The Third String Page #2

"The Third String" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous short story that explores themes of friendship, rivalry, and the absurdities of competition. The narrative follows the antics of a group of friends who become embroiled in a lighthearted contest revolving around a stringed instrument, ultimately revealing the whimsical dynamics of their relationships. Jacobs' wit and keen observations on human nature shine through, making the story both entertaining and relatable. The tale combines elements of comedy with a touch of poignancy, showcasing Jacobs' mastery of storytelling.

• Humour
• Short story

								

faint. She started talking to ’im about his fights at once, and when at
last ’e plucked up courage to ask ’er to go for a walk with ’im on
Sunday arternoon she seemed quite delighted.

“It’ll be a nice change for me,” she ses, smiling. “I used to walk out
with a prize-fighter once before, and since I gave ’im up I began to
think I was never going to ’ave a young man agin. You can’t think ’ow
dull it’s been.”

“Must ha’ been,” ses Ginger.

“I s’pose you’ve got a taste for prize-fighters, miss,” ses Peter
Russet.

“No,” ses Miss Tucker; “I don’t think that it’s that exactly, but, you
see, I couldn’t ’ave anybody else. Not for their own sakes.”

“Why not?” ses Ginger, looking puzzled.

“Why not?” ses Miss Tucker. “Why, because o’ Bill. He’s such a ’orrid
jealous disposition. After I gave ’im up I walked out with a young
fellow named Smith; fine, big, strapping chap ’e was, too, and I never
saw such a change in any man as there was in ’im after Bill ’ad done
with ’im. I couldn’t believe it was ’im. I told Bill he ought to be
ashamed of ’imself.”

“Wot did ’e say?” asks Ginger.

“Don’t ask me wot ’e said,” ses Miss Tucker, tossing her ’ead. “Not
liking to be beat, I ’ad one more try with a young fellow named Charlie
Webb.”

“Wot ’appened to ’im?” ses Peter Russet, arter waiting a bit for ’er to
finish.

“I can’t bear to talk of it,” ses Miss Tucker, holding up Ginger’s
glass and giving the counter a wipe down. “He met Bill, and I saw ’im
six weeks afterward just as ’e was being sent away from the ’ospital to
a seaside home. Bill disappeared after that.”

“Has he gone far away?” ses Ginger, trying to speak in a off-’and way.

“Oh, he’s back now,” ses Miss Tucker. “You’ll see ’im fast enough, and,
wotever you do, don’t let ’im know you’re a prize-fighter.”

“Why not?” ses pore Ginger.

“Because o’ the surprise it’ll be to ’im,” ses Miss Tucker. “Let ’im
rush on to ’is doom. He’ll get a lesson ’e don’t expect, the bully.
Don’t be afraid of ’urting ’im. Think o’ pore Smith and Charlie Webb.”

“I am thinkin’ of ’em,” ses Ginger, slow-like. “Is—is Bill—very
quick—with his ’ands?”

“Rather,” ses Miss Tucker; “but o’ course he ain’t up to your mark;
he’s on’y known in these parts.”

She went off to serve a customer, and Ginger Dick tried to catch
Peter’s eye, but couldn’t, and when Miss Tucker came back he said ’e
must be going.

“Sunday afternoon at a quarter past three sharp, outside ’ere,” she
ses. “Never mind about putting on your best clothes, because Bill is
sure to be hanging about. I’ll take care o’ that.”

She reached over the bar and shook ’ands with ’im, and Ginger felt a
thrill go up ’is arm which lasted ’im all the way ’ome.

He didn’t know whether to turn up on Sunday or not, and if it ’adn’t
ha’ been for Sam and Peter Russet he’d ha’ most likely stayed at home.
Not that ’e was a coward, being always ready for a scrap and gin’rally
speaking doing well at it, but he made a few inquiries about Bill Lumm
and ’e saw that ’e had about as much chance with ’im as a kitten would
’ave with a bulldog.

