Produced by David Widger
SHIP'S COMPANY
By W.W. Jacobs
FOR BETTER OR WORSE
Mr. George Wotton, gently pushing the swing doors of the public bar ofthe "King's Head" an inch apart, applied an eye to the aperture, in thehope of discovering a moneyed friend. His gaze fell on the only man inthe bar a greybeard of sixty whose weather-beaten face and rough clothingspoke of the sea. With a faint sigh he widened the opening and passedthrough.
"Mornin', Ben," he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness.
"Have a drop with me," said the other, heartily. "Got any money aboutyou?"
Mr. Wotton shook his head and his face fell, clearing somewhat as theother handed him his mug. "Drink it all up, George," he said.
His friend complied. A more tactful man might have taken longer over thejob, but Mr. Benjamin Davis, who appeared to be labouring under somestrong excitement, took no notice.
"I've had a shock, George," he said, regarding the other steadily. "I'veheard news of my old woman."
"Didn't know you 'ad one," said Mr. Wotton calmly. "Wot's she done?"
"She left me," said Mr. Davis, solemnly--"she left me thirty-five yearsago. I went off to sea one fine morning, and that was the last I eversee of er.
"Why, did she bolt?" inquired Mr. Wotton, with mild interest.
"No," said his friend, "but I did. We'd been married three years--threelong years--and I had 'ad enough of it. Awful temper she had. The lastwords I ever heard 'er say was: 'Take that!'"
Mr. Wotton took up the mug and, after satisfying himself as to theabsence of contents, put it down again and yawned.
"I shouldn't worry about it if I was you," he remarked. "She's hardlylikely to find you now. And if she does she won't get much."
Mr. Davis gave vent to a contemptuous laugh. "Get much!" he repeated."It's her what's got it. I met a old shipmate of mine this morning whatI 'adn't seen for ten years, and he told me he run acrost 'er only amonth ago. After she left me--"
"But you said you left her!" exclaimed his listening friend.
"Same thing," said Mr. Davis, impatiently. "After she left me to workmyself to death at sea, running here and there at the orders of a packo'lazy scuts aft, she went into service and stayed in one place forfifteen years. Then 'er missis died and left her all 'er money. Fortwenty years, while I've been working myself to skin and bone, she's beenliving in comfort and idleness."
"'Ard lines," said Mr. Wotton, shaking his head. "It don't bear thinkingof."
"Why didn't she advertise for me?" said Mr. Davis, raising his voice."That's what I want to know. Advertisements is cheap enough; why didn'tshe advertise? I should 'ave come at once if she'd said anything aboutmoney."
Mr. Wotton shook his head again. "P'r'aps she didn't want you," he said,slowly.
"What's that got to do with it?" demanded the other. "It was 'er dooty.She'd got money, and I ought to have 'ad my 'arf of it. Nothing can makeup for that wasted twenty years--nothing."
"P'r'aps she'll take you back," said Mr. Wotton.
"Take me back?" repeated Mr. Davis. "O' course she'll take me back.She'll have to. There's a law in the land, ain't there? What I'mthinking of is: Can I get back my share what I ought to have 'ad for thelast twenty years?"
"Get 'er to take you back first," counselled his friend. "Thirty-fiveyears is along time, and p'r'aps she has lost 'er love for you. Was yougood-looking in those days?"
"Yes," snapped Mr. Davis; "I ain't altered much--. 'Sides, what abouther?"
"That ain't the question," said the other. "She's got a home and money.It don't matter about looks; and, wot's more, she ain't bound to keepyou. If you take my advice, you won't dream of letting her know you runaway from her. Say you was cast away at sea, and when you came backyears afterwards you couldn't find her."
Mr. Davis pondered for some time in sulky silence.
"P'r'aps it would be as well," he said at last; "but I sha'n't stand nononsense, mind."
"If you like I'll come with you," said Mr. Wotton. "I ain't got nothingto do. I could tell 'er I was cast away with you if you liked. Anythingto help a pal."
Mr. Davis took two inches of soiled clay pipe from his pocket and puffedthoughtfully.
"You can come," he said at last. "If you'd only got a copper or two wecould ride; it's down Clapham way."
Mr. Wotton smiled feebly, and after going carefully through his pocketsshook his head and followed his friend outside.
"I wonder whether she'll be pleased?" he remarked, as they walked slowlyalong. "She might be--women are funny creatures--so faithful. I knewone whose husband used to knock 'er about dreadful, and after he died shewas so true to his memory she wouldn't marry again."
Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing overLondon Bridge, asked a policeman the distance to Clapham.
"Never mind," said Mr. Wotton, as his friend uttered an exclamation."You'll have money in your pocket soon."
Mr. Davis's face brightened. "And a watch and chain too," he said.
"And smoke your cigar of a Sunday," said Mr. Wotton, "and have a easy-chair and a glass for a friend."
Mr. Davis almost smiled, and then, suddenly remembering his wasted twentyyears, shook his head grimly over the friendship that attached itself toeasy-chairs and glasses of ale, and said that there was plenty of itabout. More friendship than glasses of ale and easy-chairs, perhaps.
At Clapham, they inquired the way of a small boy, and, after followingthe road indicated, retraced their steps, cheered by a faint butbloodthirsty hope of meeting him again.
A friendly baker put them on the right track at last, both gentlemeneyeing the road with a mixture of concern and delight. It was a road oftrim semi-detached villas, each with a well-kept front garden and neatly-curtained windows. At the gate of a house with the word "Blairgowrie"inscribed in huge gilt letters on the fanlight Mr. Davis paused for amoment uneasily, and then, walking up the path, followed by Mr. Wotton,knocked at the door.
He retired a step in disorder before the apparition of a maid in cap andapron. A sharp "Not to-day!" sounded in his ears and the door closedagain. He faced his friend gasping.
"I should give her the sack first thing," said Mr. Wotton.
Mr. Davis knocked again, and again. The maid reappeared, and aftersurveying them through the glass opened the door a little way andparleyed.
"I want to see your missis," said Mr. Davis, fiercely.
"What for?" demanded the girl.
"You tell 'er," said Mr. Davis, inserting his foot just in time, "youtell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what have brought 'er news ofher husband, and look sharp about it."
"They was cast away with 'im," said Mr. Wotton.
"On a desert island," said Mr. Davis. He pushed his way in, followed byhis friend, and a head that had been leaning over the banisters wassuddenly withdrawn. For a moment he stood irresolute in the tinypassage, and then, with a husband's boldness, he entered the front roomand threw himself into an easy-chair. Mr. Wotton, after a scared glancearound the well-furnished room, seated himself on the extreme edge of themost uncomfortable chair he could find and coughed nervously.
"You tell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what havebrought 'er news of her husband"]
"Better not be too sudden with her," he whispered. "You don't want herto faint, or anything of that sort. Don't let 'er know who you are atfirst; let her find it out for herself."
Mr. Davis, who was also suffering from the stiff grandeur of hissurroundings, nodded.
"P'r'aps you'd better start, in case she reckernizes my voice," he said,slowly. "Pitch it in strong about me and 'ow I was always wondering whathad 'appened to he
r."
"You're in luck, that's wot you are," said his friend, enviously. "I'veonly seen furniture like thiss in shop windows before. H'sh! Here shecomes."
He started, and both