THE RESURRECTION OF MR WIGGETT

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1510, 7 February 1901, Page 7

THE RESURRECTION OF MR WIGGETT

(By W. W. Jacobs.) Sol. Ketchmaid, landlord of the. Snip, sat in bis snug bar, rising occasionally from his seat by the taps to mm. to the wants of the customers who shared this pleasant retreat with him. Forty years at sea before the mast had made Mr Ketchmaid an authority on affairs maritime ; five yers in command of the Ship Inn. with the nearest other licensed house five miles off, had made him an autocrat. From his cushioned indsor-chair he listened! pompously to the conversation. Sometimes he joined in it and took sides, and on these occasions it was a foregone* ton elusion that the side he espoused vrauld win. No matter how reasonable, the opponent’s argument or how gross hie personalities, Mr Ketchmaid, in his capacity of host,had one unfailing rejoinder —tpe “an was drunk, \vhen Mr Ketchmaid had pronounced that opinion the argument was at an end. A nervousness about his license—conspicuous at other times by its absence—would suddenly possess and opening the little wicket which gave to the bar, he would order the offender in scathing terms to withdraw. 1 wj.ee recently had he found occasion to warn Mr Ned Clark, the village shoemaker/ the strength of whose head had been a boast in the villiage for many years. On the third occasion the indignant shoemaker was interrupted in the middle of an impassioned harangue oil free speech and bundled in the road bv the ostler. After this nobody was safe. To-night Mr Ketchmaid!, meeting His eye as he entred th bar, nodded curtly The shoemaker had stayed away three days as a protest, and the landlord was naturally indignant ae such cotttumady. ‘ Go ° d evening, Mr Ketchmaid,” said the shoemaker, screwing up his little black eyes; “just give me a small bottle o lemonade, if you please/’

Mr Clark’s cronies laughed, and Mr Ketchmaid, after glancing at him to make sure that he was in earnest, served him in silence. “There’s one thing about lemonade,” said the shoemaker, as he sipped it gingerly ; “nobody could say you was drunk, not if you drank bucketsful of it/’ There was an awkward silence, broken at last by Mr Clark smacking his lips. “Any news since I’ve been away, chaps ?” he inquired; “or ’ave you just been sitting round as usual listening to the extra-ordinary adventures what happtned to Mr Ketchmaid whilst a follering of the sea?’’ “Truth is stranger than fiction, Ned,” said Mr Peter Smith, the tailor, reprovingly. £ The shoemaker assented. “But I never thought so till I heard some o’ the things Mr Ketchmaid "as been through,” he remarked. “WelJ, you know now,” said the landlord, shortly. “And the truthfullest of your yarns are the most wooderful of the lot, to my mind,” said Mr Clark. “What do you mean,by truthfullest?” demanded the landlord, gripping the arms of his chair.

“Why, the strangest,” grinned the shoemaike?.

“Ah, he’s been through a lot, Mr Ketchmaid has,”, said the tailor. v “The truthfullest one to my mind,” said the shoemaker, regarding the landlord with spiteful interest, “is that one where Henry Wiggett, the boatswain's mate, ’ad his leg bit off saving Mr Ketchmaid from the shark, and ’is shipmate Sam Jones, the nigger cook, was wounded saving ’im from the South Sea Highlanders.” . “I.never get tired o’ hearm that yarn, said the affable Mr Smith. “I do,” said Mr Clark.

Mr. Ketchmaid looked up from his pipe and eyed him darkly; the shoemaker smiled serenely. “Another small beetle o’ lemonade, landlord,” he said, slowly. “Go and get your lemonade somewhere else,” said the bursting Mr Ketchmaid.

“I prefer to ’ave it here,” rejoined the shoemaker, “and 1 you’ve got to serve me, Ketchmaid. A licensed publican is com_ pellecl whether he likes to or not, else he loses ’is license.”

“Not when they’re the worse for licker he ain’t,” said the landlord. “Certainly not,” said the shoemaker ; “that’s why I’m sticking to lemonade, Ketchmaid.” The indignant Mr Ketchmaid removing the wire from the cork, discharged the missle at the ceiling. The shoemaker took the glass from him and looked round with offensive slyness.

“Here’s the ’ealtli of Henry Wiggett ■what lost ’is leg to save Mr Ketchmaid’s life,” lie said, unctuously. “Also the ’ealth of Sam Jones, who let hisself be speared through the chest for the sam© noble purpose. Likewise the health of Captain Peters, who nursed Mr Ketchmaid like ’is- own son when he got knocked up doing the work of five men ■as was drowned ; likewise the health o’ Dick Lee, who helped Mr Ketchmaid capture a Chinese junk full of pirates and killed! the whole seventeen of ’em by ’Ow ciia you say you killed ’em, Ketchmaid '?”

