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Shifting Winds: A Tough Yarn

by R. M. Ballantyne · English · Gutenberg #21702 · 506,451 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Shifting Winds: A Tough Yarn

Author: R. M. Ballantyne


        
Release date: June 6, 2007 [eBook #21702]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21702

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHIFTING WINDS: A TOUGH YARN ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Shifting Winds, by R.M. Ballantyne

________________________________________________________________________

As so often with Ballantyne's books there are really several tales all
told in parallel in this book.  There is the story of the seaman Gaff
and his son Billy, there is the story of Mrs  Gaff, there is Haco
Barepoles, there is Captain Bingley and his son Gildart, there is the
Stuart family.  All these characters are very well drawn, and their
lives merge together and move apart to a surprising degree.  With a
fundamentally Christian message, this book also depicts the work of the
Shipwrecked Mariners and Fishermen Institution.  Although there are
incidents at sea, most of the action takes place in the small fishing
village of Wreckumoft, and the town of Athenbury.  One of the great
values of Ballantyne's books is the insight he gives into life in
Britain in the nineteenth century, not just the day-to-day lives of the
actors, but the motives that propel them, and the upbringing that these
actors had.  We are, however, mystified by the title, which made one
think that the book might be something to do with ballooning!

Robert Michael Ballantyne was born in 1825 and died in 1894.  He was
educated at the Edinburgh Academy, and in 1841 he became a clerk with
the Hudson Bay Company, working at the Red River Settlement in Northen
Canada until 1847, arriving back in Edinburgh in 1848.  The letters he
had written home were very amusing in their description of backwoods
life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he should
construct a book based on these letters.  Three of his most enduring
books were written over the next decade, "The Young Fur Traders",
"Ungava", "The Hudson Bay Company", and were based on his experiences
with the HBC.  In this period he also wrote "The Coral island" and
"Martin Rattler", both of these taking place in places never visited by
Ballantyne.  Having been chided for small mistakes he made in these
books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about.  With
these books he became known as a great master of literature intended for
teenagers.  He researched the Cornish Mines, the London Fire Brigade,
the Postal Service, the Railways, the laying down of submarine telegraph
cables, the construction of light-houses, the light-ship service, the
life- boat service, South Africa, Norway, the North Sea fishing fleet,
ballooning, deep-sea diving, Algiers, and many more, experiencing the
lives of the men and women in these settings by living with them for
weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they lived.

He was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he
encountered with great care and attention to detail.  His young readers
looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the 1860s and
1870s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year,
all very good reading.  The rate of production diminished in the last
ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed.

He published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for
very young children under the pseudonym "Comus".

For today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what
we would nowadays call "pi".  In part that was the way people wrote in
those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the Red
River Settlement, in the wilds of Canada, he had been a little
dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how
they ought to behave, as he felt he had been.

Some of his books were quite short, little over 100 pages.  These books
formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less
pocket-money.  These books are particularly well-written and researched,
because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for
their money.  They were published as six series, three books in each
series.

Re-created as an e-Text by Nick Hodson, October 2003.

________________________________________________________________________

SHIFTING WINDS, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE COTTAGE AND ITS INMATES.

The family board was spread; the family kettle--an unusually fat one--
was singing on the fire, and the family chimney was roaring like a lion
by reason of the wind, which blew a hurricane outside, and shook the
family mansion, a small wooden hut, to its foundations.

The hour was midnight.  This fact was indicated by the family clock--a
Dutch one, with a face which had once been white, but was now become
greenish yellow, probably from horror at the profanity of the artist who
had painted a basket of unrecognisable fruit above it, an irate cockatoo
below it, and a blue church with a pink steeple as near to the centre of
it as the hands would admit of.

The family circle, consisting of a stout good-looking woman of thirty or
thereabouts, and a little boy and girl, were of the fisher class,
obviously so to the senses of sight and smell.  They sat by the fire.

It was an unusual hour for supper, but then it was an unusually wild
night, and the frequent glance cast by the woman at the Dutch clock with
the horrified countenance, showed clearly that the board was not spread
for the family meal, but that they waited up for some absent one.

I have said that the family circle sat by the fire, but this is not
strictly correct.  One member of it, the little boy, stood in the middle
of the room, howling!--howling so violently that his fat face had
changed from its wonted bright red to deep purple.  Looking at him--as
he stood there arrayed in his uncle's red night-cap, his own
night-shirt, which was also a day-shirt and much too small, and his
father's pea-jacket, which was preposterously too large--one could not
avoid the alarming surmise that there _might_ be such a thing as
juvenile apoplexy, and that that boy was on the point of becoming a
living, if not a dead, example of the terrible disease.

Oh! it was a sweet child, a charming infant, altogether a delightful
creature to look upon, that son of Stephen Gaff, as it stood there
yelling like a hyena, stamping like a mad bull, washing its dirty hands
in tears on its dirtier cheeks, cramming its little knuckles into its
swollen eyes as if it sought to burst the organs of vision in their
sockets, and presenting, generally, an appearance of rampant rage and
woe that baffles all capacity of conception, and therefore defies all
power of description.

This cherub's name was Billy,--Billy Gaff; more familiarly known amongst
his friends as "The Bu'ster," owing to his tendency to explode into
tears, or laughter, or mischief, or fun, as the case might be.  He was
about eleven years of age.

My own name, reader, is Bingley.  Having retired on half-pay from the
Royal Navy, I reside in a pleasant cottage in the suburbs of the
well-known and important seaport town of Wreckumoft, situate on the east
coast of England.  My front windows command a magnificent view of the
sea; my back windows command an equally magnificent view of landscape.
I have a magnificent wife, and she commands the household, myself
included.  There was a time--I reflect on it with melancholy pride and
subdued satisfaction--when I commanded a British seventy-four.  I
command nothing now but my temper.  That, however, is a stronghold from
which nothing terrestrial can drive me.

My friends style me "The Captain," but I am not the hero of this tale.
No, by no means.  I am altogether unheroic in my nature, commonplace in
my character.  If a novelist were to describe me, he would write me down
a stout little old gentleman, with a bald head and a mild countenance;
mentally weak in expression, active in habits, and addicted to pipes and
loose clothing.

Do not imagine that this is my account of myself; no, it is an ideal
resulting from the oft-repeated assurances of my wife, who is a
strong-minded woman, a few inches taller than myself, somewhat raw-boned
and much more powerful, physically, though less rotund.  In fact, if I
were to attempt a brief comprehensive description of her, I would say,
without the most distant feeling of disrespect of course, that she is
square and skinny--singularly so!

Mrs Bingley's contempt for my intellect is excelled, I might almost say
redeemed, by her love for myself.  How she manages to separate between
myself and my intellect I have never been able to understand; but then
she _is_ strong-minded, which perhaps accounts for her seeing farther
into this millstone than I can.  She tells me, not unfrequently, that I
am weak-minded.  She even goes the length at times of calling me
imbecile; but she is a dear good affectionate woman, and I have no
sympathy with the insolent remark I once overheard made by an
acquaintance of mine, to the effect that it was a pity Mrs Bingley had
not been born with a man's hat and trousers on--no, none whatever.

Before dismissing myself, descriptively at least, (for, being an
honorary agent of the Shipwrecked Fishermen and Mariners' Society, and
an actor in some of the scenes which I am about to describe, I cannot
conveniently dismiss myself altogether); before dismissing myself, I
say, it may be as well to explain that my strong-minded wife, in concert
with a number of variously-minded women, (all more or less strong), and
a good many weak and otherwise minded men, have come to form their
opinion of me in consequence of my holding rather strongly a few
opinions of my own--to the effect that there are a good many wrong
things in this world, (admittedly wrong things); a good many muddles; a
good many glaring and outrageous abuses and shameful things the
continuance of which reflects discredit on the nation, and the wiping
out or putting right of which ought, by all means, to be set about
earnestly and at once.

Now, curiously enough, it is the idea conveyed in the last two words--at
once--which sticks in the throats of my strong-minded opponents!  They
agree with me as to the existence of the evils, they honestly deplore
them, but they charge me with mental imbecility when I suggest that
things should be put right _at once_.  They counsel delay, and when the
dispute reaches a certain stage they smile at me with contempt, or pity,
or they storm, according to individual temperament, and usually wind up
with a rasping reiteration of their original opinions, highly peppered
and salted, and an assurance that I have been born at least a century
before my time.

If the men of the next century are destined to do good, "as their hands
find opportunity," without previous delay until thousands of
opportunities are lost and gone for ever; if those who put their hands
to a piece of work shall carry it out with vigour in their _own_
lifetime; if those who counsel delay shall mean due time for full
consideration by _themselves_, and shall _not_ mean an extended
procrastination which shall free themselves from worry, and leave their
work to be handed down as a legacy to their children, who shall likewise
hand it down to _their_ children, and so on _ad infinitum_ until "delay"
shall become a synonym for death and destruction to tens of thousands of
better men than themselves,--if this shall be the sentiment and practice
of the men of next century, then I confess that my sympathies are with
them, and I really suspect that I must have got into the wrong century
by mistake.  But as the position is irremediable now, I suppose I must,
in an imbecile sort of fashion, go on my way rejoicing--if I can--
sorrowing if I cannot rejoice.

Mrs Bingley having more than once threatened to scratch my face when I
have ventured to express the last sentiment, it may be perhaps as well
to change the subject and return to Billy Gaff, the charming child,
_alias_ the Bu'ster.

Billy deserves to be somewhat particularly introduced, because, besides
being an actor in this tale, he was a boy of strong character.  If I
were to sum him up and reduce the total to a concentrated essence, the
result would be a sentence to the following effect:--Billy Gaff had a
will of his own!  Perhaps I should say a very strong will of his own.
For instance, he, on several different occasions, willed to screw off
the spout of the family tea-pot, a pewter one, and, having willed to do
it, he did it.  Again he willed, more than once, to smash a pane of
glass in the solitary window of the family mansion, and he _did_ smash a
pane of glass in that window; nay, more, in consequence of being
heartily whacked for the deed, he immediately willed to smash, _and_
smashed, a second pane, and was proceeding to will and smash a third
when he was caught up by his mother, beaten almost into the condition of
a mummy, and thrust under the clothes of the family bed, which
immediately creaked as if with convulsions, and tossed its blankets
about in apparent agony.

On the present occasion the Bu'ster had awakened out of a sound sleep to
the conviction that he was hungry.  Observing the loaf on the table, he
immediately willed to have a second supper, and arising, donned his
father's pea-jacket, in order to enjoy the meal more thoroughly.

It was the sudden removal of the said loaf by his mother to an
unreachable shelf that induced the youthful Billy to stand in the middle
of the room and howl, as already described.

He was still engaged in emulating the storm, and Mrs Gaff, utterly
indifferent to him, had cast another glance at the horrified clock, and
remarked to her little girl Tottie, that "Uncle John must have found
work on the shore, for he was long of coming," when a heavy tread was
heard in the little porch outside the door.

