The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fine Feathers, byW.W. Jacobs

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Title: Fine FeathersShip's Company, Part 1.

Author: W.W. Jacobs

Release Date: January 1, 2004 [EBook #10561]

Language: English

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BOOK 1

ILLUSTRATIONSFROM DRAWINGS BY WILL OWEN

"Can I 'ave it took off while I eatmy bloater, mother?""Been paddlin'?" he inquired

FINE FEATHERS

Mr. Jobson awoke with a Sundayishfeeling, probably due to the fact that it wasBank Holiday. He had been aware, in adim fashion, of the rising of Mrs. Jobsonsome time before, and in a semi-consciouscondition had taken over a large slice ofunoccupied territory. He stretched himselfand yawned, and then, by an effort of will,threw off the clothes and springing out ofbed reached for his trousers.

He was an orderly man, and had hung

them every night for over twenty years onthe brass knob on his side of the bed. Hehad hung them there the night before, andnow they had absconded with a pair of redbraces just entering their teens. Instead, ona chair at the foot of the bed was acollection of garments that made himshudder. With trembling fingers he turnedover a black tailcoat, a white waistcoat,and a pair of light check trousers. A whiteshirt, a collar, and tie kept them company,and, greatest outrage of all, a tall silk hatstood on its own band-box beside thechair. Mr. Jobson, fingering his bristlychin, stood: regarding the collection witha wan smile.

"So that's their little game, is it?" hemuttered. "Want to make a toff of me.

Where's my clothes got to, I wonder?"

A hasty search satisfied him that they werenot in the room, and, pausing only to drapehimself in the counterpane, he made hisway into the next. He passed on to theothers, and then, with a growing sense ofalarm, stole softly downstairs and makinghis way to the shop continued the search.With the shutters up the place was almostin darkness, and in spite of his utmost careapples and potatoes rolled on to the floorand travelled across it in a succession ofbumps. Then a sudden turn brought thescales clattering down.

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

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

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

"Clothes!" said Mrs. Jobson, with anobvious 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 Gladysand Dorothy 'ave all been saving up for itfor ever so long."

"It's very kind of you all," said Mr.

Jobson, feebly—"very, but—"

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

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

Mrs. Jobson hesitated.

"Where's my others?" repeated herhusband.

"They're being took care of," replied hiswife, 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 acollar for over twenty years; not since wewas walking out together. And then Ididn't like it."

"More shame for you," said his wife. "I'msure there's no other respectabletradesman goes about with a handkerchiefknotted round his neck."

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

"Nonsense!" said his wife. "It's only the

lower classes what would laugh, andnobody minds what they think."

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

He took a reef in the counterpane and witha fair amount of dignity, considering hisappearance, stalked upstairs again andstood gloomily considering affairs in hisbedroom. Ever since Gladys and Dorothyhad been big enough to be objects ofinterest to the young men of theneighbourhood the clothes nuisance hadbeen rampant. He peeped through thewindow-blind at the bright sunshineoutside, and then looked back at the

tumbled bed. A murmur of voicesdownstairs apprised him that theconspirators were awaiting the result.

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

"Bert wanted to get a taller one," sheremarked, "but I said this would do tobegin with."

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

"If you see one I'll pick it up for you," saidhis wife, taking up the hat and movingtowards the door. "Come along!"

Mr. Jobson, with his arms standing outstiffly from his sides and his headpainfully erect, followed her downstairs,and a sudden hush as he entered thekitchen testified to the effect produced byhis appearance. It was followed by a humof admiration that sent the blood flying tohis head.

"Why he couldn't have done it before Idon't know," said the dutiful Gladys."Why, there ain't a man in the street looksa 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 thatthe train starts at ha' past ten."

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

Mother and children, delighted with thesuccess of their scheme, laughed applause,and Mr. Jobson somewhat gratified at the

success of his retort, sat down andattacked his breakfast. A short clay pipe,smoked as a digestive, was impounded bythe watchful Mrs. Jobson the moment hehad 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; Imust smoke, mother."

Mrs. Jobson smiled, and, going to thecupboard, produced, with a smile oftriumph, an envelope containing sevendangerous-looking cigars. Mr. Jobsonwhistled, and taking one up examined itcarefully.

"What do they call 'em, mother?" heinquired. "The 'Cut and Try AgainSmokes'?"