The landlord, who was busy with the taps, affected not to hear. “Killed the whole seventeen of ’em by first telling ’em yarns till they fell .asleep and then choking ’em with Henry ‘Wiggett’s wooden leg,” resumed the shoemaker.

“Xee—hee,” said a hapless listener, explosively. “Kee —hee —kee ■” He checked himself, suddenly, and assumed an air of greeat solemnity as the landlord looked his wav. “You’d better go ’ome, Jem Summers/’ ■ sa- the fuming Mr Ketchmaid. “You’re the worse for licker.”

“Im not/ said Mr Summers, stoutly. “Out you go,” xMr. Ketchmaid, briefly. “You know my rules. I keep a respectable and them as can’t drink in moderation are best outside,” “You should stick to lemonade, Jem,” raid Mr Clark. “You can say what you like then.”

Mr Summers looked round for support, and then, .seeing no pity in the landlord’s eye, departed, wondering inwardly how* he was going to spend the rest of the evening. The company in the bar gazed at each other soberly and exchanged whispers. Ned Clark/’ said the indignant Mr Ketchmaid. “I don’t want your money in this public-house. Take it somewhere else.” “Thankee, but I prefer to come here,” said the shoemaker, ostentatiously sipping his lemonade. “X like to listen to your tales of the sea. In a quiet way I get a lot of amusement out of ’em.” . “Do you disbelief my word,” demanded Mr Ketchmaid, hotly. “Why, o’ course X do,” replied the shoemaker,- “we all do. You’d see how ©illy they are yourself if you only stopped to think. You and your sharks!— no shark Would want to eat you unless it was blind.” Mr Ketchmaid allowed this gross reflection on his personal appearance to pass unnoticed, and for the 1 first of many evenings sat listening in. torment a.s the shoemaker began the narration of a series of events which he claimed had happened to a seafaring nephew. Many cf these -bore a striking resemblance to Mr Ketchmaid’si own exeperiences, the calv difference being that the nephew had no eye at all for the probabilities. In this fell work Mr Clark was ably

assisted by the offended Mr Summers. Side by side they sat and quaffed lemonade, and burlesqued the landlord’s autobiography, the only consolation afforded to Mr Ketchmaid consisting in the reflection that they were losing-a harmless pleasure in good liquor. Once, and once only, they succumbed to the superior attractions of alcohol, and Mr Ketchmaid, returning from a visit to his brewer ac the large seaport of iiurnsea, heard from the ostler the retails of a carouse with which he had been utterly unable to cope.

The cduple returned to lemonade the following night, and remained laithfui to‘that beverage until an event transpired which rendered further self-denial a mere foolishness.

It was about a week later, Mr Ketchmaid had just resumed his seat after serving a customer, when the attention of all present was attracted by an odd and regular tapping on the brick-paved passage outside. lc stopped at the taproom, and a murmur of voices escaped at the open door. Then the door was closed, and a loud penetrating voice called on the name «f Sol Ketchmaid. “Good heavensi” said the amazed landlord, half-rising from his seat and fall • ing back again. “I ougnt to know that voice.”

“idol Ketchmaid,” bellowed the voice again; “where are you, shipmate?” “Hennery Wig-gett, I gasped the landlord, as a small man with raged whiskers appeared at the wicket- “ft can’t The newcomer regarded him tenderly for a moment without a word, and then, kicking open the door with an unmistakable wooden leg, stumped into the bar ,and grasping his outstretched hand .shook it fervently.

“I met Caphi Peters in Melbourne,” said the stranger, as his friend pushed him into' his own chair, and questioned him breathlessly. “He told me where yon was.”

“The sight ,o’ you, Hennery Wiggett, is better to me than diamonds,” said Mr Ketchmaid, ecstatically. “How did you get here?’ “A friend of his, Cap’ll Jones, of the barque V Genus, gave me a passage to London,” said Mr Wiggett, “and I've tramped down from there without a penny .in my pocket.” “And Sol Ke'tchmaid’s glad to see you, sir,” said Mr Smith, who, with the rest of the company, had been looking on in a state of great admiration. “He’s never tired of telling us ’cw you saved him from the shark and ’.ad your leg bit off in so doing.” “I’d ’ave my other bit off for ’im, too/’ said MV Wiggett, as the landlord patted him affectionately on the shoulder and thrust a glass of spirits into his hands. “Cheerful, I would. The kindest-'earted and the bravest man that ever breathed, is old Sol Ketchmaid.”