"Hold yer noise," said Mrs Gaff sternly.

Billy obeyed, not by any means in consequence of the command, but
because he was curious to know who was about to enter, and meant to
resume yelling immediately after his curiosity on this point should be
satisfied.

The door opened, and a strong-built seaman stepped into the room, and
looked at the family with a quiet smile on his sunburnt face.  His hair
and garments were dripping with water, as if he had just walked out of
the sea.

On beholding him the family rose and stood for a moment speechless.
Billy sat down on the floor in that prompt manner which is peculiar to
young children when they lose their balance; simultaneously with the
shock of being seated the word "faither" burst from his lips.  Mrs Gaff
uttered a suppressed cry, and ran into the wet man's arms.  Tottie and
the Bu'ster each ran at a leg, and hugging it violently, squeezed a
cataract of salt water into their respective bosoms.

"Stephen, lad, is't you?" said the wife, raising her head for a moment
and looking up in the man's face.

"Ay, dear lass, wrecked again; but safe home, thank God."

Mrs Gaff was not wont to give way to the melting mood, but she could
not restrain a few tears of joy.  Tottie, observing this, cried from
sympathy; and the Bu'ster, not to be outdone, willed, began, and carried
into execution, a series of true British cheers, that could not have
been surpassed, perhaps could not have been equalled, by any boy of his
age in or out of the Royal Navy.



CHAPTER TWO.

WRECKED, RESCUED, AND RESUSCITATED--MRS. NIVEN RECEIVES A SURPRISE, ALSO
THE GIFT OF A CHILD.

On the same dark tempestuous night of which I write, a little ship was
wrecked on the east coast of England.

She had sailed from the antipodes, had weathered many a gale, had
crossed the great ocean in safety, had sighted the lights and the cliffs
of "home," and was dashed to pieces at last on the rocks within two
hours' sail of the port to which she was bound.

Hundreds of ships, great and small, were wrecked on the coasts of
Britain during that memorable gale.  The little ship to which I refer
was one of the many in regard to which the newspapers said, "she was
dashed to pieces, and all hands perished."

But in this particular case all hands had not perished: two lives had
been spared, unknown to journalists and coastguardsmen.

It was the dead of night when the vessel struck.  The spot was lonely,
at least a mile distant from human habitations.  No anxious eyes on
shore saw her quiver as each successive billow lifted her up and hurled
her cruelly down; no sorrowing ear heard the shriek of despair that rose
above the yelling storm, when, in little more than ten minutes, the
vessel broke up, and left the crew and passengers to perish within sight
of their native land.

There was one man among the number who did not shriek, who did not
despair.  He was not a hero of romance whose soul raised him above the
fear of sudden death--no, he was only a true-hearted British tar, whose
frame was very strong, whose nerves were tightly strung and used to
danger.  He had made up his mind to save his life if he could; if he
should fail--what then?  He never thought of "what then," because, in
regard to terrestrial matters, he had not been accustomed to cast his
thoughts so far in advance of present exigencies.

Just before the ship broke up, this man was standing on the lee bulwark,
holding by the shrouds of the mainmast, the lower part of which was
still standing.  A lady and gentleman clung to each other, and to the
rigging close beside him.  They were husband and wife.  Both were
comparatively young, and up to that night had been full of hope and high
spirits.  The husband with his right arm encircled his wife, and grasped
the rigging; with his left, he pressed their little girl to his breast
over which flowed the fair hair of the little one, drenched and
dishevelled.

The father was a brave man and strong, but his face was very pale, for
he felt that courage and strength could not avail to save both wife and
child in such a raging sea.  An occasional upward glance of his eye
seemed to indicate that he sought comfort from God in his extremity.

"You'll never manage 'em both, sir; let me have the child," said the
strong seaman, suddenly grasping the little girl, and attempting to
unlock her arms which were tightly clasped round her father's neck.

The father hesitated, but a terrific wave was rushing towards the doomed
ship.  Without even the comfort of a hurried kiss he resigned the child.
The young mother stretched out her arms towards her, uttering a piteous
cry.  At that moment the ship rose on the billow's crest as if it were
no heavier than a flake of the driving foam--a crash followed--it was
gone, and the crew were left struggling in the sea.

The struggle was short with most of them.  Previous exposure and anxiety
had already quite exhausted all but the strongest among the men, and
even these were unable to withstand the influence of the ice-cold water
more than a few seconds.  Some were struck by portions of the wreck and
killed at once.  Others sank without an effort to save themselves.  A
few swam with unnatural vigour for a yard or two, and then went down
with a gurgling cry; but in a very few minutes the work of death was
complete.  All were gone except the strong seaman, who clasped the
little child in his left arm and buffeted the billows with his right.

Once and again were they overwhelmed; but as often did they rise above
the foam to continue the battle.  It was a terrible fight.  A piece of
wreck struck the man on his back and well-nigh broke it; then a wave
arched high above them, fell with a crash, and drove them nearly to the
bottom, so that the child was rendered insensible, and the strong man
was nearly choked before he rose again to the surface to gasp the
precious air.  At last a wave broke behind them, caught them on its
crest, and hurled them on a beach of sand.  To cling to this while the
water retired was the fiercest part of the conflict--the turning-point
in the battle.  The wave swept back and left the man on his hands and
knees.  He rose and staggered forward a few paces ere the next wave
rushed upon him, compelling him to fall again on hands and knees and
drive his bleeding fingers deep down into the shingle.  When the water
once more retired, he rose and stumbled on till he reached a point above
high-water mark, where he fell down in a state of utter exhaustion, but
still clasping the little one tightly to his breast.

For some time he lay there in a state of half-consciousness until his
strength began to revive; then he arose, thanking God in an audible
voice as he did so, and carried the child to a spot which was sheltered
in some degree by a mass of cliff from the blinding spray and furious
gale.  Here he laid her with her face downwards on a grassy place, and
proceeded to warm his benumbed frame.

Vitality was strong in the sailor.  It needed only a few seconds'
working of the human machine to call it into full play.  He squeezed the
water out of his jacket and trousers, and then slapped his arms across
his chest with extreme violence, stamping his feet the while, so that he
was speedily in a sufficiently restored condition to devote his
attention with effect to the child, which still lay motionless on the
grass.

He wrung the water out of her clothes, and chafed her feet, hands, and
limbs, rapidly yet tenderly, but without success.  His anxiety while
thus employed was very great; for he did not know the proper method to
adopt in the circumstances, and he felt that if the child did not revive
within a few minutes, all chance of her recovery would be gone.  The
energy of his action and the anxiety of his mind had warmed his own
frame into a glow.  It suddenly occurred to him that he might make use
of this superabundant heat.  Opening the little frock in front, he
placed the child's breast against his own, and held it there, while with
his right hand he continued to chafe her limbs.

In a few minutes he felt a flutter of the heart, then a gentle sigh
escaped from the blue lips; the eyelids quivered, and finally the child
revived.

"D'ye feel gettin' better, Emmie?" said the man, in a low, soft voice.

A faint "yes" was all the reply.

The seaman continued his efforts to instil warmth into the little frame.
Presently the same question was repeated, and the child looking up,
said--

"Is that 'oo, Gaff?"

"Ay, dear, 'tis me."

"Where am I--where's mamma?" inquired Emmie, looking round in some
degree of alarm.

"Hush, dear; don't speak just now.  I've just brought 'ee ashore fro'
the wreck, an' am goin' to tak 'ee home.  Try to sleep, dear."

Gaff wrapped his jacket round the child, and hurried away in search of
the highroad.  He knew the place well.  He had been wrecked on a reef
within two miles of his native hamlet, and within three of the town of
Wreckumoft.  He soon found the road, and broke from a fast walk into a
run.  The child lay quietly in his arms, either being too much exhausted
to speak, or having fallen asleep.

The man muttered to himself as if in perplexity--

"It'll never do to tak 'er home wi' me.  She'd remember us, and that
would let the secret out.  No, I'll tak 'er straight there."

Gaff reached his native village as he came to this resolve.  It was all
astir.  Three ships had been cast on the rocks there within a hundred
yards of each other.  The lifeboat was out; the rocket apparatus had
that moment arrived from the neighbouring town, and was being dragged on
its waggon through the village to the scene of danger.  All the men, and
many of the women and children of the place, were on the beach, while
eager groups of those who could not face the storm were collected in
doorways and sheltered places, awaiting news from the shore.  Many of
these had anxious faces, for they knew their kinsmen, the fishermen of
the place, to be bold, daring fellows, who would not hesitate to risk
life and limb to save a fellow-creature from death.

Stopping a moment at the outskirts of the village, Gaff laid down his
burden, and tied a large blue cotton kerchief round his neck, so as to
cover his mouth and chin.  By pulling his sou'wester cap well over his
eyes, he concealed his face so effectually that little more than the
point of his nose was visible.  Not satisfied, however, with his
disguise, he climbed a fence and struck into a bypath, which enabled him
to avoid the village altogether.

Setting off at a quick pace, he soon regained the highroad beyond the
village, and did not pause until he came to a large iron gate which
opened into the shrubbery in front of a handsome villa.  He went
straight up to the front door and rang the bell.

Of course, at such an hour, the family had retired to rest, and it is
probable that in ordinary circumstances Gaff would have had to wait a
considerable time before an answer should have been given to his
summons.  But on this night, the only son and heir of the family,
Kenneth by name, knowing that wrecks were likely to occur on the coast,
and being of a bold, romantic, restless disposition, had mounted his
horse and ridden away, accompanied by his groom, in search of adventure.

The housekeeper of the family, usually styled Mrs Niven, being
devotedly attached to this son and heir, had resolved to sit up all
night and await his return.  Mrs Niven had prophesied confidently for
the previous ten years, that "Master Kenneth was certain to be drownded
sooner or later, if 'e didn't come to die before;" and being fully
persuaded of the truth of her prophetic powers, she conscientiously
waited for and expected the fulfilment of her own prophecy.

At the moment when Gaff rang the bell she was awaiting it in a chair in
front of a good fire, with her feet on the fender and sound asleep.  It
would be more correct to say that Mrs Niven was in a state of mixed
sleep and suffocation, for her head hung over the back of the chair,
and, being very stout, there was only just sufficient opening in the
wind-pipe to permit of her breath passing stertorously through her
wide-open mouth.

The first summons passed unheard; the second caused Mrs Niven to open
her eyes and shut her mouth, but she could not rise by reason of a crick
in her neck.  An angry shout, however, of "why don't you answer the
bell?" from the master of the family, caused her to make a violent
struggle, plunge her head into her lap, by way of counteracting the
crick, rush up-stairs, and fling open the door.

"I know'd it," exclaimed Mrs Niven wildly, on beholding a wet sailor
with a bundle in his arms; "I always said he would be--goodness me! it's
only his trunk," she added in horror, on observing that the bundle was a
rough jacket without head or legs!

"Clap a stopper on your jaw, woman," said Gaff impatiently.  "Is this
Seaside Villa--Mr Stuart's?"