Mrs. Jobson smiled vaguely. "Me and thegirls 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. Theyhad just finished them when a swish andrustle of skirts sounded from the stairs,and Mrs. Jobson and the girls, beautifullyattired, entered the room and stoodbuttoning their gloves. A strong smell ofscent fought with the aroma of the cigars.

"You get round me like, so as to hide me abit," entreated Mr. Jobson, as they quittedthe house. "I don't mind so much when weget out of our street."

Mrs. Jobson laughed his fears to scorn.

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

His wife sniffed. "Let him stand," shesaid, haughtily.

Mr. Foley failed to avail himself of thepermission. He regarded Mr. Jobson withdilated eyeballs, and, as the partyapproached, sank slowly into a sittingposition on his doorstep, and as the dooropened behind him rolled slowly overonto his back and presented an enormouspair of hobnailed soles to the gaze of aninterested world.

"I told you 'ow it would be," said theblushing Mr. Jobson. "You know whatBill's like as well as I do."

His wife tossed her head and they allquickened their pace. The voice of the

ingenious Mr. Foley calling piteously forhis mother pursued them to the end of theroad.

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

"Nonsense!" said his wife, bridling. "Doyou mean to tell me you've got to ask BillFoley 'ow you're to dress? He'll soon gettired of it; and, besides, it's just as well tolet him see who you are. There's not manytradesmen as would lower themselves bymixing with a plasterer."

Mr. Jobson scratched his ear, but wiselyrefrained from speech. Once clear of hisown 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 itsshare. His uneasiness was so manifest thatMrs. Jobson, after a little womanlysympathy, suggested that, besidesSundays, it might be as well to wear themoccasionally of an evening in order to getused to them.

"What, 'ave I got to wear them everySunday?" demanded the unfortunate,blankly; "why, I thought they was only forBank Holidays."

Mrs. Jobson told him not to be silly.

"Straight, I did," said her husband,earnestly. "You've no idea 'ow I'm

suffering; I've got a headache, I'm arfchoked, and there's a feeling about mywaist as though I'm being cuddled bysomebody I don't like."

Mrs. Jobson said it would soon wear offand, seated in the train that bore them tothe Crystal Palace, put the hat on the rack.Her husband's attempt to leave it in thetrain was easily frustrated and hisexplanation that he had forgotten all aboutit received in silence. It was evident thathe would require watching, and under theclear gaze of his children he seldom had abutton undone for more than three minutesat a time.

The day was hot and he perspiredprofusely. His collar lost its starch— a

thing to be grateful for—and for thegreater part of the day he wore his tieunder the left ear. By the time they hadarrived home again he was in a state ofopen mutiny.

"Never again," he said, loudly, as he torethe collar off and hung his coat on a chair.

There was a chorus of lamentation; but heremained firm. Dorothy began to sniffominously, and Gladys spoke longingly ofthe fathers possessed by other girls. It wasnot until Mrs. Jobson sat eyeing hersupper, instead of eating it, that he beganto temporize. He gave way bit by bit,garment by garment. When he gave way atlast on the great hat question, his wife tookup her knife and fork.

His workaday clothes appeared in hisbedroom next morning, but the others stillremained in the clutches of Aunt Emma.The suit provided was of considerableantiquity, and at closing time, Mr. Jobson,after some hesitation, donned his newclothes and with a sheepish glance at hiswife went out; Mrs. Jobson noddeddelight at her daughters.

"He's coming round," she whispered. "Heliked that ticket-collector calling him 'sir'yesterday. I noticed it. He's put oneverything but the topper. Don't saynothing about it; take it as a matter ofcourse."

It became evident as the days wore on thatshe was right... Bit by bit she obtained the

other clothes—with some difficulty—fromAunt Emma, but her husband still wore hisbest on Sundays and sometimes of anevening; and twice, on going into thebedroom suddenly, she had caught himsurveying himself at different angles in theglass.

And, moreover, he had spoken with someheat—for such a good-tempered man—onthe shortcomings of Dorothy's laundrywork.

"We'd better put your collars out," said hiswife.

"And the shirts," said Mr. Jobson."Nothing looks worse than a bad got-upcuff."

"You're getting quite dressy," said hiswife, with a laugh.

Mr. Jobson eyed her seriously.

