Two of a Trade Page #3

"Two of a Trade" is a humorous short story by W. W. Jacobs that revolves around the misadventures of two sailors who find themselves in a series of comedic situations due to their conflicting personalities and approaches to life. The narrative captures the themes of friendship, rivalry, and the absurdity of human behavior, often highlighting the quirks and foibles of its characters. Jacobs's witty writing style and keen observational humor make the story an entertaining exploration of camaraderie and the challenges of collaboration.

• Fiction

								

pictures of ’im too.”

He crossed to the side, and, handing the paper to the mate, listened
smilingly to the little ejaculations of surprise and delight of that
deceitful man as he gazed upon the likenesses. “Wonderful,” he said
emphatically. “Wonderful. I never saw such a good likeness in my life,
George. That’ll be copied in every newspaper in London, and here’s the
name in full too—‘George Cooper, schooner John Henry, now lying off
Limehouse.’”

He handed the paper back to the cook and turned away grinning as
George, unable to control himself any longer, got up with an oath and
went below to nurse his wrath in silence. A little later the mate of
the brig, after a very confidential chat with his own crew, lit his
pipe and, with a jaunty air, went ashore.

For the next hour or two George alternated between the fo’c’sle and the
deck, from whence he cast harassed glances at the busy wharves ashore.
The skipper, giving it as his own suggestion, acquainted him with the
arrangements made in case of the worst, and George, though he seemed
somewhat dubious about them, went below and put his bed in order.

“It’s very unlikely she’ll see that particular newspaper though,” said
the skipper encouragingly.

“People are sure to see what you don’t want ’em too,” growled George.
“Somebody what knows us is sure to see it, an’ show ’er.”

“There’s a lady stepping into a waterman’s skiff now,” said the
skipper, glancing at the stairs. “That wouldn’t be her, I s’pose?”

He turned to the seaman as he spoke but the words had hardly left his
lips before George was going below and undressing for his part.

“If anybody asks for me,” he said, turning to the cook, who was
regarding his feverish movements in much astonishment, “I’m dead.”

“You’re wot?” inquired the other.

“Dead,” said George, “Dead. Died at ten o’clock this morning. D’ye
understand, fathead?”

“I can’t say as ’ow I do,” said the cook, somewhat acrimoniously.

“Pass the word round that I’m dead,” repeated George hurriedly. “Lay me
out, cookie. I’ll do so much for you one day.”

Instead of complying the horrified cook rushed up on deck to tell the
skipper that George’s brain had gone; but, finding him in the midst of
a hurried explanation to the men, stopped with greedy ears to listen.
The skiff was making straight for the schooner, propelled by an elderly
waterman in his shirt-sleeves, the sole passenger being a lady of ample
proportions, who was watching the life of the river through a black
veil.

In another minute the skiff bumped alongside, and the waterman standing
in the boat passed the painter aboard. The skipper gazed at the fare
and, shivering inwardly, hoped that George was a good actor.

“I want to see Mr. Cooper,” said the lady grimly, as she clambered
aboard, assisted by the waterman.

“I’m very sorry, but you can’t see him, mum,” said the skipper
politely.

“Ho! carn’t I,” said the lady, raising her voice a little. “You go an’
tell him that his lawful wedded wife, what he deserted, is aboard.”

“It ’ud be no good, mum,” said the skipper, who felt the full dramatic
force of the situation, “I’m afraid he wouldn’t listen to you.”

“Ho! I think I can persuade ’im a bit,” said the lady, drawing in her
lips. “Where is ’e?”

“Up aloft,” said the skipper, removing his hat.

“Don’t you give me none of your lies,” said the lady, as she scanned
both masts closely.

“He’s dead,” said the skipper solemnly.

His visitor threw up her arms and staggered back. The cook was nearest,
and, throwing his arms round her waist, he caught her as she swayed.
The mate, who was of a sympathetic nature, rushed below for whisky, as
she sank back in the hatchway, taking the reluctant cook with her.

“Poor thing!” said the skipper.

“Don’t ’old ’er so tight, cook,” said one of the men. “There’s no
necessity to squeeze ’er.”

“Pat ’er ’ands,” said another.

“Pat ’em yourself,” said the cook brusquely, as he looked up and saw
the delight of the crew of the Endeavour, who were leaning over their
vessel’s side regarding the proceedings with much interest.

“Don’t leave go of me,” said the newly-made widow, as she swallowed the
whisky, and rose to her feet.

“Stand by her, cook,” said the skipper authoritatively.

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the cook.

They formed a procession below, the skipper and mate leading; the cook
with his fair burden, choking her sobs with a handkerchief, and the
crew following.

“What did he die of?” she asked in a whisper broken with sobs.

“Chill from the water,” whispered the skipper in response.

“I can’t see ’im,” she whispered. “It’s so dark here. Has anybody got a
match? Oh! here’s some.”

Before anybody could interfere she took a box from a locker, and,
striking one, bent over the motionless George, and gazed at his
tightly-closed eyes and open mouth in silence.

“You’ll set the bed alight,” said the mate in a low voice, as the end
of the match dropped off.

“It won’t hurt ’im,” whispered the widow tearfully.

The mate, who had distinctly seen the corpse shift a bit, thought
differently.

“Nothing ’ll ’urt ’im now,” whispered the widow, sniffing as she
struck another match. “Oh! if he could only sit up and speak to me.”

For a moment the mate, who knew George’s temper, thought it highly
probable that he would, as the top of the second match fell between his
shirt and his neck.

“Don’t look any more,” said the skipper anxiously; “you can’t do him
any good.”

His visitor handed him the matches, and, for a short time, sobbed in
silence.

“We’ve done all we could for him,” said the skipper at length. “It ’ud
be best for you to go home and lay down a bit.”

“You’re all very good, I’m sure,” whispered the widow, turning away.
“I’ll send for him this evening.”

They all started, especially the corpse.

“Eh,” said the skipper.

“He was a bad ’usband to me,” she continued, still in the same sobbing
whisper, “but I’ll ’ave ’im put away decent.”

“You’d better let us bury him,” said the skipper. “We can do it cheaper
than you can, perhaps?”

“No. I’ll send for him this evening,” said the lady. “Are they ’is
clothes?”

“The last he ever wore,” said the skipper pathetically, pointing to the
heap of clothing. “There’s his chest, poor chap, just as he left it.”

The bereaved widow bent down, and, raising the lid, shook her head
tearfully as she regarded the contents. Then she gathered up the
clothes under her left arm, and, still sobbing, took his watch, his
knife, and some small change from his chest while the crew in dumb show
inquired of the deceased, who was regarding her over the edge of the
bunk, what was to be done.

“I suppose there was some money due to him?” she inquired, turning to
the skipper.

“Matter of a few shillings,” he stammered.

“I’ll take them,” she said, holding out her hand.

The skipper put his hand in his pocket, and, in his turn, looked
inquiringly at the late lamented for guidance; but George had closed
his eyes again to the world, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he
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