"It is," replied Mrs Niven, trembling violently.

Gaff quickly removed the jacket, kissed the child's pale cheek, and laid
her in Mrs Niven's ready arms.

"She ain't dead surely, sir?" inquired the housekeeper.

"No, bin saved from a wreck an' half drownded!  She'll come to in a
bit--tak' care of 'er."

Gaff turned on his heel as he hastily uttered these words, ran down the
garden walk and disappeared, leaving Mrs Niven standing at the open
door in a state of speechless amazement, with the unconscious Emmie in
her arms and pressed, by reason of an irresistible impulse of motherly
sympathy, to her bosom.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE COTTAGE AT COVE INVADED--DAN HORSEY SPEAKS "TOORKO" TO RUSSIANS, AND
FAILS TO ENLIGHTEN THEM.

Retracing his steps hastily to the village of Cove, Stephen Gaff sought
out his own humble cottage, which, during his absence on his frequent
voyages, was left under the charge of his fisherman brother-in-law, John
Furby.  Presenting himself at the door, he created the family sensation
which has been described at the end of the first chapter.

The first violent demonstrations of surprise and joy over, Mrs Gaff
dragged her husband into a small closet, which was regarded by the
household in the light of a spare room, and there compelled him to
change his garments.  While this change was being made the volatile
Bu'ster, indignant at being bolted out, kicked the door with his heel
until he became convinced that no good or evil could result from the
process.  Then his active mind reverted to the forbidden loaf, and he
forthwith drew a chair below the shelf on which it lay.  Upon the chair
he placed a three-legged stool, and upon the stool an eight-inch block,
which latter being an unstable foundation, caused Billy to lose his
balance when he got upon it.  The erection instantly gave way, and fell
with a hideous crash.  Tottie, who stood near, gazing at her brother's
misdeeds, as was her wont, in awe-stricken admiration, was overwhelmed
in the debris.

Nothing daunted, the Bu'ster "returned to the charge," and fell a second
time,--with the loaf, however, in his arms.

"Hah!" exclaimed Mrs Gaff, issuing from the spare room, and rushing at
her offspring with uplifted hand.

"Stop, lass," said Stephen, arresting her, and catching up the boy, whom
he placed on his knee as he sat down in a chair beside the fire.  "How
are 'ee, Billy, my lad?"

Billy, glaring defiance at his mother, who returned the glare with
interest in the shape of a united shake of the fist and head, replied
that he was "fuss'rate."

Tottie having immediately claimed, and been put in possession of the
other knee, divided her father's attention, and while the goodwife
busied herself in preparing the supper, which had been originally
intended for "Uncle John," a quick fire of question and reply of the
most varied and unconnected sort was kept up by the trio at the fire, in
tones, and accompanied by hugs and gestures, which proved beyond all
doubt that Stephen Gaff was a father of the right kind, and that the
little ones hailed him as an inestimable addition to their household
joys.

It would be unjust to Mrs Gaff were I to permit the reader to suppose
that she was a disagreeable contrast to the father.  She was
true-hearted and loving, but she had been born and bred in the midst of
a class of people whose manners are as rough as their calling, and was
by no means tender or considerate.  A terrific scream, or a knock-down
slap, from Mrs Gaff, was regarded both by giver and recipient in much
the same light as is a mild reproof in more polite society.

"Wrecked again, Stephen," said Mrs Gaff, pausing in her occupation, and
recurring to the remark made by her husband when he first entered the
room, "where have 'ee bin wrecked this time?"

"A'most at the door, lass, on the Black Rock."

"Ay, an' was all the rest saved?" inquired the wife.

"No, none of 'em.  A' lost save one, a little child."

"A child, lad!" exclaimed the wife in surprise; "what have 'ee done wi'
it?"

"Took it to its friends."

As he said this the sailor gave his wife a look which induced her to
refrain from further questioning on that subject.

"An' who saved ye, Stephen?"

"God saved me," replied the man, earnestly.

"True, lad; but was there none o' the boys there to lend a hand?"

"No, none.  It puzzled me a bit," said Stephen, "for the lads are wont
to be on the look-out on a night like this."

"It needn't puzzle ye, then," replied the wife, as she set a chair for
her husband at the table, and poured out a cup of tea, "for there's bin
two sloops an' a schooner on the rocks off the pier-head for three hours
past, an' a' the lads are out at them,--Uncle John among the rest.
They've made him coxswain o' the new lifeboat since ye last went to
sea."

Stephen set down the cup, which he had just raised to his lips,
untasted, and rose hastily.

"Wrecks at the pier-head, lass," he exclaimed, "and you let me sit here
idle!"

"Don't go, Stephen," entreated Mrs Gaff; "you're not fit to do anything
after sitch a night, an' its o'er late."

The man paid no attention to the remonstrance, but buttoned up his coat,
and seized his cap.

Mrs Gaff promptly locked the door with an air of thorough
determination, put the key in her bosom, and crossed her arms thereon
tightly.

Stephen smiled slightly as he turned, raised the window, and leaped
through it into the road, followed by a vociferous cheer from Billy,
whose spirit was wildly stirred by the boldness and success of the
movement, and mightily rejoiced at the discomfiture of his mother.

Mrs Gaff relieved her feelings by slapping the Bu'ster's face, and was
about to close the window when her husband quietly stepped through it
again, saying--

"Open the door, lass, you've no need to fear; I'll remain now."

There was a trampling of many feet outside.  The door had scarcely been
unlocked when they were in the passage.  Next moment four fishermen
entered, bearing the figure of a man in their arms.

"He an't drownded, lass, only swownded," said one of the men to Mrs
Gaff, with the view of relieving the good woman's anxiety, as they laid
a seaman on the bed.  "Look alive now, old girl, an' git hot blankets
an' bottles."

While Mrs Gaff obeyed in silent haste, the room was filled with men,
some of whom supported or half-carried others, whose drooping heads,
torn garments, and haggard faces, showed that they had just been rescued
from the angry sea.  None of them were more than partially clothed; some
were nearly naked.  With excited haste the fishermen crowded the wrecked
men round the fire, and spread blankets and sails, or whatever came
first to hand, on the floor for those who were most exhausted to lie
down upon, while Stephen Gaff poured hot tea and hot grog
indiscriminately into cups, saucers, pannikins, and soup-plates, and
urged them to drink with rough but kindly hospitality.

The wrecked men, (there were twelve of them), were Russians, and as a
matter of course could not understand a word that was said to them,
although some of the fishermen asked them, with as much earnestness as
if their lives depended on the answer, "Who--they--wos--an'--whar'--
they--com'd--fro'?"

Receiving for reply a stare and a shake of the head from such of the men
as were able to attend, one of the fishermen tried them again with great
precision and slowness of speech, and with much solemnity of manner,
"What--part--o' the arth--d'ye hail fro',--lads?"

No answer, accompanied by a stare and a shake.

"Oh, it's o' no use," cried one, "let the poor lads a-be."

"Hallo!  Dan," cried another, as a man forced his way through the
crowded room towards the fire, "you've bin in Toorkey, I believe; I say,
try them fellers wi' a screed o' Toorko.  P'raps they'll make _that_
out."

The individual addressed was very different from the men amongst whom he
stood.  He was a thin, slightly-made, yet strong and active young man,
in a very short grey coat, a very long striped vest, and very tight
corduroy trousers--a sort of compound of footman and jockey.  In truth,
Daniel Horsey was both; being at once valet and groom to the romantic
Kenneth, whose fate it was, (according to the infallible Mrs Niven), to
be "drownded."

Dan's first inquiry was as to whether any one had seen his master, and
the tones in which the question was put betokened him, beyond all doubt,
a son of the Green Isle.

Being told that no one had seen his master, he was about to leave the
hut in quest of him when he was collared by several stout men, and
placed forcibly in front of a Russian with a huge red beard, who
appeared to be the least exhausted of the party.

"Come now, Dan, say somethin' to them Roosians."

"Arrah! d'ye think I'll spake a word av ye stick yer great ugly fists
into my jooglar veins like that?  Hands off," he cried indignantly, "or
niver a taste o' spaitch ye'll git from me, bad or good.  Besides, what
duv _I_ know about Roosian?"

"Ye've bin in Toorkey, han't ye?" inquired a fisherman.

"Troth I have, an' what o' that?" replied Dan, as his captors released
their hold of his collar.

"Ye can speak Toorko, can't ye?"

"Maybe I can," he replied cautiously.

"Well, I'm told that Toorkey lies to the suthard o' Roosia, just as
England lies to the suthard o' Scotland, an' so, mayhap, they'll
understand a bit Toorko."

"Faix, av they don't understand Thoorko better nor the English
understand Scotch, it's little speed I'll come wi' them," said Dan with
a leer.  "Howsomediver, I'll give 'em a trial.  I say, Mr Red-beard,
hubba doorum bobble moti squorum howko joski tearum thaddi whak?  Come,
now, avic, let's hear what ye've got to say to that.  An' mind what ye
spake, 'cause we won't stand no blarney here."

Dan uttered this with immense volubility and assurance, and the
fishermen regarded him with deepening respect, as they awaited the
Russian's answer.  He replied by a stare and a shake of the head as
before.

"Hookum daddy," resumed Dan, stooping to gaze earnestly into the man's
face, and placing the thumb of his right hand into the palm of his left,
by way of emphasising his remark, "Hookum daddy, saringo spolli-jaker
tooraloo be japers bang falairo--och!" he added, turning away with a
look of disgust, "he don't understand a word.  I would try him wi'
Frinch, but it's clear as ditch wather that he's half drownded still."

Convinced that Dan Horsey's "Toorko" was of no use, the fishermen at
length allowed him to retire.



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE RESCUE.

While this scene was enacting in the cottage, I was hasting up from the
beach, where the lifeboat men had rendered good service that night.

As the honorary agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, I had been
summoned by a special messenger as soon as it was known that vessels
were on the rocks off the entrance to our harbour.  I was accompanied by
my niece, Lizzie Gordon, who always joined me on such occasions,
carrying with her a basket in which were a flask of brandy, another of
port wine, a bottle of smelling salts, and several small articles which
she fancied might be of use in cases of emergency.  We had called at the
Sailors' Home in passing, to see that they were astir there, and ready
to receive shipwrecked people.  We afterwards remained on the beach,
under the lee of a boathouse, while the lifeboat men saved the crews of
the wrecked vessels.

The work was nobly done!  John Furby, the coxswain, with a sturdy crew
of volunteers--twelve in all--were ready for action, with cork
life-belts and oilskin coats on, when the team of four stout horses came
tearing along the sands dragging the lifeboat after them, assisted and
cheered on by a large crowd of men and boys.  No unnecessary delay
occurred.  Opposite the first wreck, the carriage was wheeled round, so
that the bow of the boat pointed to the sea.  The crew sprang into their
seats, and, shipping the oars, sat ready and resolute.

