The Third String Page #3

"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

								


“You’re never going to back out of it, Ginger?” ses Peter.

“I am,” ses Ginger. “If you think I’m going to be smashed up by a
prize-fighter just to show my pluck you’re mistook.”

“You must go, Ginger,” ses old Sam, very severe. “It’s too late to back
out of it now. Think of the gal. Think of ’er feelings.”

“For the sake of your good name,” ses Peter.

“I should never speak to you agin, Ginger,” ses old Sam, pursing up ’is
lips.

“Nor me neither,” ses Peter Russet.

“To think of our Ginger being called a coward,” ses old Sam, with a
shudder, “and afore a gal, too.”

“The loveliest gal in Wapping,” ses Peter.

“Look ’ere,” ses Ginger, “you can shut up, both of you. I’m not going,
and that’s the long and short of it. I don’t mind an ordinary man, but
I draw the line at prize-fighters.”

Old Sam sat down on the edge of ’is bed and looked the picture of
despair. “You must go, Ginger,” he ses, “for my sake.”

“Your sake?” ses Ginger, staring.

“I’ve got money on it,” ses Sam, “so’s Peter. If you don’t turn up all
bets’ll be off.”

“Good job for you, too,” ses Ginger. “If I did turn up you’d lose it,
to a dead certainty.”

Old Sam coughed and looked at Peter, and Peter ’e coughed and looked at
Sam.

“You don’t understand, Ginger,” said Sam, in a soft voice; “it ain’t
often a chap gets the chance o’ making a bit o’ money these ’ard
times.”

“So we’ve put all our money on Bill Lumm,” ses Peter. “It’s the safest
and easiest way o’ making money I ever ’eard of. You see, we know
you’re not a prize-fighter and the others don’t.”

Pore Ginger looked at ’em, and then ’e called ’em all the names he
could lay ’is tongue to, but, with the idea o’ the money they was going
make, they didn’t mind a bit. They let him ’ave ’is say, and that night
they brought ’ome two other sailormen wot ’ad bet agin Ginger to share
their room, and, though they ’ad bet agin ’im, they was so fond of ’im
that it was evident that they wasn’t going to leave ’im till the fight
was over.

Ginger gave up then, and at twelve o’clock next day they started off to
find the place. Mr. Webson, the landlord of the Jolly Pilots, a short,
fat man o’ fifty, wot ’ad spoke to Ginger once or twice, went with ’em,
and all the way to the station he kept saying wot a jolly spot it was
for that sort o’ thing. Perfickly private; nice soft green grass to be
knocked down on, and larks up in the air singing away as if they’d
never leave off.

They took the train to Homerton, and, being a slack time o’ the day,
the porters was surprised to see wot a lot o’ people was travelling by
it. So was Ginger. There was the landlords of ’arf the public-’ouses in
Wapping, all smoking big cigars; two dock policemen in plain clothes,
wot ’ad got the arternoon off—one with a raging toothache and the other
with a baby wot wasn’t expected to last the day out. They was as full
o’ fun as kittens, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots pointed out to
Ginger wot reasonable ’uman beings policemen was at ’art. Besides them
there was quite a lot o’ sailormen, even skippers and mates, nearly all
of ’em smoking big cigars, too, and looking at Ginger out of the corner
of one eye and at the Wapping Basher out of the corner of the other.

“Hit ’ard and hit straight,” ses the landlord to Ginger in a low voice,
as they got out of the train and walked up the road. “’Ow are you
feeling?”

“I’ve got a cold coming on,” ses pore Ginger, looking at the Basher,
who was on in front, “and a splitting ’eadache, and a sharp pain all
down my left leg. I don’t think——”

“Well, it’s a good job it’s no worse,” ses the landlord; “all you’ve
got to do is to hit ’ard. If you win it’s a ’undered pounds in my
pocket, and I’ll stand you a fiver of it. D’ye understand?”

They turned down some little streets, several of ’em going diff’rent
ways, and arter crossing the River Lea got on to the marshes, and, as
the landlord said, the place might ha’ been made for it.

A little chap from Mile End was the referee, and Bill Lumm, ’aving
peeled, stood looking on while Ginger took ’is things off and slowly
and carefully folded ’em up. Then they stepped toward each other, Bill
taking longer steps than Ginger, and shook ’ands; immediately arter
which Bill knocked Ginger head over ’eels.

“Time!” was called, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was
nursing Ginger on ’is knee, said that it was nothing at all, and that
bleeding at the nose was a sign of ’ealth. But as it happened Ginger
was that mad ’e didn’t want any encouragement, he on’y wanted to kill
Bill Lumm.

He got two or three taps in the next round which made his ’ead ring,
and then he got ’ome on the mark and follered it up by a left-’anded
punch on Bill’s jaw that surprised ’em both—Bill because he didn’t
think Ginger could hit so ’ard, and Ginger because ’e didn’t think that
prize-fighters ’ad any feelings.

They clinched and fell that round, and the landlord patted Ginger on
the back and said that if he ever ’ad a son he ’oped he’d grow up like
’im.

Ginger was surprised at the way ’e was getting on, and so was old Sam
and Peter Russet, and when Ginger knocked Bill down in the sixth round
Sam went as pale as death. Ginger was getting marked all over, but he
stuck, to ’is man, and the two dock policemen, wot ’ad put their money
on Bill Lumm, began to talk of their dooty, and say as ’ow the fight
ought to be stopped.

At the tenth round Bill couldn’t see out of ’is eyes, and kept wasting
’is strength on the empty air, and once on the referee. Ginger watched
’is opportunity, and at last, with a terrific smash on the point o’
Bill’s jaw, knocked ’im down and then looked round for the landlord’s
knee.

Bill made a game try to get up when “Time!” was called, but couldn’t;
and the referee, who was ’olding a ’andkerchief to ’is nose, gave the
fight to Ginger.

It was the proudest moment o’ Ginger Dick’s life. He sat there like a
king, smiling ’orribly, and Sam’s voice as he paid ’is losings sounded
to ’im like music, in spite o’ the words the old man see fit to use. It
was so ’ard to get Peter Russet’s money that it a’most looked as though
there was going to be another prize-fight, but ’e paid up at last and
went off, arter fust telling Ginger part of wot he thought of ’im.

There was a lot o’ quarrelling, but the bets was all settled at last,
and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was in ’igh feather with the
money he’d won, gave Ginger the five pounds he’d promised and took him
’ome in a cab.

“You done well, my lad,” he ses. “No, don’t smile. It looks as though
your ’ead’s coming off.”

“I ’ope you’ll tell Miss Tucker ’ow I fought,” ses Ginger.

“I will, my lad,” ses the landlord; “but you’d better not see ’er for
some time, for both your sakes.”

“I was thinking of ’aving a day or two in bed,” ses Ginger.

“Best thing you can do,” ses the landlord; “and mind, don’t you ever

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