[adapted]

by
W. W. Jacobs

I.

Outside, the night was cold and wet, but in the small living room of Laburnam Villa, the blinds were closed, and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were playing chess. The father, who had unusual ideas about the game and liked to make big changes, put his king in such great and unnecessary danger that even the white-haired old lady knitting peacefully by the fire had to comment on it.

“Listen to the wind,” said Mr. White. He had just noticed a big mistake, but it was too late to fix it. He wanted to distract his son, so he wouldn’t see it.

“I’m listening,” said the son, looking seriously at the board as he reached out his hand.

“Check.”

“I don’t think he will come tonight,” said his father, holding his hand above the board.

“Mate,” replied the son.

“This is the worst thing about living so far away,” shouted Mr. White suddenly, louder than expected. “Out of all the horrible, wet, lonely places to live, this is the worst. The path is like a swamp, and the road is like a river. I don’t know what people are thinking! I guess because only two houses on this road are rented, they think it doesn’t matter.”

“Never mind, dear,” said his wife kindly. “Maybe you’ll win the next game.”

Mr. White looked up quickly, just in time to catch a knowing look between his wife and son. He stopped talking, hiding a guilty smile in his thin grey beard.

“There he is,” said Herbert White, as the gate slammed loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.

The old man quickly got up to welcome the visitor. As he opened the door, they could hear him talking with the new arrival. The visitor also complained about the weather, making Mrs. White say, “Tut, tut!” and cough gently as her husband came into the room, followed by a tall, strong man with small bright eyes and a red face.

“Sergeant-Major Morris,” he said, introducing him.

The sergeant-major shook hands, then sat down by the fire. He watched happily as his host brought out whiskey and glasses and put a small copper kettle on the fire.

After his third glass, his eyes became brighter, and he began to talk. The small family watched him with great interest, listening to this visitor from faraway places. He sat up straight in his chair and spoke about wild adventures and brave actions, about wars, diseases, and strange people.

“Twenty-one years of it,” said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. “When he left, he was just a young boy working in the warehouse. Now look at him.”

“He doesn’t seem to have changed much,” said Mrs. White politely.

“I’d like to go to India myself,” said the old man. “Just to look around a little, you know.”

“It’s better to stay where you are,” said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down his empty glass, sighed softly, and shook his head again.

“I would like to see those old temples, the holy men, and the jugglers,” said the old man. “What was that story you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw, Morris?”

“Nothing,” said the soldier quickly. “At least, nothing important.”

“Monkey’s paw?” said Mrs. White, curiously.

“Well, it’s just a little bit of what you might call magic, maybe,” said the sergeant-major, as if it wasn’t important.

The three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absentmindedly lifted his empty glass to his lips, then put it down again. His host refilled it for him.

“If you look at it,” said the sergeant-major, searching in his pocket, “it’s just a small, ordinary paw, dried like a mummy.”

He took something out of his pocket and held it out. Mrs. White pulled back with a disgusted look, but her son took it and examined it curiously.

“And what’s special about it?” asked Mr. White. He took it from his son, looked at it, and then placed it on the table.

“It had a magic spell put on it by an old fakir,” said the sergeant-major, “a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate controls people’s lives, and that those who try to change it will regret it. He put a spell on it so that three different men could each have three wishes.”

He spoke so seriously that his listeners felt their light laughter did not fit the moment.

“Well, why don’t you make three wishes, sir?” said Herbert White, playfully.

The soldier looked at him the way older people often look at young people who speak too boldly. “I have,” he said quietly, and his red, blotchy face turned pale.

“And did you really get your three wishes?” asked Mrs. White.

“I did,” said the sergeant-major, and his glass made a small sound as it touched his strong teeth.

“And has anyone else wished?” the old lady asked again.

“The first man had his three wishes, yes,” the soldier replied. “I don’t know what his first two wishes were, but the third was for death. That’s how I got the paw.”

His voice was so serious that the group fell silent.

“If you’ve already had your three wishes, then the paw is useless to you now, Morris,” said the old man at last. “Why do you keep it?”

The soldier shook his head. “Maybe just out of habit,” he said slowly. “I thought about selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has already caused enough trouble. Besides, people won’t buy it. Some think it’s just a silly story, and those who do believe in it want to try it first and pay me later.”

“If you could have another three wishes,” said the old man, watching him closely, “would you take them?”

“I don’t know,” said the other. “I don’t know.”

He took the paw, held it between his fingers, and suddenly threw it into the fire. White gave a small cry, bent down quickly, and grabbed it.

“Better let it burn,” said the soldier seriously.

“If you don’t want it, Morris,” said Mr. White, “give it to me.”

“I won’t,” said his friend firmly. “I threw it in the fire for a reason. If you keep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Be smart and throw it back into the fire.”

The old man shook his head and looked carefully at his new possession. “How do you use it?” he asked.

“Hold it up in your right hand and say your wish out loud,” said the sergeant-major, “but I warn you—it has consequences.”

“It sounds like something from Arabian Nights,” said Mrs. White as she got up and started setting the table. “Why don’t you wish for four extra hands for me?”

Her husband took the talisman out of his pocket, and then all three laughed as the sergeant-major grabbed his arm with a worried look on his face.

“If you must wish,” he said gruffly, “wish for something sensible.”

Mr. White put the paw back in his pocket, pulled out some chairs, and invited his friend to the table. During supper, they almost forgot about the talisman. Afterward, the three sat, completely fascinated, as they listened to more of the soldier’s stories about his adventures in India.

“If the story about the monkey’s paw isn’t any more true than the ones he’s been telling us,” said Herbert, as their guest left just in time to catch the last train, “then we won’t get much out of it.”

“Did you pay him for it, father?” asked Mrs. White, watching her husband closely.

“Just a little,” he said, turning slightly red. “He didn’t want to take anything, but I made him. And he kept telling me to throw it away.”

“Of course,” said Herbert, pretending to be shocked. “Why, we’re going to be rich, famous, and happy! Father, wish to be an emperor first, then no one can boss you around.”

He ran around the table, laughing, while Mrs. White chased him, pretending to be offended, and waving a small cloth at him.