Immense breakers thundered on the beach, and rushed inland in fields of
gurgling foam that looked like phosphoric light in the darkness.  Into
this the carriage was thrust as far as it could be with safety by many
strong and willing hands.  Then the men in the surf seized the launching
lines, by means of which the boat could be propelled off its carriage.
A peculiar adaptation of the mechanism enabled them, by _pulling
backward_, to force the boat _forward_.  For a moment they stood
inactive as a towering wave rolled in like a great black scroll coming
out of the blacker background, where the sound of the raging storm could
be heard, but where nothing could be seen, save the pale red light which
proved that the wreck still held together.

The sea flew up, almost overwhelming the carriage.  John Furby, standing
at his post by the steering oar, with the light of the small boat-lamp
shining up into his rugged face, gave the word in a clear, strong voice.

"Hurrah!" shouted the men on shore, as they ran up the beach with the
ends of the launching ropes.

The boat sprang into the surf, the crew bent to their oars with all
their might, and kept pace with the rush of the retreating billow, while
the sea drew them out as if it were hungry to swallow them.

The lifeboat met the next breaker end-on; the men, pulling vigorously,
cleft it, and, passing beyond, gained the deep water and disappeared
from view.

The minutes that followed appeared like hours, but our patience was not
long tried.  The boat soon re-appeared, coming in on the crest of a
towering wave, with six saved seamen in her.  As she struck the beach
she was seized by the crowd on shore, and dragged out of danger by main
force.

Thus far all was well.  But there was stern work still to be done.
Having ascertained that the vessel was a collier, and that none of her
crew were lost, I sent the six men with an escort to the Sailors' Home,
and followed the lifeboat, which was already on its way to the second
wreck, not more than five hundred yards from the first.

Here they were equally successful, three men and a boy being rescued
from the vessel, which also proved to be a small collier.  Then the boat
was conveyed to the third wreck, which turned out to be a brig, and was
nearly a mile removed from the harbour, just opposite the fishing
village of Cove.

The crew of the lifeboat being now much exhausted, were obliged to give
up their oars and life-belts to fresh men, who volunteered for the
service in scores.  Nothing, however, would persuade John Furby to
resign his position, although he was nearly worn out with fatigue and
exposure.

Once more the lifeboat dashed into the sea, and once again returned with
a crew of rescued men, who were immediately led up to the nearest hut,
which chanced to be that of Stephen Gaff.  One of the saved men, being
insensible, was carried up and laid in Stephen's bed, as I have already
described.

There was still some uncertainty as to whether all those on board the
wreck had been rescued, so the boat put off again, but soon returned,
having found no one.  As she struck the shore a larger wave than usual
overwhelmed her, and washed the coxswain overboard.  A loud cry burst
from those who witnessed this, and one or two daring fellows, running
into the surf up to their waists, nearly perished in their brave but
vain efforts to grasp the drowning man.

Furby did not struggle.  He had been rendered insensible by the shock,
and although several ropes were thrown to him, and one actually fell
over him, he could make no effort to save himself, as the waves rolled
him inshore and sucked him back again.

At this moment the sound of horses' hoofs was heard on the sands, and my
young friend Kenneth Stuart dashed past us, at full gallop, into the
sea!

Kenneth was a splendid and a fearless rider.  He kept the finest horses
in the neighbourhood.  On this occasion he was mounted on a large strong
chestnut, which he had trained to gallop into a foaming surf.

Checking his pace suddenly, when about knee-deep in the foam, he took up
such a position that the next billow would wash the drowning man within
his reach.

The wave came on.  When about a hundred yards from the spot where the
young horseman stood, it fell with a prolonged roar, and the foam came
sweeping in like a white wall, with the dark form of Furby tossing in
the midst.  The sea rushed furiously upon horse and rider, and the
terrified horse, rearing almost perpendicular, wheeled round towards the
land.  At the same instant the coxswain was hurled against them.
Kenneth seized the mane of his steed with one hand, and grasping Furby
with the other, held on.  The noble charger, swept irresistibly
landward, made frantic efforts to regain his footing, and partially
succeeded before the full force of the retreating water bore back upon
him.

For one moment he stood quivering with the strength of his effort.
Kenneth was very strong, else he had never maintained his grasp on the
collar of the coxswain.

A moment more, and the horse made a plunge forward; then a dozen hands
caught him by bridle and saddle-girth, and almost dragged the trio out
of the sea, while a loud cheer greeted their deliverance.

I ordered four stout men to carry the coxswain to Gaff's cottage,
remaining behind for a few minutes in order to congratulate my young
friend on his escape and success, as well as to see that no other wrecks
had occurred in the neighbourhood.  Having satisfied myself as best I
could on this latter point, I was about to proceed to the cottage when
Kenneth came forward, leading his good horse by the bridle, and offered
his disengaged arm to my niece.

Lizzie thanked him and declined, observing that, after his gallant and
successful rescue of Furby, he must himself stand in need of assistance,
or something to that effect.  I cannot say what his reply was, but I
observed that she immediately afterwards took the proffered arm, and we
all walked up to the hut together.

On reaching it we met Kenneth's groom coming out, he having failed, as
has been shown, to make any impression on the Russians with his Turkish!

I found the place completely filled with men and women, the latter being
in a state of great excitement.

"Here's the agent! make way, lads! here comes Cap'n Bingley," several
voices exclaimed as I entered.

Going to the bed and seeing how matters stood with poor Furby, who had
been placed on his back, I ordered the people to leave the hut, and had
the half-drowned man turned instantly on his face.  The other
half-drowned man, having recovered, was lying on a blanket before the
fire.

"Clear the room, lads," said I firmly, "the man wants fresh air; open
the window, and take these wrecked men up to the Home in town.
Everything is prepared for them there, hot coffee and beds, and a hearty
welcome.  Away with you, now; carry those who can't walk."

With the assistance of Kenneth and his man the hut was soon cleared,
only a few being allowed to remain to aid me in my efforts to recover
the coxswain.

"You see," said I, as I rolled Furby gently and continuously from his
face to his side, in order to produce what I may term artificial
breathing, "it is not good to lay a half-drowned man on his back,
because his tongue will fall into his throat, and prevent the very thing
we want to bring about, namely, respiration.  Go to the foot of the bed,
Kenneth, put your hands under the blankets, and chafe his legs with hot
flannel.  Hold the smelling salts to his nose, Lizzie.  That's it, now.
Mrs Gaff, put more hot bottles about him; see, he begins to breathe
already."

As I spoke the mysterious vital spark in the man began to revive, and
ere long the quivering eyelids and short fitful gasps indicated that
"Uncle John," as the coxswain of the lifeboat was styled by the
household, had recovered.  We gave him a teaspoonful or two of hot
coffee when he was able to swallow, and then prepared to take our leave.

I observed, while I was busy with Furby, that my niece took Mrs Gaff
aside, and appeared to be talking to her very earnestly.  Lizzie was a
lovely girl.  She was tall and slightly formed, with rich brown hair and
a dark clear complexion that might have been almost styled Spanish, but
for the roses which bloomed on her cheeks.  I could not help admiring
the strong contrast between her and the fair face and portly figure of
worthy Mrs Gaff, who listened to what she said with an air of deep
respect.

Little Tottie had taken Lizzie's hand in both of hers, and was looking
up in her face, and the boy Billy was gazing at her with open-mouthed
admiration.  I observed, too, that Kenneth Stuart was gazing at her with
such rapt attention that I had to address him several times before he
heard me!

This I was not surprised at, for I remember to this day the feelings of
pleasure with which I beheld my pretty niece, when, having lost her
father and mother, poor dear! she came to find a home under my roof, and
it was natural she should inspire admiration in a young man like
Kenneth.

My family and the Stuarts had become acquainted only a few weeks before
the events of which I am now writing, and this was the first time that
the young people had met.  They were not altogether unknown to each
other, however, for Lizzie had heard of Kenneth from the fishermen, who
used to speak with interest of his horsemanship and his daring feats in
rescuing drowning people from the sea during the storms that so
frequently visited our coast, and Kenneth had heard of Lizzie, also from
the fishermen, amongst whom she was a frequent visitor, especially when
sickness entered their cots, or when the storm made their wives widows,
and their little ones fatherless.

I had set my heart on seeing these two married.  My dear wife, for the
first time in her life I believe, thoroughly agreed with me in this
wish.  I mention the fact with unalloyed pleasure, as being what I may
term a sunny memory, a bright spot, in a life of subdued though true
happiness.  We neither of us suspected at that time what bitter
opposition to our wishes we were to receive from Kenneth's father, who,
although in many respects a good man, was very stern--unpleasantly
stern.

Having done all that could be done for the wrecked people, Lizzie and I
returned to our residence in Wreckumoft at about four in the morning.

Kenneth insisted on walking with us, sending his man home with his
horse, which Lizzie patted on the neck, and called a noble creature.  It
was quite evident that Kenneth wished that he himself was his own horse
on that occasion--so evident that Lizzie blushed, and taking my arm
hurriedly urged me to go home as it was "very late."

"Very early would be more correct, my dear," said I, "for it is past
four.  You must be tired, Lizzie; it is wrong in me to allow you to
subject yourself to such storms.  Give her your arm, Kenneth."

"If Miss Gordon will accept of it," said the youth approaching her
promptly, "I shall be--"

"No, thank you," said Lizzie, interrupting him and clinging closer to
me; "I am not in the least tired, and your assistance is quite
sufficient, uncle."

I must confess to being surprised at this, for it was quite evident to
me that Kenneth admired Lizzie, and I was pretty certain--so was my dear
wife--that Lizzie admired Kenneth, although of course she never gave us
the slightest hint to that effect, and it seemed to me such a good and
reasonable opportunity for--well, well, I need not bore you, reader,
with my wild ideas, so peculiarly adapted it would seem for the
twentieth century--suffice it to say, that I _was_ surprised.  But if
truth must be told, I have always lived in a state of surprise in regard
to the thoughts and actions of women, and on this particular night I was
doomed to the unpleasant surprise of being received with a sharp rebuke
from Mrs Bingley, who roundly asserted that she would stand this sort
of thing no longer.  That she had no notion of being disturbed at such
unearthly hours by the noisy advent of a disagreeably damp and cold
husband, and that if I intended to continue to be an agent of the
Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, she would insist upon a separate
maintenance!

I was comforted, however, by finding a good fire and a hot cup of coffee
in the parlour for myself and Lizzie, provided by our invaluable
housekeeper, Susan Barepoles, a girl who was worthy of a better name,
being an active, good-looking, cheerful lass.  She was the daughter of
the skipper of one of our coal sloops, named Haco Barepoles, a man of
excellent disposition, but gifted with such a superabundance of animal
spirits, courage, and recklessness, that he was known in the port of
Wreckumoft as Mad Haco.

Much exhausted by one of the hardest nights of toil and exposure I ever
spent, I retired to my room and sought and found repose.



CHAPTER FIVE.

THE BREAKFAST PARTY AT SEASIDE VILLA.

