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Striking Hard Deep Waters, Part 10. By: W. W. Jacobs (1863-1943) |
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By W.W. JACOBS
STRIKING HARD "You've what?" demanded Mrs. Porter, placing the hot iron carefully on
its stand and turning a heated face on the head of the family. "Struck," repeated Mr. Porter; "and the only wonder to me is we've stood
it so long as we have. If I was to tell you all we've 'ad to put up with
I don't suppose you'd believe me." "Very likely," was the reply. "You can keep your fairy tales for them
that like 'em. They're no good to me." "We stood it till flesh and blood could stand it no longer," declared her
husband, "and at last we came out, shoulder to shoulder, singing. The
people cheered us, and one of our leaders made 'em a speech." "I should have liked to 'ave heard the singing," remarked his wife. "If
they all sang like you, it must ha' been as good as a pantermime! Do you
remember the last time you went on strike?" "This is different," said Mr. Porter, with dignity. "All our things went, bit by bit," pursued his wife, "all the money we
had put by for a rainy day, and we 'ad to begin all over again. What are
we going to live on? O' course, you might earn something by singing in
the street; people who like funny faces might give you something! Why
not go upstairs and put your 'ead under the bed clothes and practise a
bit?" Mr. Porter coughed. "It'll be all right," he said, confidently. "Our
committee knows what it's about; Bert Robinson is one of the best
speakers I've ever 'eard. If we don't all get five bob a week more I'll
eat my 'ead." "It's the best thing you could do with it," snapped his wife. She took
up her iron again, and turning an obstinate back to his remarks resumed
her work. Mr. Porter lay long next morning, and, dressing with comfortable
slowness, noticed with pleasure that the sun was shining. Visions of a
good breakfast and a digestive pipe, followed by a walk in the fresh air,
passed before his eyes as he laced his boots. Whistling cheerfully he
went briskly downstairs. It was an October morning, but despite the invigorating chill in the air
the kitchen grate was cold and dull. Herring bones and a disorderly
collection of dirty cups and platters graced the table. Perplexed and
angry, he looked around for his wife, and then, opening the back door,
stood gaping with astonishment. The wife of his bosom, who should have
had a bright fire and a good breakfast waiting for him, was sitting on a
box in the sunshine, elbows on knees and puffing laboriously at a
cigarette. "Susan!" he exclaimed. Mrs. Porter turned, and, puffing out her lips, blew an immense volume of
smoke. "Halloa!" she said, carelessly. "Wot wot does this mean?" demanded her husband. Mrs. Porter smiled with conscious pride. "I made it come out of my nose
just now," she replied. "At least, some of it did, and I swallowed the
rest. Will it hurt me?" "Where's my breakfast?" inquired the other, hotly. "Why ain't the
kitchen fire alight? Wot do you think you're doing of?" "I'm not doing anything," said his wife, with an aggrieved air. "I'm on
strike." Mr. Porter reeled against the door post. "Wot!" he stammered. "On
strike? Nonsense! You can't be." "O, yes, I can," retorted Mrs. Porter, closing one eye and ministering to
it hastily with the corner of her apron. "Not 'aving no Bert Robinson to
do it for me, I made a little speech all to myself, and here I am." She dropped her apron, replaced the cigarette, and, with her hands on her
plump knees, eyes him steadily. "But but this ain't a factory," objected the dismayed man; "and, besides
I won't 'ave it!" Mrs. Porter laughed a fat, comfortable laugh, but with a touch of
hardness in it. "All right, mate," she said, comfortably. "What are you out on strike
for?" "Shorter hours and more money," said Mr. Porter, glaring at her. His wife nodded. "So am I," she said. "I wonder who gets it first?" She smiled agreeably at the bewildered Mr. Porter, and, extracting a
paper packet of cigarettes from her pocket, lit a fresh one at the stub
of the first... Continue reading book >>
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Fiction |
Humor |
Literature |
Sea stories |
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