Fine Feathers

by W. W. Jacobs

Mr. Jobson awoke with a Sundayish feeling, probably due to the fact thatit was Bank Holiday. He had been aware, in a dim fashion, of the risingof Mrs. Jobson some time before, and in a semi-conscious condition hadtaken over a large slice of unoccupied territory. He stretched himselfand yawned, and then, by an effort of will, threw off the clothes andspringing out of bed reached for his trousers.He was an orderly man, and had hung them every night for over twentyyears on the brass knob on his side of the bed. He had hung them therethe night before, and now they had absconded with a pair of red bracesjust entering their teens. Instead, on a chair at the foot of the bedwas a collection of garments that made him shudder. With tremblingfingers he turned over a black tailcoat, a white waistcoat, and a pair oflight check trousers. A white shirt, a collar, and tie kept themcompany, and, greatest outrage of all, a tall silk hat stood on its ownband-box beside the chair. Mr. Jobson, fingering his bristly chin,stood: regarding the collection with a wan smile."So that's their little game, is it?" he muttered. "Want to make a toffof me. Where's my clothes got to, I wonder?"A hasty search satisfied him that they were not in the room, and, pausingonly to drape himself in the counterpane, he made his way into the next.He passed on to the others, and then, with a growing sense of alarm,stole softly downstairs and making his way to the shop continued thesearch. With the shutters up the place was almost in darkness, and inspite of his utmost care apples and potatoes rolled on to the floor andtravelled across it in a succession of bumps. Then a sudden turn broughtthe scales clattering down."Good gracious, Alf!" said a voice. "Whatever are you a-doing of?"Mr. Jobson turned and eyed his wife, who was standing at the door."I'm looking for my clothes, mother," he replied, briefly."Clothes!" said Mrs. Jobson, with an obvious attempt at unconcernedspeech. "Clothes! Why, they're on the chair.""I mean clothes fit for a Christian to wear--fit for a greengrocer towear," said Mr. Jobson, raising his voice."It was a little surprise for you, dear," said his wife. "Me and Bertand Gladys and Dorothy 'ave all been saving up for it for ever so long.""It's very kind of you all," said Mr. Jobson, feebly--"very, but--""They've all been doing without things themselves to do it," interjectedhis wife. "As for Gladys, I'm sure nobody knows what she's given up.""Well, if nobody knows, it don't matter," said Mr. Jobson. "As I wassaying, it's very kind of you all, but I can't wear 'em. Where's myothers?"Mrs. Jobson hesitated."Where's my others?" repeated her husband."They're being took care of," replied his wife, with spirit. "AuntEmma'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. "Iain't wore a collar for over twenty years; not since we was walking outtogether. And then I didn't like it.""More shame for you," said his wife. "I'm sure there's no otherrespectable tradesman goes about with a handkerchief knotted round hisneck.""P'r'aps their skins ain't as tender as what mine is," urged Mr. Jobson;"and besides, fancy me in a top-'at! Why, I shall be the laughing-stockof the place.""Nonsense!" said his wife. "It's only the lower classes what wouldlaugh, and nobody minds what they think."Mr. Jobson sighed. "Well, I shall 'ave to go back to bed again, then,"he said, ruefully. "So long, mother. Hope you have a pleasant time atthe Palace."He took a reef in the counterpane and with a fair amount of dignity,considering his appearance, stalked upstairs again and stood gloomilyconsidering affairs in his bedroom. Ever since Gladys and Dorothy hadbeen big enough to be objects of interest to the young men of theneighbourhood the clothes nuisance had been rampant. He peeped throughthe window-blind at the bright sunshine outside, and then looked back atthe tumbled bed. A murmur of voices downstairs apprised him that theconspirators were awaiting the result.He dressed at last and stood like a lamb--a redfaced, bull-necked lamb--while Mrs. Jobson fastened his collar for him."Bert wanted to get a taller one," she remarked, "but I said this woulddo to begin with.""Wanted it to come over my mouth, I s'pose," said the unfortunate Mr.Jobson. "Well, 'ave it your own way. Don't mind about me. What withthe trousers and the collar, I couldn't pick up a sovereign if I saw onein front of me.""If you see one I'll pick it up for you," said his wife, taking up thehat and moving towards the door. "Come along!"Mr. Jobson, with his arms standing out