The morning after the storm was bright and beautiful.  The breakers,
indeed, were still thundering on the shore, but otherwise the sea was
calm, and the sun shone into the breakfast parlour of Seaside Villa with
a degree of intensity that might have warmed the heart of an oyster.  It
certainly warmed the heart of the household cat, which, being an early
riser, was first down-stairs, and lay at full length on the rug,
enjoying at once the heat of the glowing fire which tinged its brown
back with red, and the blazing sun which turned its white breast yellow.

Presently a dark cloud entered the room.  It sat on the brow of George
Stuart, Esquire, of Wreckumoft, the head of the family.  Mr Stuart
walked up to the fire and turned his back to it, as if to offer it a
deliberate insult, while yet he accepted all the benefit it could afford
him on that cold December morning.

The cat being in his way, he moved it out of his way with his foot.  He
did it roughly, but he did not exactly kick it, for he was not a cruel,
or naturally unkind man.

Having disposed of the cat, and looked twice at his watch, and blown his
nose three times--the last twice unnecessarily--Mr Stuart rang the bell
with violence.

Mrs Niven entered.

"Why is breakfast not ready?" said the master with asperity.

"Breakfast _is_ ready, sir," replied the housekeeper with dignity.

"Where is my sister, then, and the rest of them?"  The questioner was
partly answered by the abrupt and somewhat flurried entrance of the
sister referred to.

"What's the meaning of this, Peppy?" demanded Mr Stuart with a frown.

"My dear George," said Miss Peppy, bustling about actively, "I really
_am_ sorry, but you know things can't always be just as one would wish,
and then when things _do_ turn out occasionally as one would _not_ wish,
and as one had no expectation of, and, so to speak, without consulting
one at all, (dear me, where _is_ that key?)--and when one can't help
things turning out so, you know, it's really too much to--to--you know
what I mean, brother; come now, be reasonable."

"I do _not_ know what you mean, Peppy," (the lady's name when
unabbreviated was Penelope, but as she never was so named by any one,
she might as well not have had the name at all), "and," continued Mr
Stuart, emphatically, "I would advise _you_ to be reasonable and explain
yourself."

"Dear George, how _can_ you," said Miss Peppy, who talked with great
volubility, and who never for a moment ceased to bustle about the room
in a series of indescribable, as well as unaccountable, not to say
unnecessary, preparations for the morning meal, which had already been
prepared to perfection by Mrs Niven; "you surely don't forget--things
do happen _so_ surprisingly at times--really, you know, I _can not_ see
why we should be subjected to such surprises.  I'm quite sure that no
good comes of it, and then it makes one look _so_ foolish.  Why human
beings were made to be surprised so, _I_ never could understand.  No one
ever sees pigs, or horses, or cows surprised, and they seem to get
through life a great deal easier than we do, at all events they have
less worry, and they never leave their children at their neighbour's
doors and run away--what _can_ have got it?--I'm quite sure I put it
there last night with the thimble and scissors."

Miss Peppy thrust her right hand deep into that mysterious receptacle of
household miscellanies her pocket, and fingered the contents inquiringly
for a few moments.

"What are you looking for?" inquired her brother impatiently.

"The key of the press," said Miss Peppy with a look of weariness and
disappointment.

"What key is that in your left hand?" said Mr Stuart.

"Why, I declare, that's _it_!" exclaimed his sister with a laugh; "there
_is_ no accounting for things.  My whole life is a series of small
surprises and perplexities.  I _wonder_ what I was born for!  It seems
to me so ridiculous that so serious a thing as life should be taken up
with such little trifles."

"What's that you say about trifles, aunt?" asked Kenneth, who entered
the room at the moment, and saluted Miss Peppy on the cheek.

"Nothing, Kennie, nothing worth mentioning," (she seated herself at the
table and began to pour out the tea): "it seems that you have been
saving more lives last night."

"Well, yes, at least I saved _one_," said Kenneth, with a look of
mingled pride and pleasure; "stout John Furby, the coxswain of the new
lifeboat, was knocked overboard and nearly drowned.  Bucephalus and I
chanced to be near the spot at the time, so we managed to pull him out
between us."

"I don't like Bucephalus," observed Miss Peppy, stirring her tea with
her egg-spoon by mistake.

"Don't you, aunt--why?"

"Because he's so big and strong and fierce.  I wonder you can take
pleasure in riding such a great cart-horse, Kennie."

Miss Peppy at this moment discovered her mistake in regard to the
egg-spoon, and rectified it, observing with a look of resignation, that
there _was_ no accounting for the way in which things happened in this
world.

"Don't call my Bucephalus a cart-horse, aunt," said Kenneth, beginning
to eat languidly; "true, he is uncommonly big and strong, but then I am
unusually big too, so we're well matched; and then his limbs are as
delicately turned as those of a racer; and you should see him taking a
five-barred gate, aunt!--he carries me over as if I were a mere feather.
Think of his swimming powers too.  John Furby is not the first man he
has enabled me to drag out of the stormy sea.  Ah! he's a noble horse--
worthy of higher praise than you seem inclined to give him, believe me."

"Well I'm sure I have no objection to the horse if you have none,
Kennie, and it's a good thing for a beast to be able to save human
lives, though why human lives should require to be saved at all is a
mystery that I never could fathom; surely if men would only agree to
give up going to sea altogether, and never build any more ships, there
would be no more drowning, and no need of lifeboats and cork boots--or
coats, I forget which--that enable them to walk on the water, or float
in it, I don't remember which.  I'm sure with all that I have to
remember it's no wonder--what with ridiculous little trifles to worry
one, such as keys, and thimbles, and scissors, when we should be giving
our minds to the solemn realities of life--and then,--as if that were
not enough for any woman's shoulders,--to have a little child left at
one's door."

"Oh, by the way," interrupted Kenneth, "I had quite forgotten the child.
Mrs Niven told me about it, and I looked into the crib as I went up to
bed last night, or rather this morning, and saw that it was sleeping--
somewhat restlessly I fancied.  Who brought it here?"

Mr Stuart, who had hitherto eaten his breakfast in silence, looked at
his sister as if the reply would interest him.

Before the answer could be given the door opened, and a smart handsome
youth of apparently eighteen years of age entered.  His dress bespoke
him a midshipman in the navy, and the hearty familiarity of his manner
showed that he was on intimate terms with the family.

"Gildart, my boy, how are you?" cried Kenneth, springing up and shaking
the youth warmly by both hands.

"Hearty, old fellow, and happy to see my ancient chum.  How d'ye do,
Miss Penelope?  How are ye, Mr Stuart?"

My son Gildart had been Kenneth's favourite companion when they were
boys at school.  They had not met for many years.

"Sit down," said Kenneth, pressing his friend into a chair; "when did
you arrive; where did you come from; what brought you home?--your
appearance is so unexpected!--hope you've come to stay with _us_.  Had
breakfast?"

"Well, now, such a string of 'em to answer all at once," replied Gildart
Bingley, laughing.  "Suppose I try to reply in the same order--came this
morning; direct from China, where we've been sinking junks and peppering
pirates; got leave of absence for a few weeks to run down here and see
the old folks at home; whether I stay with _you_ will depend on the
treatment I receive; I have had breakfast, and came down here supposing
that yours would have been over--but I'm capable of a second meal at any
time; have tried a third occasionally with reasonable success.  Now,
Kennie--I'm not afraid to call you by the old name, you see, although
you _have_ grown so big and manly, not to say fierce--having answered
your questions, will you be so good as to tell me if it's all true that
I hear of your having saved the life of a fisherman last night?"

"It is true that I pulled him out of the sea, aided and abetted by
Bucephalus, but whether all that you have heard of me is true I cannot
tell, not knowing what you have heard.  Who told you of it?"

"Who? why the household of the Bingleys, to be sure--all speaking at
once, and each louder than the other, with the exception of my pretty
coz, by the way, who did not speak at all until the others were out of
breath, and then she gave me such a graphic account of the affair that I
would certainly have forgotten where I was, and been transported to the
scene of action, had not her pretty flushed face and blazing black eyes
riveted me to the spot where I sat.  I actually gave vent to an
irresistible cheer when she concluded.  D'ye know, Kennie, you seem to
have made an impression in that quarter?  I wish I were you!"

The little midshipman sighed, and helped himself to a second slice of
buttered toast.  Kenneth laughed lightly, glanced askance at his father,
and requested another cup of tea.  Mr Stuart glanced at his son,
frowned at his finished egg, and stuck the spoon through the bottom of
the shell as he would have struck a dagger into the hopes of Kenneth,
had he possessed the power.

"Peppy," he said, pushing his cup from him, "before our young friend
arrived, you were speaking of the little boy who was left mysteriously
here last night--"

"It's a girl," interrupted Miss Peppy, "not but that it might have been
a boy, brother, if it had been born so, but one cannot ignore facts, and
to the best of my belief it was a girl last night.  To be sure I was
very sleepy when I saw it, but it may be a boy this morning for all I
know to the contrary.  I'm sure the perplexities that _do_ surround us
in this world!"  (Here Miss Peppy sighed.) "But if there is any doubt on
the question we had better ring for Mrs Niven, and send her up-stairs
to ascertain."

At that moment Mrs Niven entered, and handed a letter to Mr Stuart.

"Niven," said Miss Peppy, who spoke so fast, all in one tone, that no
one had a chance of interrupting her,--"Niven, will you be so good as to
go up-stairs and inquire whether the girl--no, the boy--I--I mean the
young human being, that--"

"La! ma'am," exclaimed the housekeeper in surprise, "why do you call her
a boy?  She's as sweet and lovely a girl as ever my two heyes looked on.
I never saw nothink like 'er golden 'air--it's quite 'eavenly, ma'am,
if I may use the hexpression."

"Oh! she _is_ a girl then? ah!  I thought so," said Miss Peppy, with a
sigh of resignation, as if the fact were a perplexity too deep for
investigation, at least at that time.

"It matters nothing to me," said Mr Stuart sternly, "whether she be a
boy or a girl, I mean to send her to the workhouse."

"Workhouse, brother!" exclaimed Miss Peppy in surprise.

"Workhouse, sir!" echoed Mrs Niven in horror.

"Father!" said Kenneth, remonstratively.

"Mrs Niven," said Mr Stuart, breaking the seal of the letter very
slowly, "you may leave the room.  Sister, I do not choose to have my
intentions commented on in such a manner, especially before the
domestics.  This child I have nothing whatever to do with; it has no
claim on me, and I shall certainly hand it over to the parochial
authorities to be dealt with--"

"According to law," suggested the middy.

"Yes, according to law," assented Mr Stuart with much severity,
applying himself to the letter while the rest of the party rose from
table.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed, with an expression of annoyance, as his eye
fell on the first lines, "I find that Emma and her good-for-nothing
husband will, in all likelihood, be here to-night."

"To-night, father!" said Kenneth, with a look of gladness.