He took the landlord’s hand again, and squeezing it affeotinately, looked round the comfortable bar with much approval. They began to converse in low tones of confidence, and names which had figured in many of the .landlord’s stories fell continuously on the listeners’ ears.

"ion never ’earcl anything more o’ pore Sam Jones, I s’pose?” said Mr Ketchmaid.

Mr Wiggett pub down his glass. “I ran up ag’-in a man in Rio Janeiro two years ago,” he .said, mournfully. “Pore old Sam died, in ’is arms with your name uipon ’is honest black lips.” “Enough to kill any man,” muttered the discomfited Mr Clark, looking round defiantly upon his murmuring lips.” “Who is this putty-faced swab, So IP” demanded Mr Wiggett, turning a fierce glance in the shoemaker’s direction.

“He’s our cobbler,” said the landlord, “but you don’t want to take no notice of ’im. Nobodyy else does.'He’s ?., man who as good as told me I’m a liar.” “Wot!” said Mr Wiggett; rising and stumping across the bar; “take it'back, mate. I’ve only got one leg, but nobody shall run down Sol while I can draw breath. The finest sailcrman that ever ■trod a deck is -sol, and the best-’earted.” “Hear, hear,” said Mr Smith: “own up ( as you’re in the wrong. Ned.” “When I was laying in my bunk in the fo’c’s’le being nursed back to life,” confirmed Mr Wiggett, enthusiastically, “who was it that set by my side ’olding my ’and and telling me to live for his sake? —why, old Sol Ketchmaid. Who was it that said he’d stick to me for life—why, Sol Ketchmaid. Who was it said that so long as ’e ’ad a crust I should have first bite at it, and so long a.s ’e ’ad a bed I should' ’ave first half of it—why, Sol Ketchmaid !” He paused to take breath, and. a flattering murmur .arose from his listeners, while the subject of his discourse looked at him as though his eloquence was in something of the nature of a surprise even to him.

“In my old age and on my beam-ends,” continued Mr Wiggett, “I remembered them words of old Sol, and I knew if I could only find ’im my troubles were over. I knew that I could creep into ’is little harbour and lay snug. I knew that what Sol said he meant. I lost my leg saving ’is life ,and he is grateful.” “'So he ought to be,” said Mr Clark, “and I’m proud to shake ’ands with a hero.”

He gripped Mr Wiggctt’s hand, and the others followed suit. The woodenlegged man wound up with Mr Ketchmaid, and disdaining to notice that veracious mariner’s grasp was sine what limp, sauk into his chair again and asked fr a cigar.

“Lend me the box, Sol.” he said, jovially, as he took it from him. I’m going -to r and ’em round. This is my treat,

mates. Pore old Henry Wiggett’s treat.’ He passed tiie box round, Mr Ketchmaid watching in helpless indignation, as the customers discarded their pipes, thanked Mr Wiggett warmly, and helped themselves to a hreepemiy cigar a_ piece. Mr Clark was so particular that he spoilt at least two by undue pinching before he could find one to his satisfaction. , , r Closing time came all too soon, Mr Wiggett, whose popularity w r as never for' a moment in doubt, developing gifts to .which his friend had never even alluded. He sang comic songs in a voice which made tne glasses rattle on the shelves, asked some really clever riddles, and wound up with ai conjuring trick winch consisted in borrowing half a crown from Mr Ketchmaid and making it pass into the pocket of Mr Peter ‘Smith. This last was perhaps not quite so satisfactory, as the utmost efforts of the tailor failed to discover the coin, and he went home under a cloud of /suspicion which nearly drove him frantic. •T-’ope you’re satisfied,” said Mr Wiggett, as the landlord, having shot the Doles or the front door, returned to the bar.

-You went a bit ,too far,” said Mr Ketchmaid, short.y; “you should ha’ been content with doing what I told you to do. And who .asked you to ’and my cigars round?” •T got a bit excited,” pleaded the other.

“And you forgot to tell cm you’re going to start to-morrow to live with that niece of yours in New Zealand,” added the landlord.