"No, mother, no," he replied. "All I'vedone is to find out that you're right, as youalways 'ave been. A man in my persitionhas got no right to dress as if he kept astall on the kerb. It ain't fair to the gals, orto young Bert. I don't want 'em to beashamed of their father."

"They wouldn't be that," said Mrs. Jobson.

"I'm trying to improve," said her husband."O' course, it's no use dressing up andbehaving wrong, and yesterday I bought abook what tells you all about behaviour."

"Well done!" said the delighted Mrs.Jobson.

Mr. Jobson was glad to find that heropinion on his purchase was shared by therest of the family. Encouraged by theirapproval, he told them of the benefit hewas deriving from it; and at tea-time thatday, after a little hesitation, ventured toaffirm that it was a book that might dothem all good.

"Hear, hear!" said Gladys.

"For one thing," said Mr. Jobson, slowly,"I didn't know before that it was wrong toblow your tea; and as for drinking it out ofa saucer, the book says it's a thing that isonly done by the lower orders."

"If you're in a hurry?" demanded Mr. BertJobson, pausing with his saucer half wayto his mouth.

"If you're in anything," responded hisfather. "A gentleman would rather gowithout his tea than drink it out of asaucer. That's the sort o' thing Bill Foleywould do."

Mr. Bert Jobson drained his saucerthoughtfully.

"Picking your teeth with your finger iswrong, too," said Mr. Jobson, taking abreath. "Food should be removed in a—a—un-undemonstrative fashion with the tipof the tongue."

"I wasn't," said Gladys.

"A knife," pursued her father—"a knifeshould never in any circumstances beallowed near the mouth."

"You've made mother cut herself," saidGladys, sharply; "that's what you'vedone."

"I thought it was my fork," said Mrs.Jobson. "I was so busy listening I wasn'tthinking what I was doing. Silly of me."

"We shall all do better in time," said Mr.Jobson. "But what I want to know is, whatabout the gravy? You can't eat it with afork, and it don't say nothing about aspoon. Oh, and what about our cold tubs,

mother?"

"Cold tubs?" repeated his wife, staring athim. "What cold tubs?"

"The cold tubs me and Bert ought to 'ave,"said Mr. Jobson. "It says in the book thatan Englishman would just as soon think ofgoing without his breakfus' as his cold tub;and you know how fond I am of mybreakfus'."

"And what about me and the gals?" saidthe amazed Mrs. Jobson.

"Don't you worry about me, ma," saidGladys, hastily.

"The book don't say nothing about gals; itsays Englishmen," said Mr. Jobson.

"But we ain't got a bathroom," said hisson.

"It don't signify," said Mr. Jobson. "Awashtub'll do. Me and Bert'll 'ave awashtub each brought up overnight; andit'll be exercise for the gals bringing thewater up of a morning to us."

"Well, I don't know, I'm sure," said thebewildered Mrs. Jobson. "Anyway, youand Bert'll 'ave to carry the tubs up anddown. Messy, I call it.

"It's got to be done, mother," said Mr.Jobson cheerfully. "It's only the lowerorders what don't 'ave their cold tubreg'lar. The book says so."

He trundled the tub upstairs the same nightand, after his wife had gone downstairsnext morning, opened the door and took inthe can and pail that stood outside. Hepoured the contents into the tub, and, aftereyeing it thoughtfully for some time,agitated the surface with his right foot. Hedipped and dried that much enduringmember some ten times, and afterregarding the damp condition of thetowels with great satisfaction, dressedhimself and went downstairs.

"I'm all of a glow," he said, seatinghimself at the table. "I believe I could eata elephant. I feel as fresh as a daisy; don'tyou, Bert?"

Mr. Jobson, junior, who had just come in

from the shop, remarked, shortly, that hefelt more like a blooming snowdrop.

"And somebody slopped a lot of waterover the stairs carrying it up," said Mrs.Jobson. "I don't believe as everybody hascold baths of a morning. It don't seemwholesome to me."

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

"If I'm going to do the thing at all I must doit properly," he said, gravely. "I don'tsuppose Bill Foley ever 'ad a cold tub inhis life; he don't know no better. Gladys!"

"Halloa!" said that young lady, with a

start.

"Are you—are you eating that kipper withyour fingers?"

Gladys turned and eyed her motherappealingly.

