The Changing Numbers Page #4

"The Changing Numbers" by W. W. Jacobs is a short story that weaves humor and intrigue around the eccentricities of everyday life. The narrative follows a character's encounters with a series of seemingly trivial yet absurdly complicated number-related incidents that lead to unexpected consequences. Jacobs employs his trademark wit and keen observation of human behavior, creating a delightful exploration of how small details can spiral into larger situations. The story captures the charm of early 20th-century life while engaging readers with its comedic twists and rich characterizations.

• Humour
• Short story

								


“I don’t want any of your nonsense,” said Mr. Jenkins. “I’m not on duty
now, but I warn you not to say anything that may be used against you.”

“I never do,” said Mr. Drill, piously.

“Somebody threw a handful o’ flour in poor Cooper’s face a couple of
hours ago,” said Mr. Jenkins, watching him closely, “and while he was
getting it out of his eyes they upset him and made off with his helmet
and truncheon. I just met Brown and he says Cooper’s been going on like
a madman.”

“By Jove! it’s a good job I mended your helmet for you,” said Mr.
Drill, “or else they might have suspected you.”

Mr. Jenkins stared at him. “I know who did do it,” he said,
significantly.

“Herbert Sims?” guessed Mr. Drill, in a stage whisper.

“You’ll be one o’ the first to know,” said Mr. Jenkins, darkly; “he’ll
be arrested to-morrow. Fancy the impudence of it! It’s shocking.”

Mr. Drill whistled. “Nell, don’t let that little affair o’ yours with
Sims be known,” he said, quietly. “Have that kept quiet—if you can.”

Mr. Jenkins started as though he had been stung. In the joy of a case
he had overlooked one or two things. He turned and regarded the young
man wistfully.

“Don’t call on me as a witness, that’s all,” continued Mr. Drill. “I
never was a mischief-maker, and I shouldn’t like to have to tell how
you lent your helmet to Sims so that he could pretend he had knocked
Cooper down and taken it from him.”

“Wouldn’t look at all well,” said Mr. Gunnill, nodding his head sagely.

Mr. Jenkins breathed hard and looked from one to the other. It was
plain that it was no good reminding them that he had not had a case for
five years.

“When I say that I know who did it,” he said, slowly, “I mean that I
have my suspicions.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Drill, “that’s a very different thing.”

“Nothing like the same,” said Mr. Gunnill, pouring the constable a
glass of ale.

Mr. Jenkins drank it and smacked his lips feebly.

“Sims needn’t know anything about that helmet being repaired,” he said
at last.

“Certainly not,” said everybody.

Mr. Jenkins sighed and turned to Drill.

“It’s no good spoiling the ship for a ha’porth o’ tar,” he said, with a
faint suspicion of a wink.

“No,” said Drill, looking puzzled.

“Anything that’s worth doing at all is worth doing well,” continued the
constable, “and while I’m drinking another glass with Mr. Gunnill here,
suppose you go into the kitchen with that useful bag o’ yours and
finish repairing my truncheon?”
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