“So I did,” said Mr Wiggett, smiting his forehead ; “so 1 did. I’m yery sorry ; I’ll tell 'em to-morrow night.” “Mention it casual like, to-morrow morning,” commanded Mr Ketchmaid, “and get off in tne arternoon, then l’l-l give you some dinner besides the five shillings as r*ranged.’ Mr Wiggett thanked him warmly and, Taking .a candle, withdrew to the unwonted luxury of clean sheeets and a soft bed. For some time he lay awake in deep thought and then, .smothering a laugh with the bed-clothes, he gave a sigh of content and fell asleepe. To the landlord’s great annoyance his guest went for a walk nevt morning and did not return until • the evening, when he explained that he had walked too far for his crippled condition and was unable to get back. Much sympathy was manifested for him in the bar, but in all the 'Conversation that ensued Mr Ketchmaid listened in vain for any hint of his departure. Signals were of no use, Mr W:agent merely nodded amiably and raising his glass in response ; and when by considerably strategy he brought the conversation from pig-ldlling to nieces, Mr Wiggett deftly transferred it to nicies and discoursed on pawnbroking. The hapless Air Ketchmaid suffered in silence, with his eye on the clock, and almost danced with impatience at the tardiness of his departing guests. He accompanied the last man to the door, arid then, crimson with rage, returned to the bar to Mr Wiggett.

“Wot-d’yr mean by it?” he thundered. “Mean by what, Sol?” inuqired Mr Wiggett, looking up in surprise. “Don’t you. call rue Sol, ’cos I won’t have it,” vociferated the landlord, standing over him with bis fist clenched. “First thing to-morrow morning off you go.”

“Gif?” repeated the other, in amaze, ment. “Oil? . Where to?’

“Anywhere,” said the overwroughtlandlord : “so long as you get out of here, 1 dent care where you, go.” Mr Wiggett, who was smoking a cigar, the third that evening, laid it carefully on the table by his side, and regarded him with tender reproach. “You aint yourself, Sol,” he said ,with conviction ; “don’t gay another word else 3 T ou might say things you’ll be sorry for.”

His forebodings wore more than justified, Mr'Ketchmaid indulging in a few remarks about his birth, parentage, and character which would! have shocked an East-end policeman. “First thing to-morrow morning you go,” he concluded, fiercely. “I’ve a good mind to turn you out now. You know of the arrangement I made with you.”

“Arrangement!” said the mystified Mr >'iegett; “what arrangement? Why I ain’t seen you for ten years and 1 more. If it ’adn’t been for meeting Oap’n Peters, ”

He was interrupted* by frenzied and incoherent exclamations from Mr Ketchmaid.

“Sol Ketchmaid,” he said, with dignity. “I ’ope you’re drunk. I ’ope its the drink and not Sol Ketchmaid, wot I saved from the sharq by ’aving my leg bit off, talking. I saved your life, Sol, an’ I ’ave come into your little harbour and let go my little anchor to stay there till I go aloft to join poor Sam Jones wot died with your name on ’is lips.” He sprang suddenly erect as Mr Ketch-

maid, with a loud cry, snatched up a bottle and made as though to brain aim with it.

“You rascal,” said the landlord, in a stiefid voice. “You infernal rascal. I never set eyes on you till I say you the other day on the quay at Burnses, and just for an innercent little joke like with Tsed Clark, asked you to come in and pretend.”

“Pretend!” repeated Mr Wiggtt, in a horror-stricken voice. “Pretend! Have you forgotten you pushing me out of the way and saying ‘Save yourself, Sol,’ as the shark’s jaws clashed over my lec? Have you forgotten ’ok ——?” ° “Look ’ere,” said Mr Ketchmaid, thrusting an infuriated face close to his, “there never was a Henery Wiggett; there never was a shark; there never was a Sam Jones!” “Never —was- —a —>Sam Jones!” said the daezd Mr Wiggett, sinking into hi s chair. “Ain’t you got a spark o’ proper feeling left, Sol?” He fumbled in his pocket and producing the remains of a dirty handkerchief wiped ris eyes to the memory of the faithful black.

