



Produced by David Widger




SHIP'S COMPANY

By W.W. Jacobs



[Illustration: "Can I 'ave it took off while I eat my bloater, mother?"]


FINE FEATHERS


Mr. Jobson awoke with a Sundayish feeling, probably due to the fact that
it was Bank Holiday.  He had been aware, in a dim fashion, of the rising
of Mrs. Jobson some time before, and in a semi-conscious condition had
taken over a large slice of unoccupied territory.  He stretched himself
and yawned, and then, by an effort of will, threw off the clothes and
springing out of bed reached for his trousers.

He was an orderly man, and had hung them every night for over twenty
years on the brass knob on his side of the bed.  He had hung them there
the night before, and now they had absconded with a pair of red braces
just entering their teens.  Instead, on a chair at the foot of the bed
was a collection of garments that made him shudder.  With trembling
fingers he turned over a black tailcoat, a white waistcoat, and a pair of
light check trousers.  A white shirt, a collar, and tie kept them
company, and, greatest outrage of all, a tall silk hat stood on its own
band-box beside the chair.  Mr. Jobson, fingering his bristly chin,
stood: regarding the collection with a wan smile.

"So that's their little game, is it?"  he muttered.  "Want to make a toff
of me.  Where's my clothes got to, I wonder?"

A hasty search satisfied him that they were not in the room, and, pausing
only to drape himself in the counterpane, he made his way into the next.
He passed on to the others, and then, with a growing sense of alarm,
stole softly downstairs and making his way to the shop continued the
search.  With the shutters up the place was almost in darkness, and in
spite of his utmost care apples and potatoes rolled on to the floor and
travelled across it in a succession of bumps.  Then a sudden turn brought
the scales clattering down.

"Good gracious, Alf!"  said a voice.  "Whatever are you a-doing of?"

Mr. Jobson turned and eyed his wife, who was standing at the door.

"I'm looking for my clothes, mother," he replied, briefly.

"Clothes!"  said Mrs. Jobson, with an obvious attempt at unconcerned
speech.  "Clothes!  Why, they're on the chair."

"I mean clothes fit for a Christian to wear--fit for a greengrocer to
wear," said Mr. Jobson, raising his voice.

"It was a little surprise for you, dear," said his wife.  "Me and Bert
and Gladys and Dorothy 'ave all been saving up for it for ever so long."

"It's very kind of you all," said Mr. Jobson, feebly--"very, but--"

"They've all been doing without things themselves to do it," interjected
his wife.  "As for Gladys, I'm sure nobody knows what she's given up."

"Well, if nobody knows, it don't matter," said Mr. Jobson.  "As I was
saying, it's very kind of you all, but I can't wear 'em.  Where's my
others?"

Mrs. Jobson hesitated.

"Where's my others?"  repeated her husband.

"They're being took care of," replied his wife, with spirit.  "Aunt
Emma's minding 'em for you--and you know what she is.  H'sh!  Alf!  Alf!
I'm surprised at you!"

Mr. Jobson coughed.  "It's the collar, mother," he said at last.  "I
ain't wore a collar for over twenty years; not since we was walking out
together.  And then I didn't like it."

"More shame for you," said his wife.  "I'm sure there's no other
respectable tradesman goes about with a handkerchief knotted round his
neck."

"P'r'aps their skins ain't as tender as what mine is," urged Mr. Jobson;
"and besides, fancy me in a top-'at!  Why, I shall be the laughing-stock
of the place."

"Nonsense!"  said his wife.  "It's only the lower classes what would
laugh, and nobody minds what they think."

Mr. Jobson sighed.  "Well, I shall 'ave to go back to bed again, then,"
he said, ruefully.  "So long, mother.  Hope you have a pleasant time at
the Palace."

He took a reef in the counterpane and with a fair amount of dignity,
considering his appearance, stalked upstairs again and stood gloomily
considering affairs in his bedroom.  Ever since Gladys and Dorothy had
been big enough to be objects of interest to the young men of the
neighbourhood the clothes nuisance had been rampant.  He peeped through
the window-blind at the bright sunshine outside, and then looked back at
the tumbled bed.  A murmur of voices downstairs apprised him that the
conspirators were awaiting the result.

He dressed at last and stood like a lamb--a redfaced, bull-necked lamb--
while Mrs. Jobson fastened his collar for him.

"Bert wanted to get a taller one," she remarked, "but I said this would
do to begin with."