stiffly from his sides and hishead painfully erect, followed her downstairs, and a sudden hush as heentered the kitchen testified to the effect produced by his appearance.It was followed by a hum of admiration that sent the blood flying to hishead."Why he couldn't have done it before I don't know," said the dutifulGladys. "Why, there ain't a man in the street looks a 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 handsgleefully."Collar," said Mr. Jobson, briefly. "Can I 'ave it took off while I eatmy bloater, mother?""Don't be silly, Alf," said his wife. "Gladys, pour your father out anice, strong, Pot cup o' tea, and don't forget that the train starts atha' past ten.""It'll start all right when it sees me," observed Mr. Jobson, squintingdown at his trousers.Mother and children, delighted with the success of their scheme, laughedapplause, and Mr. Jobson somewhat gratified at the success of his retort,sat down and attacked his breakfast. A short clay pipe, smoked as adigestive, was impounded by the watchful Mrs. Jobson the moment he hadfinished 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; I must smoke, mother."Mrs. Jobson smiled, and, going to the cupboard, produced, with a smile oftriumph, an envelope containing seven dangerous-looking cigars. Mr.Jobson whistled, and taking one up examined it carefully."What do they call 'em, mother?" he inquired. "The 'Cut and Try AgainSmokes'?"Mrs. Jobson smiled vaguely. "Me and the girls are going upstairs to getready now," she said. "Keep your eye on him, Bert!"Father and son grinned at each other, and, to pass the time, took a cigarapiece. They had just finished them when a swish and rustle of skirtssounded from the stairs, and Mrs. Jobson and the girls, beautifullyattired, entered the room and stood buttoning their gloves. A strongsmell of scent fought with the aroma of the cigars."You get round me like, so as to hide me a bit," entreated Mr. Jobson, asthey quitted the house. "I don't mind so much when we get out of ourstreet."Mrs. Jobson laughed his fears to scorn."Well, cross the road, then," said Mr. Jobson, urgently. "There's BillFoley standing at his door."His wife sniffed. "Let him stand," she said, haughtily.Mr. Foley failed to avail himself of the permission. He regarded Mr.Jobson with dilated eyeballs, and, as the party approached, sank slowlyinto a sitting position on his doorstep, and as the door opened behindhim rolled slowly over onto his back and presented an enormous pair ofhobnailed soles to the gaze of an interested world."I told you 'ow it would be," said the blushing Mr. Jobson. "You knowwhat Bill's like as well as I do."His wife tossed her head and they all quickened their pace. The voice ofthe ingenious Mr. Foley calling piteously for his mother pursued them tothe end of the road."I knew what it 'ud be," said Mr. Jobson, wiping his hot face. "Billwill never let me 'ear the end of this.""Nonsense!" said his wife, bridling. "Do you mean to tell me you've gotto 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 manytradesmen as would lower themselves by mixing with a plasterer."Mr. Jobson scratched his ear, but wisely refrained from speech. Onceclear of his own district mental agitation subsided, but bodilydiscomfort increased at every step. The hat and the collar bothered himmost, but every article of attire contributed its share. His uneasinesswas so manifest that Mrs. Jobson, after a little womanly sympathy,suggested that, besides Sundays, it might be as well to wear themoccasionally 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'msuffering; I've got a headache, I'm arf choked, and there's a feelingabout 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 thatbore them to the Crystal Palace, put the hat on the rack. Her husband'sattempt to leave it in the train was easily frustrated and hisexplanation that he had forgotten all about it received in silence. Itwas evident that he would require watching, and under the clear gaze ofhis children he seldom had a button undone for more than three minutes ata 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 worehis tie under the left ear. By the time they had arrived home again hewas in a state of open mutiny."Never again," he said, loudly, as he tore the collar off and hung hiscoat on a chair.There was a chorus of lamentation; but he remained firm. Dorothy beganto sniff ominously, and Gladys spoke longingly of the fathers possessedby 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 bybit, garment by garment. When he gave way at last on the great hatquestion, his wife