“Look her,” said Mr Ketchmaid, putting down the bottle and regarding him intently, “you’ve got me fair. Now, will you go for a. pound?” “Got you?” said .ur Wiggett, severe--ly; “I’m ashamed of you, Sol. Go to bed and sleep off the drink, and in the morning you can take Henry Vv iggett’s ’and, but not before.” He took a .ox of matches from the bar and, re-lighting the stump of his cigar, contemplated Mr Ketenmaid for some time in silence, and then, with a. serious shake of his head, stumped off to bed. Mr Ketchmaid remained mlow, and for at least an hour sat thinking of ways and means out of the dilemma, into which his ingenuity had led him. He went -to- bed with the puzzle still unsolved, and the morning yielded no solution. Mr Wiggett appeared to hav© forgotten the previous night’s proceedings altogether, and stadfastiy declined to take umbrage at a manner which would have chilled a rhinoceros. He told several fresh anecdotes of himself and iSam Jones that evening; anecdotes whidh, at the imminent risk of choking, IMr Ketchmaid was obliged to endorse. A week passed, and) Mr Wiggett still grgged with his presence the bar of the Ship. The landlord s lost flesh, and began seriously to consider the advisability of making a, clean breast of the whole affair. Air Wiggett watched him anxiously, and with a skill born of a lifelong study of humanity, realised that his visit was drawing to an end. At last, one day, Mr Ketchmaid put the matter bluntly.

“I shall tell the chaps to-night that it was a little joke on my part,” he announced, with grim decision • “then I shall take you by the collar and kick you into the road.”

Air Wiggett sighed and shook his head.

“It’ll be a terrible -show-up for you,” he said, softly. “You’d better make it worth my while, and I’ll tell ’em this evening that I’m going to New Zealand to live with a niece of mine there, and that you’ve paid my passage for me. I don’t like telling any more lies, but, seeing it’s for you, I’ll do it for a counle of pounds.” “Five shilling?;” snarled Mr Ketchimaid.

Mr Wigett smiled comfortably and shook his head. Mr Ketchmaid raised his offer to ten shillings, to a pound, and finady, after a few remarks which prompted Mr Wigget to state that hard works broke no bones, flung into the bar and fetched the money.

The news of Mr Vyiggett’s departure went round the village- at once, the landlord himself -breaking the news to the next customer, and! an overflow meeting assembled that evening to bid the emigrant farewell. The landlord noted with pleasure that business was brisk. Several gentlemen stood drink to Mr Wiggett, and in return he put his hand into his own pocket, and ordered glasses round. Mr Ketchmaid, in a state of some uneasiness, took the order, and then Mr Wiggett, with the -ail - of one conferring inestimable benefits, produced a, lucky half-penny, which had once eblonged to -Sam Jones, and insisted upon his keeping it.

“This is my last night, mates,” he said', mournfully, as He acknowledged the drinking of his health. “In many ports I’ve been, and many snug pubs I ’ave visited, 'but I never in all my days come across a nicer, kinder-’earted lot o’ men than wot you are.” “Hear, hear,” said Mr Clark. Mr Wiggett paused, and, taking a sip from his biass to hide his emotion, resumed.

“In my lonely pilgrimage through life, crippled, and ’aving to beg my bread,” he said, tearfully, “I shall think o’ this ’appy bar and these friendly faces. When I am wrestlin’ with the pangs of ’unger and being moved on by the. ’eartless po-

lice, I shall think of you as I last saw you/’

“But,” said Mr Smith, voicing the general consternation, “you’re going to your niece in New Zealand?” Mr Wigett shook his head and smiled a sad, sweet smile. '■

“I ’ave no niece,” he said, simply; “I’m alone in the world.”

At these touching words his audience put their grasses down and stared in amaze at Mr Ketchmaid, while that gentleman in his turn gazed at Mr Wiggett as though he had suddenly developed horns and a tail. “Ketchmaid told m.e hisself as he’d paid your passage to New Zealand,” said the shoemaker,* “he said as ’e’d pressed you to stay, but that you said blood was thicker even than friendship.” “All lies,” said’ Mr Wiggett, sadly. ■“I’ll stay with pleasure if he’ll give the word. I’ll stay even now if ’e wishes it.”

' He paused a moment as though to give his bewildered victim time to accept this offer, and then addressed the scandalised Mr Clark again. “He don’t like my being 'ere,” he said, in a low voice. “He grudges the little bit I eat, I s’pose. He told me I’d. got •to go, and that for the look o’ things V was going to pretend I was going to New Zaeland. I was too broke-’earted at the time to care wot ’e said-—I ’ave no wish to sponge on any man —but, seeing your ’onest faces round me I couldn’t go with a lie on, by lips;—Sol Ketchmaid, old shipmate—good bye.” He turned to the speechless landlord, -made as though to shake hands with him, thought better of it, and then, with a wave of his hand full c-f chastened dignity, withdrew. His stump rang with pathetic insistence upon ~ie brick-paved passage, paused at the door, and then, tapping on the hard road, died slowly away in the distance. Inside the Ship .the bootmaker- gave an ominous order for lemonade.—From the Christmas Number of the “Strand Magazine."”