William Wymark Jacobs - Ship's Company, the Entire Collection

He trundled the tub upstairs the same night and, after his wife had gone downstairs next morning, opened the door and took in the can and pail that stood outside. He poured the contents into the tub, and, after eyeing it thoughtfully for some time, agitated the surface with his right foot. He dipped and dried that much enduring member some ten times, and after regarding the damp condition of the towels with great satisfaction, dressed himself and went downstairs.

“I’m all of a glow,” he said, seating himself at the table. “I believe I could eat a elephant. I feel as fresh as a daisy; don’t you, Bert?”

Mr. Jobson, junior, who had just come in from the shop, remarked, shortly, that he felt more like a blooming snowdrop.

“And somebody slopped a lot of water over the stairs carrying it up,” said Mrs. Jobson. “I don’t believe as everybody has cold baths of a morning. It don’t seem wholesome to me.”

Mr. Jobson took a book from his pocket, and opening it at a certain page, handed it over to her.

“If I’m going to do the thing at all I must do it properly,” he said, gravely. “I don’t suppose Bill Foley ever ‘ad a cold tub in his life; he don’t know no better. Gladys!”

“Halloa!” said that young lady, with a start.

“Are you—are you eating that kipper with your fingers?”

Gladys turned and eyed her mother appealingly.

“Page-page one hundred and something, I think it is,” said her father, with his mouth full. “‘Manners at the Dinner Table.’ It’s near the end of the book, I know.”

“If I never do no worse than that I shan’t come to no harm,” said his daughter.

Mr. Jobson shook his head at her, and after eating his breakfast with great care, wiped his mouth on his handkerchief and went into the shop.

“I suppose it’s all right,” said Mrs. Jobson, looking after him, “but he’s taking it very serious—very.”

“He washed his hands five times yesterday morning,” said Dorothy, who had just come in from the shop to her breakfast; “and kept customers waiting while he did it, too.”

“It’s the cold-tub business I can’t get over,” said her mother. “I’m sure it’s more trouble to empty them than what it is to fill them. There’s quite enough work in the ‘ouse as it is.”

“Too much,” said Bert, with unwonted consideration.

“I wish he’d leave me alone,” said Gladys. “My food don’t do me no good when he’s watching every mouthful I eat.”

Of murmurings such as these Mr. Jobson heard nothing, and in view of the great improvement in his dress and manners, a strong resolution was passed to avoid the faintest appearance of discontent. Even when, satisfied with his own appearance, he set to work to improve that of Mrs. Jobson, that admirable woman made no complaint. Hitherto the brightness of her attire and the size of her hats had been held to atone for her lack of figure and the roomy comfort of her boots, but Mr. Jobson, infected with new ideas, refused to listen to such sophistry. He went shopping with Dorothy; and the Sunday after, when Mrs. Jobson went for an airing with him, she walked in boots with heels two inches high and toes that ended in a point. A waist that had disappeared some years before was recaptured and placed in durance vile; and a hat which called for a new style of hair-dressing completed the effect.

“You look splendid, ma!” said Gladys, as she watched their departure. “Splendid!”

“I don’t feel splendid,” sighed Mrs. Jobson to her husband. “These ‘ere boots feel red-’ot.”

“Your usual size,” said Mr. Jobson, looking across the road.

“And the clothes seem just a teeny-weeny bit tight, p’r’aps,” continued his wife.

Mr. Jobson regarded her critically. “P’r’aps they might have been let out a quarter of an inch,” he: said, thoughtfully. “They’re the best fit you’ve ‘ad for a long time, mother. I only ‘ope the gals’ll ‘ave such good figgers.”

His wife smiled faintly, but, with little breath for conversation, walked on for some time in silence. A growing redness of face testified to her distress.

“I—I feel awful,” she said at last, pressing her hand to her side. “Awful.”

“You’ll soon get used to it,” said Mr. Jobson, gently. “Look at me! I felt like you do at first, and now I wouldn’t go back to old clothes—and comfort—for anything. You’ll get to love them boots.

“If I could only take ‘em off I should love ‘em better,” said his wife, panting; “and I can’t breathe properly—I can’t breathe.”

“You look ripping, mother,” said her husband, simply.

His wife essayed another smile, but failed. She set her lips together and plodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerily and taking no notice of the fact that she kept lurching against him. Two miles from home she stopped and eyed him fixedly.

“If I don’t get these boots off, Alf, I shall be a ‘elpless cripple for the rest of my days,” she murmured. “My ankle’s gone over three times.”

“But you can’t take ‘em off here,” said Mr. Jobson, hastily. “Think ‘ow it would look.”

“I must ‘ave a cab or something,” said his wife, hysterically. “If I don’t get ‘em off soon I shall scream.”

She leaned against the iron palings of a house for support, while Mr. Jobson, standing on the kerb, looked up and down the road for a cab. A four-wheeler appeared just in time to prevent the scandal—of Mrs. Jobson removing her boots in the street.

“Thank goodness,” she gasped, as she climbed in. “Never mind about untying ‘em, Alf; cut the laces and get ‘em off quick.”

They drove home with the boots standing side by side on the seat in front of them. Mr. Jobson got out first and knocked at the door, and as soon as it opened Mrs. Jobson pattered across the intervening space with the boots dangling from her hand. She had nearly reached the door when Mr. Foley, who had a diabolical habit of always being on hand when he was least wanted, appeared suddenly from the offside of the cab.

“Been paddlin’?” he inquired.

Mrs. Jobson, safe in her doorway, drew herself up and, holding the boots behind her, surveyed him with a stare of high-bred disdain.

“Been paddlin’?” he inquired

“I see you going down the road in ‘em,” said the unabashed Mr. Foley, “and I says to myself, I says, ‘Pride’ll bear a pinch, but she’s going too far. If she thinks that she can squeedge those little tootsywootsies of ‘ers into them boo—‘”

The door slammed violently and left him exchanging grins with Mr. Jobson.

“How’s the ‘at?” he inquired.

Mr. Jobson winked. “Bet you a level ‘arf-dollar I ain’t wearing it next Sunday,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

Mr. Foley edged away.

“Not good enough,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve had a good many bets with you first and last, Alf, but I can’t remember as I ever won one yet. So long.”

R. Joseph Gibbs finished his half-pint in the private bar of the Red Lion with the slowness of a man unable to see where the next was coming from, and, placing the mug on the counter, filled his pipe from a small paper of tobacco and shook his head slowly at his companions.

“First I’ve ‘ad since ten o’clock this morning,” he said, in a hard voice.

“Cheer up,” said Mr. George Brown.

“It can’t go on for ever,” said Bob Kidd, encouragingly.

“All I ask for—is work,” said Mr. Gibbs, impressively. “Not slavery, mind yer, but work.”

“It’s rather difficult to distinguish,” said Mr. Brown.

“‘Specially for some people,” added Mr. Kidd.

“Go on,” said Mr. Gibbs, gloomily. “Go on. Stand a man ‘arf a pint, and then go and hurt ‘is feelings. Twice yesterday I wondered to myself what it would feel like to make a hole in the water.”