Short Cruises. William Wymark Jacobs

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СКАЧАТЬ said the mate. “Nobody would. Whoever ‘eard of a cook living aft? Why, they’d laugh at the idea.”

      He laughed himself, but in a strangely mirthless fashion, and, afraid to trust himself, went up on deck and brooded savagely apart. Nor did he come down to breakfast until the skipper and cook had finished.

      Mr. Jewell bore his new honors badly, and the inability to express their dissatisfaction by means of violence had a bad effect on the tempers of the crew. Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than hold his own, and, although the men doubted his ability at first, he was able to prove to them by actual experiment that he could cook worse than they supposed.

      The brig reached her destination—Creekhaven—on the fifth day, and Mr. Jewell found himself an honored guest at the skipper’s cottage. It was a comfortable place, but, as the cook pointed out, too large for one. He also referred, incidentally, to his sister’s love of a country life, and, finding himself on a subject of which the other never tired, gave full reins to a somewhat picturesque imagination.

      They were back at London within the fortnight, and the skipper learned to his dismay that Miss Jewell was absent on a visit. In these circumstances he would have clung to the cook, but that gentleman, pleading engagements, managed to elude him for two nights out of the three.

      On the third day Miss Jewell returned to London, and, making her way to the wharf, was just in time to wave farewells as the brig parted from the wharf.

      From the fact that the cook was not visible at the moment the skipper took the salutation to himself. It cheered him for the time, but the next day he was so despondent that the cook, by this time thoroughly in his confidence, offered to write when they got to Creekhaven and fix up an evening.

      “And there’s really no need for you to come, Bert,” said the skipper, cheering up.

      Mr. Jewell shook his head. “She wouldn’t go without me,” he said, gravely. “You’ve no idea ‘ow particular she is. Always was from a child.”

      “Well, we might lose you,” said the skipper, reflecting. “How would that be?”

      “We might try it,” said the cook, without enthusiasm.

      To his dismay the skipper, before they reached London again, had invented at least a score of ways by which he might enjoy Miss Jewell’s company without the presence of a third person, some of them so ingenious that the cook, despite his utmost efforts, could see no way of opposing them.

      The skipper put his ideas into practice as soon as they reached London. Between Wapping and Charing Cross he lost the cook three times. Miss Jewell found him twice, and the third time she was so difficult that the skipper had to join in the treasure-hunt himself. The cook listened unmoved to a highly-colored picture of his carelessness from the lips of Miss Jewell, and bestowed a sympathetic glance upon the skipper as she paused for breath.

      “It’s as bad as taking a child out,” said the latter, with well-affected indignation.

      “Worse,” said the girl, tightening her lips.

      With a perseverance worthy of a better cause the skipper nudged the cook’s arm and tried again. This time he was successful beyond his wildest dreams, and, after ten minutes’ frantic search, found that he had lost them both. He wandered up and down for hours, and it was past eleven when he returned to the ship and found the cook waiting for him.

      “We thought something ‘ad happened to you,” said the cook. “Kate has been in a fine way about it. Five minutes after you lost me she found me, and we’ve been hunting ‘igh and low ever since.”

      Miss Jewell expressed her relief the next evening, and, stealing a glance at the face of the skipper, experienced a twinge of something which she took to be remorse. Ignoring the cook’s hints as to theatres, she elected to go for a long ‘bus ride, and, sitting in front with the skipper, left Mr. Jewell to keep a chaperon’s eye on them from three seats behind.

      Conversation was for some time disjointed; then the brightness and crowded state of the streets led the skipper to sound his companion as to her avowed taste for a country life.

      “I should love it,” said Miss Jewell, with a sigh. “But there’s no chance of it; I’ve got my living to earn.”

      “You might—might marry somebody living in the country,” said the skipper, in trembling tones.

      Miss Jewell shuddered. “Marry!” she said, scornfully. “Most people do,” said the other.

      “Sensible people don’t,” said the girl. “You haven’t,” she added, with a smile.

      “I’m very thankful I haven’t,” retorted the skipper, with great meaning.

      “There you are!” said the girl, triumphantly.

      “I never saw anybody I liked,” said the skipper, “be—before.”

      “If ever I did marry,” said Miss Jewell, with remarkable composure, “if ever I was foolish enough to do such a thing, I think I would marry a man a few years younger than myself.”

      “Younger?” said the dismayed skipper.

      Miss Jewell nodded. “They make the best husbands,” she said, gravely.

      The skipper began to argue the point, and Mr. Jewell, at that moment taking a seat behind, joined in with some heat. A more ardent supporter could not have been found, although his repetition of the phrase “May and December” revealed a want of tact of which the skipper had not thought him capable. What had promised to be a red-letter day in his existence was spoiled, and he went to bed that night with the full conviction that he had better abandon a project so hopeless.

      With a fine morning his courage revived, but as voyage succeeded voyage he became more and more perplexed. The devotion of the cook was patent to all men, but Miss Jewell was as changeable as a weather-glass. The skipper would leave her one night convinced that he had better forget her as soon as possible, and the next her manner would be so kind, and her glances so soft, that only the presence of the ever-watchful cook prevented him from proposing on the spot. The end came one evening in October. The skipper had hurried back from the City, laden with stores, Miss Jewell having, after many refusals, consented to grace the tea-table that afternoon. The table, set by the boy, groaned beneath the weight of unusual luxuries, but the girl had not arrived. The cook was also missing, and the only occupant of the cabin was the mate, who, sitting at one corner, was eating with great relish.

      “Ain’t you going to get your tea?” he inquired.

      “No hurry,” said the skipper, somewhat incensed at his haste. “It wouldn’t have hurt you to have waited a bit.”

      “Waited?” said the other. “What for?”

      “For my visitors,” was the reply.

      The mate bit a piece off a crust and stirred his tea. “No use waiting for them,” he said, with a grin. “They ain’t coming.”

      “What do you mean?” demanded the skipper.

      “I mean,” said the mate, continuing to stir his tea with great enjoyment—“I mean that all that kind’artedness of yours was clean chucked away on that cook. He’s got a berth ashore and he’s gone for good. He left you ‘is love; he left it with Bill Hemp.”

      “Berth ashore?” СКАЧАТЬ