His other self [Night watches, Part 10.]Jacobs, W. W. (William Wymark)
General
His other self [Night watches, Part 10.]
Jacobs, W. W. (William Wymark)
Humorous stories; Short stories
"You come and lay down, pa," ses the gals. "I tell you there was," ses
the landlord, getting 'is colour back, with temper.
"Yes, yes; I know all about it," ses 'is wife. "You come inside for a
bit; and, Gertie, you bring your father in a soda--a large soda."
They got 'im in arter a lot o' trouble; but three times 'e came back as
far as the door, 'olding on to them, and taking a little peep at me.
The last time he shook his 'ead at me, and said if I did it agin I could
go and get my 'arf-pints somewhere else.
I finished the beer wot the actor 'ad left, and, arter telling the
landlord I 'oped his eyesight 'ud be better in the morning, I went
outside, and arter a careful look round walked back to the wharf.
I pushed the wicket open a little way and peeped in. The actor was
standing just by the fust crane talking to two of the hands off of the
Saltram. He'd got 'is back to the light, but 'ow it was they didn't
twig his voice I can't think.
They was so busy talking that I crept along by the side of the wall and
got to the office without their seeing me. I went into the private
office and turned out the gas there, and sat down to wait for 'im. Then
I 'eard a noise outside that took me to the door agin and kept me there,
'olding on to the door-post and gasping for my breath. The cook of the
Saltram was sitting on a paraffin-cask playing the mouth-orgin, and the
actor, with 'is arms folded across his stummick, was dancing a horn-pipe
as if he'd gorn mad.
I never saw anything so ridikerlous in my life, and when I recollected
that they thought it was me, I thought I should ha' dropped.
A night-watchman can't be too careful, and I knew that it 'ud be all
over Wapping next morning that I 'ad been dancing to a tuppenny-ha'penny
mouth-orgin played by a ship's cook. A man that does 'is dooty always
has a lot of people ready to believe the worst of 'im.
I went back into the dark office and waited, and by and by I 'eard them
coming along to the gate and patting 'im on the back and saying he ought
to be in a pantermime instead o' wasting 'is time night-watching. He
left 'em at the gate, and then 'e came into the office smiling as if
he'd done something clever.
"Wot d'ye think of me for a understudy?" he ses, laughing. "They all
thought it was you. There wasn't one of 'em 'ad the slightest suspicion
--not one."
"And wot about my character?" I ses, folding my arms acrost my chest
and looking at him.
"Character?" he ses, staring. "Why, there's no 'arm in dancing; it's a
innercent enjoyment."
"It ain't one o' my innercent enjoyments," I ses, "and I don't want to
get the credit of it. If they hadn't been sitting in a pub all the
evening they'd 'ave spotted you at once."
"Oh!" he ses, very huffy. "How?"
"Your voice," I ses. "You try and mimic a poll-parrot, and think it's
like me. And, for another thing, you walk about as though you're
stuffed with sawdust."
"I beg your pardon," he ses; "the voice and the walk are exact. Exact."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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