"Probably," replied Mr Stuart.  "The vessel in which they sailed from
Australia was seen off the Lizard yesterday, at least my agent writes
that he thinks it was the `Hawk,' but the fog was too thick to permit of
a clear sight being obtained; so, I suppose, we shall be inflicted with
them and their child to-night or to-morrow."

"To-night or to-morrow, it may be so, _if they have weathered the
storm_," muttered Kenneth in a deep, sad tone.



CHAPTER SIX.

KENNETH INDULGES IN SUSPICIONS AND SURMISES.

"Will you walk or ride?" said Kenneth Stuart as he and Gildart issued
from Seaside Villa, and sauntered down the avenue that led to the
principal gate.

"Ride, by all means," said Gildart, "if you have a respectable horse.  I
love to ride, not only on the `bursting tide,' but on the back of a
thoroughbred, if he's not too tough in the mouth, and don't incline to
shy."

Kenneth replied that he had a mount to give him, which, although not
quite thoroughbred, was nevertheless a good animal, and not addicted to
the bad qualities objected to.

As he spoke Daniel Horsey walked up, and, touching his hat, asked if the
horses would be required.

"Yes, Dan.  Is Bucephalus none the worse of last night's work?"

"Niver a taste, sur.  He's like a lark this mornin'."

"Well, saddle him, and also the brown horse.  Bring them both over to
Captain Bingley's as soon as you can."

"Yis, sur."  Dan touched his cap, and walked smartly away.

"Why to my father's?" asked Gildart.

"Because, after your father and Miss Gordon were exposed to such
unwonted fatigue, I wish to inquire for them personally."

"Humph! you're not satisfied with my assurance that they are well?"

"Not quite, my boy," said Kenneth, with a smile; "I wish to have the
assurance from the lips of your sweet cousin."

"Whew! in love!" exclaimed Gildart.

"No; not in love _yet_," replied the other; "but, to change the subject,
did you observe the manner in which my father received the news of the
arrival of the `Hawk?'"

"Well, it did not require a fellow to have his weather eye _very_
wide-open to perceive that your father has a decided objection to his
son-in-law, and does not seem over anxious to meet with him or his wife
or child.  What have they been up to, Kennie--eloped, eh?"

"No, they did not exactly elope, but they married without my father's
consent, or rather against his wishes, and were discarded in
consequence.  You must not think my father is an unkind man, but he was
deeply disappointed at poor Emma's choice; for, to say truth, her
husband was a wild harum-scarum sort of fellow, fond of
steeple-chasing--"

"Like you," interpolated Gildart.

"Like me," assented Kenneth, with a nod, "and also of yachting and
boating, _like you_."

"Like me," assented the middy.

"Nevertheless," resumed Kenneth, "a good-hearted fellow in the main,
who, I am certain, would have acted his part in life well if he had been
better trained.  But he was spoiled by his father and mother, and I must
admit that poor Tom Graham was not over fond of work."

"Ha!" ejaculated Gildart.

"Hum!" responded his friend, "do either of us, I wonder, perceive in
ourselves any resemblance to him in this latter point?  I suppose it
would require a third party to answer that question truly.  But, to
continue--My father gave Emma, (for he would not consent to see Tom), a
thousand pounds, and dismissed her from his presence, as he said, `for
ever,' but I am convinced that he did not mean what he said, for he
paced about his bedroom the whole of the night after his last interview
with poor Emma, and I heard him groan frequently, although the partition
that separates our rooms is so thick that sounds are seldom heard
through it.  Do you know, Gildart, I think we sometimes judge men
harshly.  Knowing my father as I do, I am convinced that he is not the
cold, unfeeling man that people give him credit for.  He acted, I
believe, under a strong conviction that the course he adopted was that
of duty; he hoped, no doubt, that it would result in good to his child,
and that in the course of time he should be reconciled to her.  I cannot
conceive it possible that any one would cast off his child deliberately
and _for ever_.  Why, the man who could do so were worse than the beasts
that perish."

"I agree with you.  But what came of Tom and Emma?" asked Gildart.

"They went to Australia.  Tom got into business there.  I never could
make out the exact nature of it, but he undoubtedly succeeded for a
time, for Emma's letters to me were cheerful.  Latterly, however, they
got into difficulties, and poor Emma's letters were sad, and came less
frequently.  For a year past she has scarcely written to me at all.  Tom
has never written.  He was a high-spirited fellow, and turned his back
on us all when my father cast him and Emma off."

"Humph!" ejaculated Gildart, "nevertheless his high spirit did not
induce him to refuse the thousand pounds, it would seem."

"You wrong him, Gildart; Emma knew him well, and she told me that she
had placed the money in a bank in her own name, without telling him of
it.  Any success that attended him at first was the result of his own
unaided energy and application to business.  It is many years now since
they went away.  Some time ago we heard that they, with their only
daughter, little Emma, were coming back to England, whether in wealth or
in poverty I cannot tell.  The vessel in which they were to sail is
named the `Hawk,' and that is the ship that my father has heard of as
having been seen yesterday."

"How comes it, Kenneth, that you have never opened your lips to me on
this subject during our long acquaintance?  I did not know even that you
had a sister."

"Why, to say truth, the subject was not one on which I felt disposed to
be communicative.  I don't like to talk of family squabbles, even to my
most intimate friends."

"So we may look for some family breezes and squalls ere long, if not
gales," said Gildart with a laugh.

Kenneth shook his head gravely.

"I fear much," said he, "that the `Hawk' was exposed to last night's
gale; she must have been so if she did not succeed in making some
harbour before it came on; but I cannot shake off the feeling that she
is wrecked, for I know the vessel well, and practical men have told me
that she was quite unseaworthy.  True, she was examined and passed in
the usual way by the inspectors, but every one knows that _that_ does
not insure the seaworthiness of vessels."

"Well, but even suppose they _have_ been wrecked," suggested Gildart,
"it does not follow that they have been drowned."

"I don't know," replied the other in a low voice--"I have a strange,
almost a wild suspicion, Gildart."

"What may that be?"

"That the little girl who was left so mysteriously at our door last
night is my sister's child," said Kenneth.

"Whew!" whistled the midshipman, as he stopped and gazed at his friend
in surprise; "well, that _is_ a wild idea, so wild that I would advise
you seriously to dismiss it, Kennie.  But what has put it into your
head?--fancied likeness to your sister or Tom, eh?"

"No, not so much that, as the fact that she told Niven last night that
her name is Emmie."

"That's not Emma," said Gildart.

"It is what I used to call my sister, however; and besides that there is
a seaman named Stephen Gaff, who, I find, has turned up somewhat
suddenly and unaccountably last night from Australia.  He says he has
been wrecked; but he is mysterious and vague in his answers, and do what
I will I cannot get rid of the idea that there is some connexion here."

"It is anxiety, my boy, that has made you think in this wild fashion,"
said Gildart.  "Did I not hear Mrs Niven say that the child gave her
name as Emmie Wilson?"

"True, I confess that the name goes against my idea; nevertheless I
cannot get rid of it, so I mean to canter to-day down to Cove, where
Gaff stays, and have a talk with him.  We can go together by the road
along the top of the cliffs, which is an exceedingly beautiful one.
What say you?"

"By all means: it matters nothing to me what course you steer, so long
as we sail in company.  But pray don't let the fascinating Lizzie detain
you too long.  Oh! you need not laugh as if you were invulnerable.  I'll
engage to say that you'll not come away under an hour if you go into the
house without making me a solemn promise to the contrary."

"Why, Gildart, it strikes me that _you_ must be in love with your
fascinating cousin from the way in which you speak."

"Perhaps I am," said the middy, with a tremendous sigh; "but come, here
we are, and the horses at the door before us; they must have been
brought round by the other road.  Now, then, promise that you'll not
stay longer than half an hour."

Kenneth smiled, and promised.

On entering my residence, which had been named, by Mrs Bingley's
orders, "Bingley Hall," the young men found my pretty niece coming down
the staircase in that most fascinating of all dresses, a riding-habit,
which displayed her neat and beautifully rounded figure to perfection.
Lizzie could not be said to blush as she bowed acknowledgment to
Kenneth's salutation, for a blush, unless it were a _very_ deep one,
usually lost itself among the blush roses that at all times bloomed on
her cheek; but she smiled with great sweetness upon the stalwart youth,
and informed him that, having just been told that John Furby was still
suffering from the effects of his recent accident, she had ordered out
her pony and was about to ride down to Cove to see him.

Kenneth began to remark on the curious coincidence that he too had come
out with the intention of riding down to the same place; but the
volatile middy burst in with--

"Come, Lizz, that's jolly, we're bound for the same port, and can set
sail in company; whether we keep together or not depends on
circumstances, not to mention wind and weather.  I rather think that if
we take to racing, Bucephalus and Kenneth will be there first."

"Bucephalus is always well behaved in the company of ladies, which is
more than I can say of you, Gildart," retorted his friend, as he opened
the door to let Lizzie Gordon pass out.

"And we won't race, good cousin," said Lizzie, "for my uncle is to ride
with me, and you know he is not fond of going very fast."

"How d'ye know that, lass?" said I, coming down-stairs at the moment;
"not a few of my friends think that I go much too fast for this
century--so fast, indeed, that they seem to wonder that I have not
ridden ahead of them into the next!  How d'ye do, Kenneth?  Gildart was
not long of finding you out, I see."

Saying this, I mounted my cob and cantered down the avenue of Bingley
Hall, followed by the young people, whose fresh and mettlesome steeds
curvetted and pranced incessantly.

It may be as well to remark here, good reader, that at the time of which
I write I was unacquainted, as a matter of course, with many of the
facts which I am now narrating: they were made known to me piecemeal in
the course of after years.  I feel that this explanation is necessary in
order to account for my otherwise unaccountable knowledge of things that
were said and done when I was not present.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

LIZZIE GORDON IS RUN AWAY WITH, AND GAFF IS "PUMPED".

The road to the Cove lay along the top of the cliffs, and was in many
parts exceedingly picturesque; now passing, in the form of a mere
bridle-path, along the verge of the precipices, where thousands of
sea-gulls floated around the giddy heights, or darted down into the
waves which fell on shingly beach, or promontory, or bay of yellow sand,
far below; anon cutting across the grassy downs on some bold headland,
or diverging towards the interior, and descending into a woody dell in
order to avoid a creek or some other arm of the sea that had cleft the
rocks and intruded on the land.

The day was sunny and sufficiently warm to render a slow pace agreeable
to my nag, which was a sedate animal, inclined to corpulency like
myself.  My young companions and their horses were incapable of
restraining themselves to my pace, so they dashed on ahead at intervals,
and sometimes came back to me at full gallop.  At other times they
dismounted and stood on the cliffs looking at the view of the sea, which
appeared to them, as it has always been to me, enchanting.

I think a view from a high cliff of the great blue sea, dotted with the
white and brown sails of ships and boats, is one of the grandest as well
as the most pleasant prospects under the sun.

