Short Fiction by H. G. Wells (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

majority are out of sight. I have often wondered what these islands are for⁠—now, you see, I am wiser. This one at least is for you. Sooner or later some simple native will come along and take you off. Say what you like about us then⁠—abuse us, if you like⁠—we shan’t care a solitary Grenadine! And here⁠—here is half a sovereign’s worth of silver. Do not waste that in foolish dissipation when you return to civilisation. Properly used, it may give you a fresh start in life. And do not⁠—Don’t beach her, you beggars, he can wade!⁠—Do not waste the precious solitude before you in foolish thoughts. Properly used, it may be a turning-point in your career. Waste neither money nor time. You will die rich. I’m sorry, but I must ask you to carry your tucker to land in your arms. No; it’s not deep. Curse that explanation of yours! There’s not time. No, no, no! I won’t listen. Overboard you go!”

And the falling night found Mr. Ledbetter⁠—the Mr. Ledbetter who had complained that adventure was dead⁠—sitting beside his cans of food, his chin resting upon his drawn-up knees, staring through his glasses in dismal mildness over the shining, vacant sea.

He was picked up in the course of three days by a negro fisherman and taken to St. Vincent’s, and from St. Vincent’s he got, by the expenditure of his last coins, to Kingston, in Jamaica. And there he might have foundered. Even nowadays he is not a man of affairs, and then he was a singularly helpless person. He had not the remotest idea what he ought to do. The only thing he seems to have done was to visit all the ministers of religion he could find in the place to borrow a passage home. But he was much too dirty and incoherent⁠—and his story far too incredible for them. I met him quite by chance. It was close upon sunset, and I was walking out after my siesta on the road to Dunn’s Battery, when I met him⁠—I was rather bored, and with a whole evening on my hands⁠—luckily for him. He was trudging dismally towards the town. His woebegone face and the quasi-clerical cut of his dust-stained, filthy costume caught my humour. Our eyes met. He hesitated. “Sir,” he said, with a catching of the breath, “could you spare a few minutes for what I fear will seem an incredible story?”

“Incredible!” I said.

“Quite,” he answered eagerly. “No one will believe it, alter it though I may. Yet I can assure you, sir⁠—”

He stopped hopelessly. The man’s tone tickled me. He seemed an odd character. “I am,” he said, “one of the most unfortunate beings alive.”

“Among other things, you haven’t dined?” I said, struck with an idea.

“I have not,” he said solemnly, “for many days.”

“You’ll tell it better after that,” I said; and without more ado led the way to a low place I knew, where such a costume as his was unlikely to give offence. And there⁠—with certain omissions which he subsequently supplied⁠—I got his story. At first I was incredulous, but as the wine warmed him, and the faint suggestion of cringing which his misfortunes had added to his manner disappeared, I began to believe. At last, I was so far convinced of his sincerity that I got him a bed for the night, and next day verified the banker’s reference he gave me through my Jamaica banker. And that done, I took him shopping for underwear and suchlike equipments of a gentleman at large. Presently came the verified reference. His astonishing story was true. I will not amplify our subsequent proceedings. He started for England in three days’ time.

“I do not know how I can possibly thank you enough,” began the letter he wrote me from England, “for all your kindness to a total stranger,” and proceeded for some time in a similar strain. “Had it not been for your generous assistance, I could certainly never have returned in time for the resumption of my scholastic duties, and my few minutes of reckless folly would, perhaps, have proved my ruin. As it is, I am entangled in a tissue of lies and evasions, of the most complicated sort, to account for my sunburnt appearance and my whereabouts. I have rather carelessly told two or three different stories, not realising the trouble this would mean for me in the end. The truth I dare not tell. I have consulted a number of law-books in the British Museum, and there is not the slightest doubt that I have connived at and abetted and aided a felony. That scoundrel Bingham was the Hithergate bank manager, I find, and guilty of the most flagrant embezzlement. Please, please burn this letter when read⁠—I trust you implicitly. The worst of it is, neither my aunt nor her friend who kept the boardinghouse at which I was staying seem altogether to believe a guarded statement I have made them practically of what actually happened. They suspect me of some discreditable adventure, but what sort of discreditable adventure they suspect me of, I do not know. My aunt says she would forgive me if I told her everything. I have⁠—I have told her more than everything, and still she is not satisfied. It would never do to let them know the truth of the case, of course, and so I represent myself as having been waylaid and gagged upon the beach. My aunt wants to know why they waylaid and gagged me, why they took me away in their yacht. I do not know. Can you suggest any reason? I can think of nothing. If, when you wrote, you could write on two sheets so that I could show her one, and on that one if you could show clearly that I really was in Jamaica this summer, and had come there by being removed from a ship, it would be of great service to me.