took up her knife and fork.His workaday clothes appeared in his bedroom next morning, but the othersstill remained in the clutches of Aunt Emma. The suit provided was ofconsiderable antiquity, and at closing time, Mr. Jobson, after somehesitation, donned his new clothes and with a sheepish glance at his wifewent out; Mrs. Jobson nodded delight at her daughters."He's coming round," she whispered. "He liked that ticket-collectorcalling him 'sir' yesterday. I noticed it. He's put on everything butthe 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 bitshe obtained the other clothes--with some difficulty--from Aunt Emma, buther husband still wore his best on Sundays and sometimes of an evening;and twice, on going into the bedroom suddenly, she had caught himsurveying himself at different angles in the glass.And, moreover, he had spoken with some heat--for such a good-temperedman--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 badgot-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'reright, as you always 'ave been. A man in my persition has got no rightto 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 usedressing up and behaving wrong, and yesterday I bought a book what tellsyou all about behaviour.""Well done!" said the delighted Mrs. Jobson.Mr. Jobson was glad to find that her opinion on his purchase was sharedby the rest of the family. Encouraged by their approval, he told them ofthe benefit he was deriving from it; and at tea-time that day, after alittle hesitation, ventured to affirm 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 itwas wrong to blow your tea; and as for drinking it out of a saucer, thebook 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 hissaucer half way to his mouth."If you're in anything," responded his father. "A gentleman would rathergo 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-undemonstrativefashion with the tip of the tongue.""I wasn't," said Gladys."A knife," pursued her father--"a knife should never in any circumstancesbe allowed near the mouth.""You've made mother cut herself," said Gladys, sharply; "that's whatyou've done.""I thought it was my fork," said Mrs. Jobson. "I was so busy listening Iwasn't thinking what I was doing. Silly of me.""We shall all do better in time," said Mr. Jobson. "But what I want toknow is, what about the gravy? You can't eat it with a fork, and itdon'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 inthe book that an Englishman would just as soon think of going without hisbreakfus' 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 thegals 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, Icall it."It's got to be done, mother," said Mr. Jobson cheerfully. "It's onlythe lower orders what don't 'ave their cold tub reg'lar. The book saysso."He trundled the tub upstairs the same night and, after his wife had gonedownstairs next morning, opened the door and took in the can and pailthat stood outside. He poured the contents into the tub, and, aftereyeing it thoughtfully for some time, agitated the surface with his rightfoot. He dipped and dried that much enduring member some ten times, andafter regarding the damp condition of the towels with great satisfaction,dressed himself and went downstairs."I'm all of a glow," he said, seating himself at the table. "I believe Icould eat a elephant. I feel as fresh as a daisy; don't you, Bert?"Mr. Jobson, junior, who had just come in from the shop, remarked,shortly, that he felt more like a blooming snowdrop."And somebody slopped a lot of water over the stairs carrying it up,"said Mrs. Jobson. "I don't believe as everybody has cold baths of amorning. It don't seem wholesome to me."Mr. Jobson took a book from his pocket, and opening it at a certain page,handed it over to her."If I'm going to do the thing at all I must do it properly," he said,gravely. "I don't suppose Bill Foley ever 'ad a cold tub in his life; hedon't know no better. Gladys!""Halloa!" said that young lady, with a start."Are you--are you eating that kipper with your fingers?"Gladys turned and eyed her mother appealingly."Page-page one hundred and something, I think it is," said her father,with his mouth full. "'Manners at the Dinner Table.' It's near the endof the book, I know.""If I never do no worse than that I shan't come to no harm," said hisdaughter.Mr. Jobson shook his head at her, and after eating his breakfast withgreat care, wiped his mouth on his handkerchief and went into the shop."I suppose it's all right," said Mrs. Jobson, looking after him, "buthe's taking it very serious--very.""He