxer’s face was
terrible in its expression, but Mrs. Gimpson’s bore the look of sad and
patient triumph of one who knew men and could not be surprised at
anything they do.

“The scene vanishes,” resumed the monotonous voice, “and another one
forms. The same man stands on the deck of a small ship. The name on the
stern is the Peer—no, Paris—no, no, no, Pearl. It fades from the
shore where the dusky maiden stands with hands stretched out
imploringly. The ill-shaped man smiles and takes the portrait of the
young and beautiful girl from his pocket.”

“Look ’ere,” said the infuriated Mr. Boxer, “I think we’ve ’ad about
enough of this rubbish. I have—more than enough.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” said his wife, trembling furiously. “You can go
if you like. I’m going to stay and hear all that there is to hear.”

“You sit quiet,” urged the intensely interested Mr. Thompson. “He ain’t
said it’s you. There’s more than one misshaped man in the world, I
s’pose?”

“I see an ocean liner,” said the seer, who had appeared to be in a
trance state during this colloquy. “She is sailing for England from
Australia. I see the name distinctly: the Marston Towers. The same
man is on board of her. The ship arrives at London. The scene closes;
another one forms. The ill-shaped man is sitting with a woman with a
beautiful face—not the same as the photograph.”

“What they can see in him I can’t think,” muttered Mr. Thompson, in an
envious whisper. “He’s a perfick terror, and to look at him——”

“They sit hand in hand,” continued the astrologer, raising his voice.
“She smiles up at him and gently strokes his head; he——”

A loud smack rang through the room and startled the entire company;
Mrs. Boxer, unable to contain herself any longer, had, so far from
profiting by the example, gone to the other extreme and slapped her
husband’s head with hearty good-will. Mr. Boxer sprang raging to his
feet, and in the confusion which ensued the fortune-teller, to the
great regret of Mr. Thompson, upset the contents of the magic bowl.

“I can see no more,” he said, sinking hastily into his chair behind the
table as Mr. Boxer advanced upon him.

Mrs. Gimpson pushed her son-in-law aside, and laying a modest fee upon
the table took her daughter’s arm and led her out. The Thompsons
followed, and Mr. Boxer, after an irresolute glance in the direction of
the ingenuous Mr. Silver, made his way after them and fell into the
rear. The people in front walked on for some time in silence, and then
the voice of the greatly impressed Mrs. Thompson was heard, to the
effect that if there were only more fortune-tellers in the world there
would be a lot more better men.

Mr. Boxer trotted up to his wife’s side. “Look here, Mary,” he began.

“Don’t you speak to me,” said his wife, drawing closer to her mother,
“because I won’t answer you.”

Mr. Boxer laughed, bitterly. “This is a nice home-coming,” he remarked.

He fell to the rear again and walked along raging, his temper by no
means being improved by observing that Mrs. Thompson, doubtless with a
firm belief in the saying that “Evil communications corrupt good
manners,” kept a tight hold of her husband’s arm. His position as an
outcast was clearly defined, and he ground his teeth with rage as he

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