Kenneth Stuart thought so too, for I heard him make use of that or some
similar expression to Lizzie as he stood beside her talking earnestly,
in spite of the light and jocular remarks of my son, who stood at
Lizzie's other side commenting on things in general with that easy
freedom of speech which is characteristic of middies in the British
navy, although not entirely confined to them.

The party had dismounted, and Kenneth held Lizzie's horse by the bridle,
while Gildart held his own.  Bucephalus was roaming at large.  His
master had trained him so thoroughly that he was as obedient as a dog.
He followed Kenneth about, and would trot up to him when he whistled.  I
don't think I ever saw such a magnificent horse, as to size, beauty, and
spirit, coupled with docility, either before or since.

"Why, uncle, we thought you must have gone to sleep," said Lizzie,
turning towards me with a laugh as I rode up.

"Or fallen over the cliffs," added Gildart.

"In either case you would not have taken it much to heart, apparently,"
said I; "come, mount and push on."

Lizzie placed her little foot in Kenneth's hand, and was in the saddle
like a flash of thought, and with the lightness of a rose-leaf.
Gildart, being a little fellow, and his horse a tall one, got into the
saddle, according to his own statement, as a lands-man clambers into the
main-top through the "lubber's hole" in a squall; and I think the idea
was not far-fetched, for, during the process of mounting, his steed was
plunging like a ship in a heavy sea.  Bucephalus came up at once when
whistled to.

"You seem very fond of your horse," said Lizzie, as Kenneth vaulted into
the saddle.

"I _love_ him," replied the youth enthusiastically.

"You love other creatures besides horses," thought I; but the thought
had barely passed through my brain when Lizzie went off like an arrow.
Kenneth sprang forward like a thunderbolt, and Gildart followed--if I
may so speak--like a zig-zag cracker.  Now, it chanced that Lizzie's
horse was in a bad humour that morning, so it ran away, just as the
party came to a grassy slope of half a mile in extent.  At the end of
this slope the road made a sharp turn, and descended abruptly to the
beach.  Kenneth knew that if the horse came to this turn at a furious
gallop, nothing could save Lizzie from destruction.  He therefore took
the only course open to him, which was to go by a short cut close along
the edge of the cliff, and thus overshoot and intercept the runaway.  He
dashed spurs into Bucephalus, and was off like an arrow from a bow.
There was but one point of danger--a place where the bridle-path was
crossed by a fence, beyond which the road turned sharp to the left.  The
risk lay in the difficulty of making the leap and the turn almost at the
same instant.  To fail in this would result in horse and man going over
the cliff and being dashed to pieces.  On they went like the wind, while
my son and I followed as fast as we could.

"Bravo, Kenneth!" shouted Gildart, as Bucephalus took the fence like a
deer, and disappeared.

Gildart did not know the dangers of the leap: I did, and hastened to the
spot with a feeling of intense alarm.  On reaching it I saw Kenneth
flying far down the slope.  He was just in time; a few seconds more, and
Lizzie would have been lost.  But the bold youth reached the road in
time, caught her bridle, reined the horse almost on his haunches, then
turned him gradually aside until he galloped with him to a place of
safety.

This episode induced us to ride the rest of the way in a more leisurely
fashion.

Arrived at Cove, we each went on our several pieces of business,
arranging to meet at the north end of the village in about an hour
afterwards.

Kenneth found Stephen Gaff at home.  Leaving Lizzie to make inquiry as
to the health of John Furby, he took the seaman out and walked towards
the Downs.

"Well, Stephen, you have been wrecked again, I am told?" said Kenneth.

"So I have, sir; it's the sixth time now.  It's quite plain I ain't born
to be drownded.  I only hope as how I won't live to be hanged."

"I hope not, Stephen.  What was the name of the ship?"

"The `Fairy Queen.'"

"The `Fairy Queen,'" echoed Kenneth, with a slight feeling of
disappointment; "from Australia?"

"Yes, from Australia."

"Did she go to pieces?"

"Ay, not an inch of her left.  She was an old rotten tub not fit for
sea."

"Indeed!  That's by no means an uncommon state of things," said Kenneth,
with some degree of warmth.  "It seems to me that until men in power
take the matter up, and get a more rigid system of inspection
instituted, hundreds of lives will continue to be sacrificed every year.
It is an awful thing to think that more than a thousand lives are lost
annually on our shores, and that because of the indifference of those
who have the power, to a large extent, to prevent it.  But that is not
the point on which I want to speak to you to-day.  Was the `Fairy Queen'
bound for this port?"

"No; for the port of London," said Gaff, with a cautious glance at his
questioner.

"Then why did she make for Wreckumoft?" inquired Kenneth.

"That's best known to the cap'n, who's gone to his long home," said Gaff
gravely.

"Were _all_ lost except yourself?" pursued Kenneth, regarding his
companion's face narrowly; but the said face exhibited no expression
whatever as its owner replied simply--

"It's more than _I_ can tell; mayhap some of 'em were carried away on
bits o' wreck and may turn up yet."

"At all events none of them came ashore, to your knowledge?"

"I believe that every mother's son o' the crew wos lost but me," replied
Gaff evasively.

"Were none of the children saved?"

"What child'n?" asked the other quickly.  "I didn't say there was
child'n aboord, did I?"

Kenneth was somewhat confused at having made this slip; and Gaff,
suddenly changing his tactics, stopped short and said--

"I tell 'ee wot it is, young man--seems to me you're pumpin' of me for
some ends of yer own as I'm not acquainted with; now, I tell 'ee wot it
is, I ain't used to be pumped.  No offence meant, but I ain't used to be
pumped, an' if you've got anything to say, speak it out fair and above
board like a man."

"Well, well, Gaff," said Kenneth, flushing and laughing at the same
moment, "to say truth, I am not used to pump, as you may see, nor to be
otherwise than fair and aboveboard, as I hope you will believe; but the
fact is that a very curious thing has occurred at our house, and I am
puzzled as well as suspicious, and _very_ anxious about it."

Here Kenneth related all that he knew about the little girl having been
left at Seaside Villa, and candidly admitted his suspicion that the
child was his niece.

"But," said Gaff, whose visage was as devoid of expression as a fiddle
figure-head, "your brother-in-law's name was Graham, you know."

"True, that's what puzzles me; the child's Christian name is Emma--the
same as that of my niece and sister--but she says her last name is
Wilson."

"Well, then, Wilson ain't Graham, you know, any more nor Gaff ain't
Snooks, d'ye see?"

"Yes, I see; but I'm puzzled, for I _do_ see a family likeness to my
sister in this child, and I _cannot_ get rid of the impression, although
I confess that it seems unreasonable.  And the thought makes me very
anxious, because, if I were correct in my suspicion, that would prove
that my beloved sister and her husband are drowned."

Kenneth said this with strong feeling, and the seaman looked at him more
earnestly than he had yet done.

"Your father was hard on your sister and her husband, if I bean't
misinformed," said Gaff.

"He thought it his duty to be so," answered Kenneth.

"And you agreed with him?" pursued Gaff.

"No, never!" cried the other indignantly.  "I regretted deeply the
course my father saw fit to pursue.  I sympathised very strongly with my
dear sister and poor Tom Graham."

"Did you?" said Gaff.

"Most truly I did."

"Hum.  You spoke of suspicions--wot was your suspicions?"

"To be candid with you, then," said Kenneth, "when I came to see you I
suspected that it was _you_ who left that child at our house, for I
heard of your sudden re-appearance in Cove, but I am convinced now that
I was wrong, for I know you would not tell me a falsehood, Gaff."

"No more I would, sir," said Gaff, drawing himself up, "and no more I
_did_; but let me tell to you, sir, nevertheless, that your suspicions
is c'rect.  _I_ left Emmie Wilson at your house, and Emmie Wilson _is_
Emma Graham!"

Kenneth stopped and looked earnestly at his companion.

"My sister and brother?" he asked in a low suppressed voice.

"Dead, both of 'em," said Gaff.

With a mighty effort Kenneth restrained his feelings, and, after walking
in silence for some time, asked why Gaff had concealed this from his
family, and how it happened that the child did not know her proper name.

"You see, sir," replied the sailor, "I've know'd all along of your
father's ill-will to Mr Graham and his wife, for I went out with them
to Australia, and they tuk a fancy to me, d'ye see, an' so did I to
them, so we made it up that we'd jine company, pull in the same boat, so
to speak, though it _was_ on the land we was goin' and not the sea.
There's a proverb, sir, that says, `misfortin makes strange bed
fellows,' an' I 'spose it's the same proverb as makes strange messmates;
anyhow, poor Tom Graham, he an' me an' his wife, we become messmates,
an' of course we spun no end o' yarns about our kith and kin, so I found
out how your father had treated of 'em, which to say truth I warn't
s'prised at, for I've obsarved for years past that he's hard as nails,
altho' he _is_ your father, sir, an' has let many a good ship go to the
bottom for want o' bein' properly found--"

"You need not criticise my father, Gaff," said Kenneth, with a slight
frown.  "Many men's sins are not so black as they look.  Prevailing
custom and temptation may have had more to do with his courses of action
than hardness of heart."

"I dun know _that_," said Gaff, "hows'ever, I don't mean for to
krittysise him, though I'm bound to say his sins is uncommon dark grey,
if they ain't black.  Well, I wos a-goin' to say that Mr Graham had
some rich relations in Melbourne as he didn't want for to see.  He was a
proud man, you know, sir, an' didn't want 'em to think he cared a stiver
for 'em, so he changed his name to Wilson, an' let his beard an'
mowstaches grow, so that when he put his cap on there was nothin' of him
visible except his eyes and his nose stickin' out of his face, an' when
his hair grew long, an' his face was tanned wi' the sun, his own mother
would have cut him dead if she'd met him in the street.

"Well, we worked a year in Melbourne to raise the wind.  Tom, (he made
me call him Tom, sir), bein' a clever fellow, got into a store as a
clerk, an' I got work as a porter at the quays; an' though his work was
more gentlemanly than mine, I made very near as much as him, so we lived
comfortable, and laid by a little.  That winter little Emma was born.
She just come to poor Tom and his wife like a great sunbeam.  Arter that
we went a year to the diggin's, and then I got to weary to see my old
missus, so I left 'em with a promise to return.  I com'd home, saw my
wife, and then went out again to jine the Grahams for another spell at
the diggin's; then I come home again for another spell wi' the missus,
an' so I kep' goin' and comin', year by year, till now.

"Tom was a lucky digger.  He resolved to quit for good and all, and
return to settle in England.  He turned all he had into gold-dust, and
put it in a box, with which he shipped aboard the `Fairy Queen,' of
which I was one o' the crew at the time.  The `Fairy Queen,' you must
understand, had changed owners just about that time, havin' bin named
the `Hawk' on the voyage out.  We sailed together, and got safe to
British waters, an' wos knocked all to bits on British rocks, 'cause the
compasses wasn't worth a button, as no more wos our charts, bein' old
ones, an' the chain o' the best bower anchor had bin got cheap, and
wasn't fit to hold a jolly-boat, so that w'en we drove on a lee-shore,
and let go the anchor to keep off the reefs, it parted like a bit o'
packthread.  I took charge of Emmie, and, by God's blessin', got safe to
land.  All the rest went down.