washed his hands five times yesterday morning," said Dorothy, who hadjust come in from the shop to her breakfast; "and kept customers waitingwhile he did it, too.""It's the cold-tub business I can't get over," said her mother. "I'msure it's more trouble to empty them than what it is to fill them.There's quite enough work in the 'ouse as it is.""Too much," said Bert, with unwonted consideration."I wish he'd leave me alone," said Gladys. "My food don't do me no goodwhen he's watching every mouthful I eat."Of murmurings such as these Mr. Jobson heard nothing, and in view of thegreat improvement in his dress and manners, a strong resolution waspassed to avoid the faintest appearance of discontent. Even when,satisfied with his own appearance, he set to work to improve that of Mrs.Jobson, that admirable woman made no complaint. Hitherto the brightnessof her attire and the size of her hats had been held to atone for herlack of figure and the roomy comfort of her boots, but Mr. Jobson,infected with new ideas, refused to listen to such sophistry. He wentshopping with Dorothy; and the Sunday after, when Mrs. Jobson went for anairing with him, she walked in boots with heels two inches high and toesthat ended in a point. A waist that had disappeared some years beforewas recaptured and placed in durance vile; and a hat which called for anew style of hair-dressing completed the effect."You look splendid, ma!" said Gladys, as she watched their departure."Splendid!""I don't feel splendid," sighed Mrs. Jobson to her husband. "These 'ereboots feel red-'ot.""Your usual size," said Mr. Jobson, looking across the road."And the clothes seem just a teeny-weeny bit tight, p'r'aps," continuedhis wife.Mr. Jobson regarded her critically. "P'r'aps they might have been letout a quarter of an inch," he: said, thoughtfully. "They're the best fityou've 'ad for a long time, mother. I only 'ope the gals'll 'ave suchgood figgers."His wife smiled faintly, but, with little breath for conversation, walkedon for some time in silence. A growing redness of face testified to herdistress."I--I feel awful," she said at last, pressing her hand to her side."Awful.""You'll soon get used to it," said Mr. Jobson, gently. "Look at me! Ifelt like you do at first, and now I wouldn't go back to old clothes--andcomfort--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 I can't breathe properly--I can't breathe.""You look ripping, mother," said her husband, simply.His wife essayed another smile, but failed. She set her lips togetherand plodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerily and taking no notice of thefact that she kept lurching against him. Two miles from home she stoppedand eyed him fixedly."If I don't get these boots off, Alf, I shall be a 'elpless cripple forthe rest of my days," she murmured. "My ankle's gone over three times.""But you can't take 'em off here," said Mr. Jobson, hastily. "Think 'owit would look.""I must 'ave a cab or something," said his wife, hysterically. "If Idon't get 'em off soon I shall scream."She leaned against the iron palings of a house for support, while Mr.Jobson, standing on the kerb, looked up and down the road for a cab. Afour-wheeler appeared just in time to prevent the scandal--of Mrs. Jobsonremoving her boots in the street."Thank goodness," she gasped, as she climbed in. "Never mind aboutuntying 'em, Alf; cut the laces and get 'em off quick."They drove home with the boots standing side by side on the seat in frontof them. Mr. Jobson got out first and knocked at the door, and as soonas it opened Mrs. Jobson pattered across the intervening space with theboots dangling from her hand. She had nearly reached the door when Mr.Foley, who had a diabolical habit of always being on hand when he wasleast wanted, appeared suddenly from the offside of the cab."Been paddlin'?" he inquired.Mrs. Jobson, safe in her doorway, drew herself up and, holding the bootsbehind her, 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 says to myself, I says, 'Pride'll bear a pinch, but she's goingtoo far. If she thinks that she can squeedge those little tootsywootsiesof 'ers into them boo--'"The door slammed violently and left him exchanging grins with Mr. Jobson."How's the 'at?" he inquired.Mr. Jobson winked. "Bet you a level 'arf-dollar I ain't wearing it nextSunday," he said, in a hoarse whisper.Mr. Foley edged away."Not good enough," he said, shaking his head. "I've had a good many betswith you first and last, Alf, but I can't remember as I ever won one yet.So long."

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