The Lady of the Barge, W. W. Jacobs [feel good books to read txt] 📗

The cook came down just then and we ’ad to leave off talking, and I could see that Bill was so pleased at finding that the money ’adn’t been thrown overboard that ’e was losing sight o’ the difficulty o’ getting at it. In a day or two, ’owever, ’e see it as plain as me and Jimmy did, and, as time went by, he got desprit, and frightened us both by ’anging about aft every chance ’e got.

The companionway faced the wheel, and there was about as much chance o’ getting down there without being seen as there would be o’ taking a man’s false teeth out of ’is mouth without ’is knowing it. Jimmy went down one day while Bill was at the wheel to look for ’is knife, wot ’e thought ’e’d left down there, and ’ed ’ardly got down afore Bill saw ’im come up ag’in, ’olding on to the top of a mop which the steward was using.

We couldn’t figure it out nohow, and to think o’ the second mate, a little man with a large fam’ly, who never ’ad a penny in ’is pocket, sleeping every night on a six ’undered pound mattress, sent us pretty near crazy. We used to talk it over whenever we got a chance, and Bill and Jimmy could scarcely be civil to each other. The boy said it was Bill’s fault, and ’e said it was the boy’s.

“The on’y thing I can see,” says the boy, one day, “is for Bill to ’ave a touch of sunstroke as ’e’s leaving the wheel one day, tumble ’ead-first down the companionway, and injure ’isself so severely that ’e can’t be moved. Then they’ll put ’im in a cabin down aft, and p’raps I’ll ’ave to go and nurse ’im. Anyway, he’ll be down there.”

“It’s a very good idea, Bill,” I says.

“Ho,” says Bill, looking at me as if ’e would eat me. “Why don’t you do it, then?”

“I’d sooner you did it, Bill,” says the boy; “still, I don’t mind which it is. Why not toss up for it?”

“Get away,” says Bill. “Get away afore I do something you won’t like, you bloodthirsty little murderer.”

“I’ve got a plan myself,” he says, in a low voice, after the boy ’ad ’opped off, “and if I can’t think of nothing better I’ll try it, and mind, not a word to the boy.”

He didn’t think o’ nothing better, and one night just as we was making the Channel ’e tried ’is plan. He was in the second mate’s watch, and by-and-by ’e leans over the wheel and says to ’im in a low voice, “This is my last v’y’ge, sir.”

“Oh,” says the second mate, who was a man as didn’t mind talking to a man before the mast. “How’s that?”

“I’ve got a berth ashore, sir,” says Bill, “and I wanted to ask a favour, sir.”

The second mate growled and walked off a pace or two.

“I’ve never been so ’appy as I’ve been on this ship,” says Bill; “none of us ’ave. We was saying so the other night, and everybody agreed as it was owing to you, sir, and your kindness to all of us.”

The second mate coughed, but Bill could see as ’e was a bit pleased.

“The feeling came over me,” says Bill, “that when I leave the sea for good I’d like to ’ave something o’ yours to remember you by, sir. And it seemed to me that if I ’ad your⁠—mattress I should think of you ev’ry night o’ my life.”

“My wot?” says the second mate, staring at ’im. “Your mattress, sir,” says Bill. “If I might make so bold as to offer a pound for it, sir. I want something wot’s been used by you, and I’ve got a fancy for that as a keepsake.” The second mate shook ’is ’ead. “I’m sorry, Bill,” ’e says, gently, “but I couldn’t let it go at that.”

“I’d sooner pay thirty shillin’s than not ’ave it, sir,” says Bill, ’umbly.

“I gave a lot of money for that mattress,” says the mate, ag’in. “I forgit ’ow much, but a lot. You don’t know ’ow valuable that mattress is.”

“I know it’s a good one, sir, else you wouldn’t ’ave it,” says Bill. “Would a couple o’ pounds buy it, sir?”

The second mate hum’d and ha’d, but Bill was afeard to go any ’igher. So far as ’e could make out from Jimmy, the mattress was worth about eighteen pence⁠—to anybody who wasn’t pertiklar.

“I’ve slept on that mattress for years,” says the second mate, looking at ’im from the corner of ’is eye. “I don’t believe I could sleep on another. Still, to oblige you, Bill, you shall ’ave it at that if you don’t want it till we go ashore?”

“Thankee, sir,” says Bill, ’ardly able to keep from dancing, “and I’ll ’and over the two pounds when we’re paid off. I shall keep it all my life, sir, in memory of you and your kindness.”

“And mind you keep quiet about it,” says the second mate, who didn’t want the skipper to know wot ’e’d been doing, “because I don’t want to be bothered by other men wanting to buy things as keepsakes.”

Bill promised ’im like a shot, and when ’e told me about it ’e was nearly crying with joy.

“And mind,” ’e says, “I’ve bought that mattress, bought it as it stands, and it’s got nothing to do with Jimmy. We’ll each pay a pound and halve wot’s in it.”

He persuaded me at last, but that boy watched us like a cat watching a couple of canaries, and I could see we should ’ave all we could do to deceive ’im. He seemed more suspicious o’ Bill than me, and ’e kep’ worrying us nearly every day to know what we were going to do.

We beat about in the channel with a strong ’ead-wind for four days, and then