"Wanted it to come over my mouth, I s'pose," said the unfortunate Mr.
Jobson.  "Well, 'ave it your own way.  Don't mind about me.  What with
the trousers and the collar, I couldn't pick up a sovereign if I saw one
in front of me."

"If you see one I'll pick it up for you," said his wife, taking up the
hat and moving towards the door.  "Come along!"

Mr. Jobson, with his arms standing out stiffly from his sides and his
head painfully erect, followed her downstairs, and a sudden hush as he
entered the kitchen testified to the effect produced by his appearance.
It was followed by a hum of admiration that sent the blood flying to his
head.

"Why he couldn't have done it before I don't know," said the dutiful
Gladys.  "Why, there ain't a man in the street looks a quarter as smart."

"Fits him like a glove!"  said Dorothy, walking round him.

"Just the right length," said Bert, scrutinizing the coat.

"And he stands as straight as a soldier," said Gladys, clasping her hands
gleefully.

"Collar," said Mr. Jobson, briefly.  "Can I 'ave it took off while I eat
my bloater, mother?"

"Don't be silly, Alf," said his wife.  "Gladys, pour your father out a
nice, strong, Pot cup o' tea, and don't forget that the train starts at
ha' past ten."

"It'll start all right when it sees me," observed Mr. Jobson, squinting
down at his trousers.

Mother and children, delighted with the success of their scheme, laughed
applause, and Mr. Jobson somewhat gratified at the success of his retort,
sat down and attacked his breakfast.  A short clay pipe, smoked as a
digestive, was impounded by the watchful Mrs. Jobson the moment he had
finished it.

"He'd smoke it along the street if I didn't," she declared.

"And why not?"  demanded her husband--always do."

"Not in a top-'at," said Mrs. Jobson, shaking her head at him.

"Or a tail-coat," said Dorothy.

"One would spoil the other," said Gladys.

"I wish something would spoil the hat," said Mr. Jobson, wistfully.
"It's no good; I must smoke, mother."

Mrs. Jobson smiled, and, going to the cupboard, produced, with a smile of
triumph, an envelope containing seven dangerous-looking cigars.  Mr.
Jobson whistled, and taking one up examined it carefully.

"What do they call 'em, mother?"  he inquired.  "The 'Cut and Try Again
Smokes'?"

Mrs. Jobson smiled vaguely.  "Me and the girls are going upstairs to get
ready now," she said.  "Keep your eye on him, Bert!"

Father and son grinned at each other, and, to pass the time, took a cigar
apiece.  They had just finished them when a swish and rustle of skirts
sounded from the stairs, and Mrs. Jobson and the girls, beautifully
attired, entered the room and stood buttoning their gloves.  A strong
smell of scent fought with the aroma of the cigars.

"You get round me like, so as to hide me a bit," entreated Mr. Jobson, as
they quitted the house.  "I don't mind so much when we get out of our
street."

Mrs. Jobson laughed his fears to scorn.

"Well, cross the road, then," said Mr. Jobson, urgently.  "There's Bill
Foley standing at his door."

His wife sniffed.  "Let him stand," she said, haughtily.

Mr. Foley failed to avail himself of the permission.  He regarded Mr.
Jobson with dilated eyeballs, and, as the party approached, sank slowly
into a sitting position on his doorstep, and as the door opened behind
him rolled slowly over onto his back and presented an enormous pair of
hobnailed soles to the gaze of an interested world.

"I told you 'ow it would be," said the blushing Mr. Jobson.  "You know
what Bill's like as well as I do."

His wife tossed her head and they all quickened their pace.  The voice of
the ingenious Mr. Foley calling piteously for his mother pursued them to
the end of the road.

"I knew what it 'ud be," said Mr. Jobson, wiping his hot face.  "Bill
will never let me 'ear the end of this."

"Nonsense!"  said his wife, bridling.  "Do you mean to tell me you've got
to ask Bill Foley 'ow you're to dress?  He'll soon get tired of it; and,
besides, it's just as well to let him see who you are.  There's not many
tradesmen as would lower themselves by mixing with a plasterer."

Mr. Jobson scratched his ear, but wisely refrained from speech.  Once
clear of his own district mental agitation subsided, but bodily
discomfort increased at every step.  The hat and the collar bothered him
most, but every article of attire contributed its share.  His uneasiness
was so manifest that Mrs. Jobson, after a little womanly sympathy,
suggested that, besides Sundays, it might be as well to wear them
occasionally of an evening in order to get used to them.

"What, 'ave I got to wear them every Sunday?"  demanded the unfortunate,
blankly; "why, I thought they was only for Bank Holidays."

Mrs. Jobson told