



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 of
the "King's Head" an inch apart, applied an eye to the aperture, in the
hope of discovering a moneyed friend.  His gaze fell on the only man in
the bar a greybeard of sixty whose weather-beaten face and rough clothing
spoke of the sea.  With a faint sigh he widened the opening and passed
through.

"Mornin', Ben," he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness.

"Have a drop with me," said the other, heartily.  "Got any money about
you?"

Mr. Wotton shook his head and his face fell, clearing somewhat as the
other handed him his mug.  "Drink it all up, George," he said.

His friend complied.  A more tactful man might have taken longer over the
job, but Mr. Benjamin Davis, who appeared to be labouring under some
strong excitement, took no notice.

"I've had a shock, George," he said, regarding the other steadily.  "I've
heard 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 years
ago.  I went off to sea one fine morning, and that was the last I ever
see 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--three
long years--and I had 'ad enough of it.  Awful temper she had.  The last
words I ever heard 'er say was: 'Take that!'"

Mr. Wotton took up the mug and, after satisfying himself as to the
absence of contents, put it down again and yawned.

"I shouldn't worry about it if I was you," he remarked.  "She's hardly
likely 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 what
I 'adn't seen for ten years, and he told me he run acrost 'er only a
month 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 work
myself to death at sea, running here and there at the orders of a pack
o'lazy scuts aft, she went into service and stayed in one place for
fifteen years.  Then 'er missis died and left her all 'er money.  For
twenty years, while I've been working myself to skin and bone, she's been
living in comfort and idleness."

"'Ard lines," said Mr. Wotton, shaking his head.  "It don't bear thinking
of."

"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't
she advertise?  I should 'ave come at once if she'd said anything about
money."

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 make
up 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'm
thinking of is: Can I get back my share what I ought to have 'ad for the
last twenty years?"

"Get 'er to take you back first," counselled his friend.  "Thirty-five
years is along time, and p'r'aps she has lost 'er love for you.  Was you
good-looking in those days?"

"Yes," snapped Mr. Davis; "I ain't altered much--.  'Sides, what about
her?"

"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 keep
you.  If you take my advice, you won't dream of letting her know you run
away from her.  Say you was cast away at sea, and when you came back
years 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 no
nonsense, mind."

"If you like I'll come with you," said Mr. Wotton.  "I ain't got nothing
to do.  I could tell 'er I was cast away with you if you liked.  Anything
to help a pal."

Mr. Davis took two inches of soiled clay pipe from his pocket and puffed
thoughtfully.

"You can come," he said at last.  "If you'd only got a copper or two we
could ride; it's down Clapham way."

Mr. Wotton smiled feebly, and after going carefully through his pockets
shook his head and followed his friend outside.

"I wonder whether she'll be pleased?"  he remarked, as they walked slowly
along.  "She might be--women are funny creatures--so faithful.  I knew
one whose husband used to knock 'er about dreadful, and after he died she
was so true to his memory she wouldn't marry again."

Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing over
London 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 twenty
years, shook his head grimly over the friendship that attached itself to
easy-chairs and glasses of ale, and said that there was plenty of it
about.  More friendship than glasses of ale and easy-chairs, perhaps.

At Clapham, they inquired the way of a small boy, and, after following
the road indicated, retraced their steps, cheered by a faint but
bloodthirsty hope of meeting him again.

A friendly baker put them on the right track at last, both gentlemen
eyeing the road with a mixture of concern and delight.  It was a road of
trim 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 a
moment 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 and
apron.  A sharp "Not to-day!"  sounded in his ears and the door closed
again.  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 after
surveying them through the glass opened the door a little way and
parleyed.

"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, "you
tell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what have brought 'er news of
her 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 by
his friend, and a head that had been leaning over the banisters was
suddenly withdrawn.  For a moment he stood irresolute in the tiny
passage, and then, with a husband's boldness, he entered the front room
and threw himself into an easy-chair.  Mr. Wotton, after a scared glance
around the well-furnished room, seated himself on the extreme edge of the
most uncomfortable chair he could find and coughed nervously.

[Illustration: "You tell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what have
brought 'er news of her husband"]

"Better not be too sudden with her," he whispered.  "You don't want her
to faint, or anything of that sort.  Don't let 'er know who you are at
first; let her find it out for herself."

Mr. Davis, who was also suffering from the stiff grandeur of his
surroundings, 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 what
had 'appened to her."

"You're in luck, that's wot you are," said his friend, enviously.  "I've
only seen furniture like thiss in shop windows before.  H'sh!  Here she
comes."

He started, and both men tried to look at their ease as a stiff rustling
sounded from the