Ship's Company, the Entire Collection. William Wymark Jacobs
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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 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 arf choked, and there’s a feeling about my waist as though I’m being cuddled by somebody I don’t like.”
Mrs. Jobson said it would soon wear off and, seated in the train that bore them to the Crystal Palace, put the hat on the rack. Her husband’s attempt to leave it in the train was easily frustrated and his explanation that he had forgotten all about it received in silence. It was evident that he would require watching, and under the clear gaze of his children he seldom had a button undone for more than three minutes at a time.
The day was hot and he perspired profusely. His collar lost its starch— a thing to be grateful for—and for the greater part of the day he wore his tie under the left ear. By the time they had arrived home again he was in a state of open mutiny.
“Never again,” he said, loudly, as he tore the collar off and hung his coat on a chair.
There was a chorus of lamentation; but he remained firm. Dorothy began to sniff ominously, and Gladys spoke longingly of the fathers possessed by other girls. It was not until Mrs. Jobson sat eyeing her supper, instead of eating it, that he began to temporize. He gave way bit by bit, garment by garment. When he gave way at last on the great hat question, his wife took up her knife and fork.
His workaday clothes appeared in his bedroom next morning, but the others still remained in the clutches of Aunt Emma. The suit provided was of considerable antiquity, and at closing time, Mr. Jobson, after some hesitation, donned his new clothes and with a sheepish glance at his wife went out; Mrs. Jobson nodded delight at her daughters.
“He’s coming round,” she whispered. “He liked that ticket-collector calling him ‘sir’ yesterday. I noticed it. He’s put on everything but the topper. Don’t say nothing about it; take it as a matter of course.”
It became evident as the days wore on that she was right… Bit by bit she obtained the other clothes—with some difficulty—from Aunt Emma, but her husband still wore his best on Sundays and sometimes of an evening; and twice, on going into the bedroom suddenly, she had caught him surveying himself at different angles in the glass.
And, moreover, he had spoken with some heat—for such a good-tempered man—on the shortcomings of Dorothy’s laundry work.
“We’d better put your collars out,” said his wife.
“And the shirts,” said Mr. Jobson. “Nothing looks worse than a bad got-up cuff.”
“You’re getting quite dressy,” said his wife, with a laugh.
Mr. Jobson eyed her seriously.
“No, mother, no,” he replied. “All I’ve done is to find out that you’re right, as you always ‘ave been. A man in my persition has got no right to dress as if he kept a stall on the kerb. It ain’t fair to the gals, or to young Bert. I don’t want ‘em to be ashamed 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 and behaving wrong, and yesterday I bought a book what tells you all about behaviour.”
“Well done!” said the delighted Mrs. Jobson.
Mr. Jobson was glad to find that her opinion on his purchase was shared by the rest of the family. Encouraged by their approval, he told them of the benefit he was deriving from it; and at tea-time that day, after a little hesitation, ventured to affirm that it was a book that might do them all good.
“Hear, hear!” said Gladys.
“For one thing,” said Mr. Jobson, slowly, “I didn’t know before that it was wrong to blow your tea; and as for drinking it out of a saucer, the book says it’s a thing that is only done by the lower orders.”
“If you’re in a hurry?” demanded Mr. Bert Jobson, pausing with his saucer half way to his mouth.
“If you’re in anything,” responded his father. “A gentleman would rather go without his tea than drink it out of a saucer. That’s the sort o’ thing Bill Foley would do.”
Mr. Bert Jobson drained his saucer thoughtfully.
“Picking your teeth with your finger is wrong, too,” said Mr. Jobson, taking a breath. “Food should be removed in a—a—un-undemonstrative fashion with the tip of the tongue.”
“I wasn’t,” said Gladys.
“A knife,” pursued her father—“a knife should never in any circumstances be allowed near the mouth.”
“You’ve made mother cut herself,” said Gladys, sharply; “that’s what you’ve done.”
“I thought it was my fork,” said Mrs. Jobson. “I was so busy listening I wasn’t thinking what I was doing. Silly of me.”
“We shall all do better in time,” said Mr. Jobson. “But what I want to know is, what about the gravy? You can’t eat it with a fork, and it don’t say nothing about a spoon. Oh, and what about our cold tubs, mother?”
“Cold tubs?” repeated his wife, staring at him. “What cold tubs?”
“The cold tubs me and Bert ought to ‘ave,” said Mr. Jobson. “It says in the book that an Englishman would just as soon think of going without his breakfus’ as his cold tub; and you know how fond I am of my breakfus’.”
“And what about me and the gals?” said the amazed Mrs. Jobson.
“Don’t you worry about me, ma,” said Gladys, hastily.
“The book don’t say nothing about gals; it says Englishmen,” said Mr. Jobson.
“But we ain’t got a bathroom,” said his son.
“It don’t signify,” said Mr. Jobson. “A washtub’ll do. Me and Bert’ll ‘ave a washtub each brought up overnight; and it’ll be exercise for the gals bringing the water up of a morning to us.”
“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,” said the bewildered Mrs. Jobson. “Anyway, you and Bert’ll ‘ave to carry the tubs up and down. Messy, I call it.
“It’s got to be done, mother,” said Mr. Jobson cheerfully. “It’s only the lower orders what don’t ‘ave their cold tub reg’lar. The book says so.”
He trundled the tub upstairs the same night and, after his wife had gone downstairs next morning, opened the door and took in the can and pail that stood outside. He poured the contents into the tub, and, after eyeing