Sam and Peter was delighted, and they talked about it as if it was a
pantermime, and old Sam said that when he was a young man he’d ha’
fought six Bill Lumms afore he’d ha’ given a gal up. He brushed
Ginger’s clothes for ’im with ’is own hands on Sunday afternoon, and,
when Ginger started, ’im and Peter follered some distance behind to see
fair play.

The on’y person outside the Jolly Pilots when Ginger got there was a
man; a strong-built chap with a thick neck, very large ’ands, and a
nose which ’ad seen its best days some time afore. He looked ’ard at
Ginger as ’e came up, and then stuck his ’ands in ’is trouser pockets
and spat on the pavement. Ginger walked a little way past and then back
agin, and just as he was thinking that ’e might venture to go off, as
Miss Tucker ’adn’t come, the door opened and out she came.

“I couldn’t find my ’at-pins,” she ses, taking Ginger’s arm and smiling
up into ’is face.

Before Ginger could say anything the man he ’ad noticed took his ’ands
out of ’is pockets and stepped up to ’im.

“Let go o’ that young lady’s arm,” he ses.

“Sha’n’t,” ses Ginger, holding it so tight that Miss Tucker nearly
screamed.

“Let go ’er arm and put your ’ands up,” ses the chap agin.

“Not ’ere,” ses Ginger, who ’ad laid awake the night afore thinking wot
to do if he met Bill Lumm. “If you wish to ’ave a spar with me, my lad,
you must ’ave it where we can’t be interrupted. When I start on a man I
like to make a good job of it.”

“Good job of it!” ses the other, starting. “Do you know who I am?”

“No, I don’t,” ses Ginger, “and, wot’s more, I don’t care.”

“My name,” ses the chap, speaking in a slow, careful voice, “is Bill
Lumm.”

“Wot a ’orrid name!” ses Ginger.

“Otherwise known as the Wapping Basher,” ses Bill, shoving ’is face
into Ginger’s and glaring at ’im.

“Ho!” ses Ginger, sniffing, “a amatoor.”

“Amatoor?” ses Bill, shouting.

“That’s wot we should call you over in Australia,” ses Ginger; “my
name is Dick Duster, likewise known as the Sydney Puncher. I’ve killed
three men in the ring and ’ave never ’ad a defeat.”

“Well, put ’em up,” ses Bill, doubling up ’is fists and shaping at ’im.

“Not in the street, I tell you,” ses Ginger, still clinging tight to
Miss Tucker’s arm. “I was fined five pounds the other day for punching
a man in the street, and the magistrate said it would be ’ard labour
for me next time. You find a nice, quiet spot for some arternoon, and
I’ll knock your ’ead off with pleasure.”

“I’d sooner ’ave it knocked off now,” ses Bill; “I don’t like waiting
for things.”

“Thursday arternoon,” ses Ginger, very firm; “there’s one or two
gentlemen want to see a bit o’ my work afore backing me, and we can
combine bisness with pleasure.”

He walked off with Miss Tucker, leaving Bill Lumm standing on the
pavement scratching his ’ead and staring arter ’im as though ’e didn’t
quite know wot to make of it. Bill stood there for pretty near five
minutes, and then arter asking Sam and Peter, who ’ad been standing by
listening, whether they wanted anything for themselves, walked off to
ask ’is pals wot they knew about the Sydney Puncher.

Ginger Dick was so quiet and satisfied about the fight that old Sam and
Peter couldn’t make ’im out at all. He wouldn’t even practise punching
at a bolster that Peter rigged up for ’im, and when ’e got a message
from Bill Lumm naming a quiet place on the Lea Marshes he agreed to it
as comfortable as possible.

“Well, I must say, Ginger, that I like your pluck,” ses Peter Russet.

“I always ’ave said that for Ginger; ’e’s got pluck,” ses Sam.

Ginger coughed and tried to smile at ’em in a superior sort o’ way. “I
thought you’d got more sense,” he ses, at last. “You don’t think I’m
going, do you?”

“Wot?” ses old Sam, in a shocked voice.

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