W. W. Jacobs' Three at Table: A Detailed Summary and Literary Analysis
- Michael Kellermeyer
- Aug 21
- 5 min read
Jacobs was never one for a conventional ghost story. His horror tales are often marked by unexpected irony, chicanery, and twists. His ghosts are often blatant posers, figments of imagination, metaphors, or hazy possibilities. Even in “The Well” there is always the chance that the dead man merely becomes entangled in Benson’s tether and that all the poor luck that led him into that horrible pit was supernatural guidance. The following is a very curious story about a real ghost, though, of course, not at all in a conventional sense. It explores the haunting life of a man who is not a man, a person who is not a person, and the implications of a society that creates, affirms, and condemns such creatures to marginal living. It is a tremendously human ghost story – indeed, “human” is perhaps the most fitting word to describe it. So let us leave it at that and join the three at table.
SUMMARY
The story begins in a lively coffee-room where a diverse group of men gather, engrossed in a discussion about ghosts and apparitions. The conversation quickly reveals a wide spectrum of beliefs, from outright skepticism to enthusiastic credence. One fervent believer even condemns disbelief as impious, citing a confused reference to the Witch of Endor and Jonah, illustrating how some individuals intertwine biblical stories with their supernatural beliefs: "Talking of Jonah... look at the strange tales sailors tell us." This remark sets the tone for a narrative that explores the human fascination with the mysterious and the unknown.
Amidst these exchanges, a seasoned sailor claims to have personal experience with ghostly visions, asserting, "Man and boy... I've been at sea thirty years, and the only unpleasant incident of that kind occurred in a quiet English countryside." He then recounts his solitary experience in a rural inn after returning from China, which serves as the core of the story’s narrative. His detailed account takes the listener through his day of wandering, emphasizing his initial good spirits and the subsequent descent into an eerie, unsettling ordeal.
The sailor's walk begins on a bright, frosty morning, with descriptions of snow-dusted roads and picturesque villages. He describes his leisurely lunch at a small inn and his decision to navigate back across the marshes using a small compass. As he ventures into the marshy landscape, fog begins to roll in, obscuring his path and forcing him into a state of helplessness. "A white fog, which had been for some time hovering round the edge of the ditches, began gradually to spread," he narrates, emphasizing the increasing disorientation.
Lost in the marshes, he struggles to keep his bearings, calling out for help and eventually finding himself on a rough road. Here, he encounters a sturdy countryman who, upon hearing his plight, offers assistance and directions to a distant village. The traveler notes the man's unease when pointing out a distant light, warning him, "'There's a something there, sir... some say as it's a poor mad thing, others says as it's a kind of animal; but whatever it is, it ain't good to see.'" This cryptic warning hints at the supernatural or at least the unsettling reputation of the place.
Despite the warning, the narrator presses on toward the light, approaching a small, dark house. He cautiously enters and encounters a tall, bony old woman, who, with a gruff demeanor, dismisses knowledge of nearby towns and seems to regard him with suspicion. A man, later revealed to be her son, appears, and the narrator learns that Ashville—the town he seeks—is fifteen miles away, but the couple insists he should stay for the night. Their strange behavior and the ominous atmosphere heighten the reader’s sense of foreboding.
The old man, who is notably large and silent, invites the narrator into a darkened room for dinner, mentioning that his son cannot endure light due to his eyes. The dinner is conducted in complete darkness, with the old woman serving food and the man’s voice—"the strangest voice I have ever heard"—adding to the unsettling ambiance.
During the meal, the narrator notices a mysterious figure's face, which, in the flickering firelight, appears to be gaunt and wolfish, with only one remaining eye. The narrator's suspicion grows: "I saw the face of the creature opposite. With a sharp catch of my breath I left my chair and stood with clenched fists beside it."
Suddenly, the fire flickers out, plunging the room into darkness. The narrator witnesses the figure's face more clearly in the fire's red glow—more devilish and terrifying than before. The old man returns, visibly surprised to find the fire lit again, and explains that his son was injured in a fire years prior, which left him disfigured. "My son was injured some years ago in a burning house," the old man says softly, revealing the tragic backstory that explains the son's appearance, which is no longer human but rather a remnant of trauma and perhaps supernatural horror.
The son, speaking for the first time, admits that he preferred not to join dinner because of his condition but is celebrating his birthday. The narrator, moved by a mixture of pity and curiosity, reaches out and shakes his hand, remarking, "that only in the dark that you startled me." This gesture seems to humanize the disfigured son, softening the narrator's initial fears and fostering a sense of compassion. The old man then suggests they continue the evening with camaraderie, bringing out cigars and preparing for a toast.
As the night deepens, the old man makes a remarkable toast—"The health of the children my boy saved!"—raising his glass to honor his son's bravery and perhaps his own past sacrifices. The mood shifts from eerie to warm, as they share stories and laughter, temporarily banishing the earlier darkness and dread. The narrator reflects on the strange, supernatural undercurrent that has now been transformed into a poignant tale of resilience and family love.
ANALYSIS
Society – natural society – is populated by many ghosts, Jacobs seems to lament. Not the spirits of the dead, but the spirits of the not-yet-dead, the spirits of the marginalized, hated, feared, and forgotten. “Three at Table” would prove particularly poignant fifteen years after its publication when young war heroes were being sent back home with miserable disfigurements. Shunned by society, they were abandoned despite their heroism, hated despite their valor, and shunned despite their sacrifice.
Oliver Onions wrote a brilliant story about such a creature – a World War One veteran who haunts a house before he is even dead, being driven to madness and suicide by the hate and fear he feels from the locals – called “The Rope in the Rafters.” Onions had plenty of historical precedent on which to base his mutilated hero – the miserable plight and frequent suicides of disfigured war veterans is well documented. Both Onions and Jacobs understood that ghost stories are not merely practices in supernatural terror: they can be generated about anything difficult for society to digest.
Ghost stories have often been built around awkward topics as a means of taming and publicizing their existence, and Jacobs’ story of a hero rejected due to his disfigurement (suffered in the commission of an act of selfless valor) reminds us that if we do not invite in “the least of these” – as the protagonist does – to the table of brotherhood and kinship then we risk becoming haunted ourselves, both by our imagination, and by our guilt.