William Wymark Jacobs - Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection)

“What do you want?” she inquired, sharply.

Mr. Hatchard raised his hat. “Good-afternoon, ma’am,” he said, politely.

“What do you want?” repeated his wife.

“I called,” said Mr. Hatchard, clearing his throat—“I called about the bill in the window.”

Mrs. Hatchard clutched at the door-post.

“Well?” she gasped.

“I’d like to see the rooms,” said the other.

“But you ain’t a single young man,” said his wife, recovering.

“I’m as good as single,” said Mr. Hatchard. “I should say, better.”

“You ain’t young,” objected Mrs. Hatchard. “I’m three years younger than what you are,” said Mr. Hatchard, dispassionately.

His wife’s lips tightened and her hand closed on the door; Mr. Hatchard put his foot in.

“If you don’t want lodgers, why do you put a bill up?” he inquired.

“I don’t take the first that comes,” said his wife.

“I’ll pay a week in advance,” said Mr. Hatchard, putting his hand in his pocket. “Of course, if you’re afraid of having me here—afraid o’ giving way to tenderness, I mean–”

“Afraid?” choked Mrs. Hatchard. “Tenderness! I—I–”

“Just a matter o’ business,” continued her husband; “that’s my way of looking at it—that’s a man’s way. I s’pose women are different. They can’t–”

“Come in,” said Mrs. Hatchard, breathing hard Mr. Hatchard obeyed, and clapping a hand over his mouth ascended the stairs behind her. At the top she threw open the door of a tiny bedroom, and stood aside for him to enter. Mr. Hatchard sniffed critically.

“Smells rather stuffy,” he said, at last.

“You needn’t have it,” said his wife, abruptly. “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea.”

“Yes; and I expect they’d stay there if they saw this room,” said the other.

“Don’t think I want you to have it; because I don’t,” said Mrs. Hatchard, making a preliminary movement to showing him downstairs.

“They might suit me,” said Mr. Hatchard, musingly, as he peeped in at the sitting-room door. “I shouldn’t be at home much. I’m a man that’s fond of spending his evenings out.”

Mrs. Hatchard, checking a retort, eyed him grimly.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said, slowly; “but then I’ve seen a good many. How much are you asking?”

“Seven shillings a week,” replied his wife. “With breakfast, tea, and supper, a pound a week.”

Mr. Hatchard nearly whistled, but checked himself just in time.

“I’ll give it a trial,” he said, with an air of unbearable patronage.

Mrs. Hatchard hesitated.

“If you come here, you quite understand it’s on a business footing,” she said.

“O’ course,” said the other, with affected surprise. “What do you think I want it on?”

“You come here as a stranger, and I look after you as a stranger,” continued his wife.

“Certainly,” said the other. “I shall be made more comfortable that way, I’m sure. But, of course, if you’re afraid, as I said before, of giving way to tender–”

“Tender fiddlesticks!” interrupted his wife, flushing and eying him angrily.

“I’ll come in and bring my things at nine o’clock to-night,” said Mr. Hatchard. “I’d like the windows open and the rooms aired a bit. And what about the sheets?”

“What about them?” inquired his wife.

“Don’t put me in damp sheets, that’s all,” said Mr. Hatchard. “One place I was at–”

He broke off suddenly.

“Well!” said his wife, quickly.

“Was very particular about them,” said Mr. Hatchard, recovering. “Well, good-afternoon to you, ma’am.”

“I want three weeks in advance,” said his wife. “Three—” exclaimed the other. “Three weeks in advance? Why–”

“Those are my terms,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “Take ‘em or leave ‘em. P’r’aps it would be better if you left ‘em.”

Mr. Hatchard looked thoughtful, and then with obvious reluctance took his purse from one pocket and some silver from another, and made up the required sum.

“And what if I’m not comfortable here?” he inquired, as his wife hastily pocketed the money. “It’ll be your own fault,” was the reply.

Mr. Hatchard looked dubious, and, in a thoughtful fashion, walked downstairs and let himself out. He began to think that the joke was of a more complicated nature than he had expected, and it was not without forebodings that he came back at nine o’clock that night accompanied by a boy with his baggage.

His gloom disappeared the moment the door opened. The air inside was warm and comfortable, and pervaded by an appetizing smell of cooked meats. Upstairs a small bright fire and a neatly laid supper-table awaited his arrival.

He sank into an easy-chair and rubbed his hands. Then his gaze fell on a small bell on the table, and opening the door he rang for supper.

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Hatchard, entering the room. “Supper, please,” said the new lodger, with dignity.

Mrs. Hatchard looked bewildered. “Well, there it is,” she said, indicating the table. “You don’t want me to feed you, do you?”

The lodger eyed the small, dry piece of cheese, the bread and butter, and his face fell. “I—I thought I smelled something cooking,” he said at last.

“Oh, that was my supper,” said Mrs. Hatchard, with a smile.

“I—I’m very hungry,” said Mr. Hatchard, trying to keep his temper.

“It’s the cold weather, I expect,” said Mrs. Hatchard, thoughtfully; “it does affect some people that way, I know. Please ring if you want anything.”

She left the room, humming blithely, and Mr. Hatchard, after sitting for some time in silent consternation, got up and ate his frugal meal. The fact that the water-jug held three pints and was filled to the brim gave him no satisfaction.

He was still hungry when he arose next morning, and, with curiosity tempered by uneasiness, waited for his breakfast. Mrs. Hatchard came in at last, and after polite inquiries as to how he had slept proceeded to lay breakfast. A fresh loaf and a large teapot appeared, and the smell of frizzling bacon ascended from below. Then Mrs. Hatchard came in again, and, smiling benevolently, placed an egg before him and withdrew. Two minutes later he rang the bell.

“You can clear away,” he said, as Mrs. Hatchard entered the room.

“What, no breakfast?” she said, holding up her hands. “Well, I’ve heard of you single young men, but I never thought–”

“The tea’s cold and as black as ink,” growled the indignant lodger, “and the egg isn’t eatable.”

“I’m afraid you’re a bit of a fault-finder,” said Mrs. Hatchard, shaking her head at him. “I’m sure I try my best to please. I don’t mind what I do, but if you’re not satisfied you’d better go.”

“Look here, Emily—” began her husband.

“Don’t you ‘Emily’ me!” said Mrs. Hatchard, quickly. “The idea! A lodger, too! You know the arrangement. You’d better go, I think, if you can’t behave yourself.”

“I won’t go till my three weeks are up,” said Mr. Hatchard, doggedly, “so you may as well behave yourself.”

“I can’t pamper you for a pound a week,” said Mrs. Hatchard, walking to the door. “If you want pampering, you had better go.”

A week passed, and the additional expense caused by getting most of his meals out began to affect Mr. Hatchard’s health. His wife, on the contrary, was in excellent spirits, and, coming in one day, explained the absence of the easy-chair by stating that it was wanted for a new lodger.

“He’s taken my other two rooms,” she said, smiling—“the little back parlor and the front bedroom—I’m full up now.”