"Page-page one hundred and something, Ithink it is," said her father, with his mouthfull. "'Manners at the Dinner Table.' It'snear the end of the book, I know."

"If I never do no worse than that I shan'tcome to no harm," said his daughter.

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

"I suppose it's all right," said Mrs. Jobson,looking after him, "but he's taking it veryserious—very."

"He washed his hands five timesyesterday morning," said Dorothy, whohad just come in from the shop to herbreakfast; "and kept customers waitingwhile he did it, too."

"It's the cold-tub business I can't get over,"said her mother. "I'm sure it's more troubleto empty them than what it is to fill them.There's quite enough work in the 'ouse asit is."

"Too much," said Bert, with unwontedconsideration.

"I wish he'd leave me alone," said Gladys."My food don't do me no good when he'swatching every mouthful I eat."

Of murmurings such as these Mr. Jobsonheard nothing, and in view of the greatimprovement in his dress and manners, astrong resolution was passed to avoid thefaintest appearance of discontent. Evenwhen, satisfied with his own appearance,he set to work to improve that of Mrs.Jobson, that admirable woman made nocomplaint. Hitherto the brightness of herattire and the size of her hats had beenheld to atone for her lack of figure and theroomy comfort of her boots, but Mr.Jobson, infected with new ideas, refusedto listen to such sophistry. He wentshopping with Dorothy; and the Sunday

after, when Mrs. Jobson went for an airingwith him, she walked in boots with heelstwo inches high and toes that ended in apoint. A waist that had disappeared someyears before was recaptured and placed indurance vile; and a hat which called for anew style of hair-dressing completed theeffect.

"You look splendid, ma!" said Gladys, asshe watched their departure. "Splendid!"

"I don't feel splendid," sighed Mrs. Jobsonto 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-weenybit tight, p'r'aps," continued his wife.

Mr. Jobson regarded her critically."P'r'aps they might have been let out aquarter of an inch," he: said, thoughtfully."They're the best fit you've 'ad for a longtime, mother. I only 'ope the gals'll 'avesuch good figgers."

His wife smiled faintly, but, with littlebreath for conversation, walked on forsome time in silence. A growing rednessof face testified to her distress.

"I—I feel awful," she said at last, pressingher hand to her side. "Awful."

"You'll soon get used to it," said Mr.

Jobson, gently. "Look at me! I felt like youdo at first, and now I wouldn't go back toold 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 Ican't breathe properly—I can't breathe."

"You look ripping, mother," said herhusband, simply.

His wife essayed another smile, butfailed. She set her lips together andplodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerilyand taking no notice of the fact that shekept lurching against him. Two miles fromhome she stopped and eyed him fixedly.

"If I don't get these boots off, Alf, I shallbe a 'elpless cripple for the rest of mydays," she murmured. "My ankle's goneover three times."

"But you can't take 'em off here," said Mr.Jobson, hastily. "Think 'ow it wouldlook."

"I must 'ave a cab or something," said hiswife, hysterically. "If I don't get 'em offsoon I shall scream."

She leaned against the iron palings of ahouse for support, while Mr. Jobson,standing on the kerb, looked up and downthe road for a cab. A four-wheelerappeared just in time to prevent thescandal—of Mrs. Jobson removing her

boots in the street.

"Thank goodness," she gasped, as sheclimbed in. "Never mind about untying'em, Alf; cut the laces and get 'em offquick."

They drove home with the boots standingside by side on the seat in front of them.Mr. Jobson got out first and knocked at thedoor, and as soon as it opened Mrs.Jobson pattered across the interveningspace with the boots dangling from herhand. She had nearly reached the doorwhen Mr. Foley, who had a diabolicalhabit of always being on hand when hewas least wanted, appeared suddenly fromthe offside of the cab.

"Been paddlin'?" he inquired.

Mrs. Jobson, safe in her doorway, drewherself up and, holding the boots behindher, 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 saysto myself, I says, 'Pride'll bear a pinch, butshe's going too far. If she thinks that shecan squeedge those little tootsywootsiesof 'ers into them boo—'"

The door slammed violently and left himexchanging 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," hesaid, in a hoarse whisper.

Mr. Foley edged away.

"Not good enough," he said, shaking hishead. "I've had a good many bets with youfirst and last, Alf, but I can't remember asI ever won one yet. So long."

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