The Castaway Page #4

"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

								

observed the virtuous uprightness of Mrs. Gimpson’s back. By the time
they reached home he was in a spirit of mad recklessness far in advance
of the character given him by the astrologer.

His wife gazed at him with a look of such strong interrogation as he
was about to follow her into the house that he paused with his foot on
the step and eyed her dumbly.

“Have you left anything inside that you want?” she inquired.

Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I only wanted to come in and make a clean
breast of it,” he said, in a curious voice; “then I’ll go.”

Mrs. Gimpson stood aside to let him pass, and Mr. Thompson, not to be
denied, followed close behind with his faintly protesting wife. They
sat down in a row against the wall, and Mr. Boxer, sitting opposite in
a hang-dog fashion, eyed them with scornful wrath.

“Well?” said Mrs. Boxer, at last.

“All that he said was quite true,” said her husband, defiantly. “The
only thing is, he didn’t tell the arf of it. Altogether, I married
three dusky maidens.”

Everybody but Mr. Thompson shuddered with horror.

“Then I married a white girl in Australia,” pursued Mr. Boxer,
musingly. “I wonder old Silver didn’t see that in the bowl; not arf a
fortune-teller, I call ’im.”

“What they see in ’im!” whispered the astounded Mr. Thompson to his
wife.

“And did you marry the beautiful girl in the photograph?” demanded Mrs.
Boxer, in trembling accents.

“I did,” said her husband.

“Hussy,” cried Mrs. Boxer.

“I married her,” said Mr. Boxer, considering—“I married her at
Camberwell, in eighteen ninety-three.”

“Eighteen ninety-three!” said his wife, in a startled voice. “But you
couldn’t. Why, you didn’t marry me till eighteen ninety-four.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” inquired the monster, calmly.

Mrs. Boxer, pale as ashes, rose from her seat and stood gazing at him
with horror-struck eyes, trying in vain to speak.

“You villain!” cried Mrs. Gimpson, violently. “I always distrusted
you.”


“I know you did,” said Mr. Boxer, calmly. “You’ve been committing
bigamy,” cried Mrs. Gimpson.

“Over and over agin,” assented Mr. Boxer, cheerfully. “It’s got to be a
’obby with me.”

“Was the first wife alive when you married my daughter?” demanded Mrs.
Gimpson.

“Alive?” said Mr. Boxer. “O’ course she was. She’s alive now—bless
her.”

He leaned back in his chair and regarded with intense satisfaction the
horrified faces of the group in front.

“You—you’ll go to jail for this,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, breathlessly.
“What is your first wife’s address?”

“I decline to answer that question,” said her son-in-law.

“What is your first wife’s address?” repeated Mrs. Gimpson.

“Ask the fortune-teller,” said Mr. Boxer, with an aggravating smile.
“And then get ’im up in the box as a witness, little bowl and all. He
can tell you more than I can.”

“I demand to know her name and address,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, putting a
bony arm around the waist of the trembling Mrs. Boxer.

“I decline to give it,” said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. “It ain’t
likely I’m going to give myself away like that; besides, it’s agin the
law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy
case, and call old red-eyes as a witness.”

Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down
conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed
over to her husband.

“Oh, John,” she wailed, “say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true.”

Mr. Boxer hesitated. “What’s the good o’ me saying anything?” he said,
doggedly.

“It isn’t true,” persisted his wife. “Say it isn’t true.”

“What I told you when I first came in this evening was quite true,”
said her husband, slowly. “And what I’ve just told you is as true as
what that lying old fortune-teller told you. You can please yourself
what you believe.”

“I believe you, John,” said his wife, humbly.

Mr. Boxer’s countenance cleared and he drew her on to his knee.

“That’s right,” he said, cheerfully. “So long as you believe in me I
don’t care what other people think. And before I’m much older I’ll find
out how that old rascal got to know the names of the ships I was
aboard. Seems to me somebody’s been talking.”
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