The Skipper of the “osprey” Page #3

"The Skipper of the 'Osprey'" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous novella that follows the misadventures of the titular skipper, a cocky and somewhat inept boat captain. Set against a backdrop of maritime life, the story blends comedy and nautical themes as the skipper navigates various challenges, including eccentric crew members and unpredictable waters. Jacobs’ witty prose and knack for character development highlight the absurdities of life at sea, making for an entertaining read that captures the spirit of adventure and the quirks of human nature.

• Fiction

								


“I don’t want it, thank you,” said the girl.

“Better have it,” said Lee, holding it up for her.

“When I want my jacket I’ll put it on myself,” said the girl.

“All right, no offence,” said the other airily. “What an obstinate
little devil you are.”

“Have you got any drink down there?” inquired the girl, eyeing him
sternly.

“Just a little drop o’ whiskey, my dear, for the spasms,” said Lee
facetiously. “Will you have a drop?”

“I won’t have any drinking here,” said she sharply. “If you want to
drink, wait till you get ashore.”

“You won’t have any drinking!” said the other, opening his eyes, and
with a quiet chuckle he dived below and brought up a bottle and a
glass. “Here’s wishing a better temper to you, my dear,” he said
amiably, as he tossed off a glass. “Come, you’d better have a drop.
It’ll put a little colour in your cheeks.”

“Put it away now, there’s a good fellow,” said the captain timidly, as
she looked anxiously at the nearest sail, some two miles distant.

“It’s the only friend I’ve got,” said Lee, sprawling gracefully on the
hatches, and replenishing his glass. “Look here. Are you on for a
bargain?”

“What do you mean?” inquired the girl.

“Give me a kiss, little spitfire, and I won’t take another drop
to-night,” said the new mate tenderly. “Come, I won’t tell.”

“You may drink yourself to death before I’ll do that,” said the girl,
striving to speak calmly. “Don’t talk that nonsense to me again.”

She stooped over as she spoke and made a sudden grab at the bottle, but
the new mate was too quick for her, and, snatching it up jeeringly,
dared her to come for it.

“Come on, come and fight for it,” said he; “hit me if you like, I don’t
mind; your little fist won’t hurt.”

No answer being vouchsafed to this invitation he applied himself to his
only friend again, while the girl, now thoroughly frightened, steered
in silence.

“Better get the sidelights out,” said she at length.

“Plenty o’ time,” said Lee.

“Take the helm, then, while I do it,” said the girl, biting her lips.

The fellow rose and came towards her, and, as she made way for him,
threw his arm round her waist and tried to detain her. Her heart
beating quickly, she walked forward, and, not without a hesitating
glance at the drunken figure at the wheel, descended into the fo’c’sle
for the lamps.

The next moment, with a gasping little cry, she sank down on a locker
as the dark figure of a man rose and stood by her.

“Don’t be frightened,” it said quietly.

“Jack?” said the girl.

“That’s me,” said the figure. “You didn’t expect to see me, did you? I
thought perhaps you didn’t know what was good for you, so I stowed
myself away last night, and here I am.”

“Have you heard what that fellow has been saying to me?” demanded Miss
Cringle, with a spice of the old temper leavening her voice once more.

“Every word,” said the mate cheerfully.

“Why didn’t you come up and stand by me?” inquired the girl hotly.

The mate hung his head.

“Oh,” said the girl, and her tones were those of acute disappointment,
“you’re afraid.”

“I’m not,” said the mate scornfully.

“Why didn’t you come up, then, instead of skulking down here?” inquired
the girl.

The mate scratched the back of his neck and smiled, but weakly. “Well,
I—I thought”—he began, and stopped.

“You thought”—prompted Miss Cringle coldly.

“I thought a little fright would do you good,” said the mate, speaking
quickly, “and that it would make you appreciate me a little more when I
did come.”

“Ahoy! Maggie! Maggie!” came the voice of the graceless varlet who
was steering.

“I’ll Maggie him,” said the mate, grinding his teeth, “Why, what
the—why you’re crying.”

“I’m not,” sobbed Miss Cringle scornfully. “I’m in a temper, that’s
all.”

“I’ll knock his head off,” said the mate; “you stay down here.”

“Mag-gie!” came the voice again, “Mag—HULLO!”

“Were you calling me, my lad?” said the mate, with dangerous
politeness, as he stepped aft. “Ain’t you afraid of straining that
sweet voice o’ yours? Leave go o’ that tiller.”

The other let go, and the mate’s fist took him heavily in the face and
sent him sprawling on the deck. He rose with a scream of rage and
rushed at his opponent, but the mate’s temper, which had suffered badly
through his treatment of the last few days, was up, and he sent him
heavily down again.

“There’s a little dark dingy hole forward,” said the mate, after
waiting some time for him to rise again, “just the place for you to go
and think over your sins in. If I see you come out of it until we get
to London, I’ll hurt you. Now clear.”

The other cleared, and, carefully avoiding the girl, who was standing
close by, disappeared below.

“You’ve hurt him,” said the girl, coming up to the mate and laying her
hand on his arm. “What a horrid temper you’ve got.”

“It was him asking you to kiss him that upset me,” said the mate
apologetically.

“He put his arm round my waist,” said Miss Cringle, blushing.

“What!” said the mate, stuttering, “put his—put his arm—round—your
waist—like”—

His courage suddenly forsook him.

“Like what?” inquired the girl, with superb innocence.

“Like that,” said the mate manfully.

“That’ll do,” said Miss Cringle softly, “that’ll do. You’re as bad as
he is, only the worst of it is there is nobody here to prevent you.”
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