"Now, sir," continued Gaff, "it came into my head that if I took the
little gal to her grandfather, he, bein' as hard as nails, an' desp'rit
unforgivin', would swear I wos tellin' a lie, and refuse to take her in.
So I thought I'd just go and put her down in the passage an' leave her,
so that he'd be obleeged to take her in, d'ye see, not bein' able to see
what else to do wi' her.  You know he couldn't throw her out, and let
her die in the street, could he, sir?"

"Not exactly," replied Kenneth, with a sad smile, "nevertheless he would
not find it difficult to dispose of her in some other way; in fact, he
has already spoken of sending her to the workhouse."

"You don't say so, sir?"

"Indeed I do, but keep your mind easy, Gaff, for, without telling my
father who little Emmie is, I will see to it that she is properly cared
for."

Kenneth rode back to town that day with a heart so heavy that the bright
eyes of Lizzie Gordon failed to rouse him to even the semblance of
cheerfulness, and the effervescing small-talk of the volatile Gildart
was almost intolerable.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

DAN HORSEY DOES THE AGREEABLE IN THE KITCHEN.

"Captain Bingley," said Kenneth, entering my study somewhat hastily on
the following morning, "I am going to carry off Gildart for the day to
have a ride with me, and I looked in on you in passing to tell you that
Haco has arrived in his schooner, and that he is going to sail this
evening for London and will take your Russians to their consul if you
wish it."

"Thank you, lad; many thanks," said I, "some of them may be able to go,
but others, I fear, are too much hurt, and may require to be nursed in
the `Home' for some time yet.  I will consider it; meanwhile will you
carry a note to your father for me?"

"With pleasure; at least I will send Dan Horsey with it, if that will do
as well."

"Quite as well, if you can spare him; send him into the kitchen while I
write the note.  Adieu, lad, and see that you don't break Gildart's
neck.  Remember that he is not much accustomed to horses."

"No fear of him," said Kenneth, looking back with a laugh as he reached
the door, "he is well used to riding out hard gales, and that is more
arduous work than steeple-chasing."  When Dan Horsey was told to go to
the kitchen and await further orders, he received the command with a
cheerful smile, and, attaching the bridle of his horse to a post,
proceeded to obey it.

The kitchen of Bingley Hall was the abode of two females who severally
owned a distinct and dissimilar character, both mental and physical.
The first female--first in most senses of the word--was Bounder the
cook, who was fat, as cooks ought to be in order to prove that their
productions agree with them; and self-opinionated, as cooks generally
are, in order, no doubt, to prove that they know their business.

The second female was Susan Barepoles, a slim, graceful housemaid,
apparently modest, (cook did not even pretend to that virtue), and
wonderfully sharp-eyed.  Both females were good-looking and young, and
both were desperately in love with Daniel Horsey.  Each knew the fact,
and so did Dan.  Each was mortally jealous of the other, and Dan was
dreadfully perplexed in consequence.

Not that he was uncertain as to which of the two he preferred, for
Susan's image was "engruven," as he expressed it, deeply on his heart,
to the exclusion of all other images, but he found that the jealousy of
the two interfered somewhat with the course of true love, causing it to
run in its proverbially rough channel.

"It's a fine mornin', my darlints," said Dan, as he entered the kitchen
with a swagger, and laid his hat and riding-whip on the dresser, at the
same time seating himself on the edge of a small table that stood near
the window.  This seat he preferred to a chair, partly because it
enabled him to turn his back to the light, and partly because it
afforded him an opportunity of swinging his legs gently with an easy
motion that was agreeable, and, at the same time, in his opinion,
graceful.

"None o' yer imperance," said cook, stirring the contents of a large pan
carefully.

Susan tossed her head slightly, but admitted that the morning _was_
good.

"He's a-writin' of a letter to Grumpy," said Dan, pointing with his
thumb towards the ceiling, in order to indicate that the "he" referred
to was myself.

"Who's Grumpy?" inquired cook, with a look of interest.

"Arrah, now, don't ye know it's old Stuart?"

Susan laughed, and cook observed that the name seemed to her an
extremely disrespectful one.

"It's not bad enough for him, the old pair o' tongs," said Dan, taking
up his whip with a gentlemanly assumption of ease, and flipping the toe
of his boot with it; "av it wasn't for the love that my master Kenneth
bears me, I'd have left 'em long ago.  But, you see, the young master is
a first-rater, and couldn't get on without me no how, so I'm willin' to
stop.  Besides," continued Dan, with a _very_ small sigh, "I have
private raisons for not carin' to leave just now."

He accompanied the latter remark with a sly glance at Susan, who chanced
quite accidentally to cast a sly glance at Dan, so that their eyes met,
and the result was that Susan blushed and began to rub the silver
tea-pot, which she was cleaning, unmercifully, and Dan laughed.
Whereupon cook looked round hastily and asked what he was laughing at,
to which Dan responded that his own imagination, which happened to be a
brilliant one, had just then suggested a train of comical ideas which
had tickled his risible muscles so that he couldn't help it!

"I don't believe it," said cook, who observed Susan's confusion of face,
and became internally red hot with jealousy, "I b'lieve you was larfin'
at me."

"Och, Miss Bounder!" exclaimed Dan, looking at her with an expression so
awfully reproachful that cook instantly repented and laughed.

"There's bin some strange doin's up at the Villa," said Susan, by way of
changing the subject, while she polished the tea-pot yet more
unmercifully.

"Ah," exclaimed cook, "that's true; what does it all mean, Mr Horsey?"

"That's more nor myself can tell," said Dan; "the facts o' the case is
clear, so far as they come'd under our obsarvation.  But as to the
circumstances o' the case, 'specially those of 'em as hasn't yet
transpired, I don't rightly know myself wot opinions I ought to
entertain."

Susan listened to these remarks with profound admiration, chiefly
because she did not understand them; but cook, who was more
matter-of-fact in her nature, and somewhat demonstrative in her
tendencies, advised Dan not to talk gammon, but to explain what he
meant.

"Explain what I mean, coolinary sunbeam!" said Dan; "isn't it explainin'
that I am as plain as the nose on yer face, (an' a purty wan it is),
though I haven't got the powers of a lawyer, nor yit a praist?  Didn't a
drippin' wet sailor come to our door at the dead o' night an' ring the
bell as bowld as brass, an' when Mrs Niven, whose intellect was niver
much beyond that of a poplypus--"

"What's a poplypus?" interrupted cook.

"Well now," remonstrated Dan, "I ain't 'xactly a walkin' dictionary; but
I b'lieve it's a baist o' the say what hain't got nothin' but a body an'
a stummik, indeed I'm not sure but that it's all stummik together, with
just legs enough to move about with, or may be a fin or two, an' a hole
to let in the wittles; quite in your line, by the way, Miss Bounder."

"Imperance!" ejaculated cook.

"No offence," said Dan; "but `to resoom the thread o' the narrative,' as
the story books say, Mrs Niven she opened the door, and the drippin'
wet sailor he puts a little wet spalpeen in her arms, an' goes right off
without so much as by your lave, an' that's all we know about it.  An'
Grumpy he goes ragin' about the house sayin' he'll have nothin' to do
wi' the poor little thing--who's not so little naither, bein' a
ten-year-old if she's an hour, an' a purty sweet face to boot--an' that
he'll send her to the workus' or pris'n, or anywhere; but in his house
she's not to stop another day.  Well, not havin' the management o' the
whole of this world's affairs, (fort'nately, else a scrubbily managed
world it would be), Grumpy finds out that when he wants to send little
Emmie, (as she calls herself), off, she's knocked down by a ragin'
fever, an' the doctor he says it's as much as her life is worth to move
her.  So Grumpy has to grin and bear it, and there's little Emmie lyin'
at this minit in our best bed, (where Mrs Niven put her the moment she
was took bad), a-tossin' her purty arms in the air, an' makin' her
yellow hair fly over the pillows, and kickin' off the close like a young
angel in a passion, and callin' on her mama in a voice that would make a
stone immage weep, all the while that Miss Penelope is snivellin' on one
side o' the bed, an' Mrs Niven is snortin' on the other."

"Poor dear," said Susan in a low voice, devoting herself with
intensified zeal to the tea-pot, while sympathetic tears moistened her
eyes.

I interrupted the conversation at this point by entering the kitchen
with my note to my friend Stuart.  I had to pass through the kitchen to
my back garden when I wished to leave my house by the back garden gate.
I had coughed and made as much noise as possible in approaching the
cook's domains, but they had been so much engrossed with each other that
they did not hear me.  Dan sprang hastily off the table, and suddenly
assumed a deeply respectful air.

"Dan," said I, "take this note to Mr Stuart as quickly as possible, and
bring me an answer without delay.  I am going to see Haco Barepoles
at--"

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Susan with a start, and looking at me
interrogatively.

"Oh, I forgot, Susan; your father has just arrived from Aberdeen, and is
at this moment in the Sailors' Home.  You may run down to see him, my
girl, if you choose."

"Thank you, sir," said Susan, with a glow of pleasure on her
good-looking face, as she pushed the tea-pot from her, and dropt the
cloth, in her haste to get away to see her sire.

"Stay, Susan," said I; "you need not hurry back.  In fact, you may spend
the day with your father, if you choose; and tell him that I will be
down to see him in a few minutes.  But I shall probably be there before
you.  You may take Mr Stuart's answer to the Home," I added, turning to
Dan; "I shall be there when you return with it."

"_Yes_, sir," said Dan in a tone so energetic as to cause me to look at
him.  I observed that he was winking towards the kitchen door.  Casting
my eyes thither I saw that Susan's face was much flushed as he
disappeared into the passage.  I also noted that the cook's face was
fiery red, and that she stirred a large pot, over which she bent, with
unnecessary violence--viciously, as it were.

Pondering on these things I crossed my garden and proceeded towards the
Home, which stood on a conspicuous eminence near the docks, at the east
end of the town.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE SAILORS' HOME AND THE MAD SKIPPER.

The Sailors' Home in Wreckumoft was a neat, substantial, unpretending
edifice, which had been built by a number of charitable people, in order
to provide a comfortable residence, with board at moderate terms, for
the numerous seamen who frequented our port.  It also served as a place
of temporary refuge to the unfortunate crews of the numerous wrecks
which occurred annually on our shores.

Here I found Haco Barepoles, the skipper of a coal sloop, seated on the
side of his bed in one of the little berths of the Home, busily engaged
in stuffing tobacco into the bowl of a great German pipe with the point
of his little finger.  Susan, who had outstripped me, was seated beside
him with her head on his shoulder.

"Oh, father!"  I heard Susan say, as I walked along the passage between
the rows of sleeping berths that lined each side of the principal
dormitory of our Home; "I shall lose you some day, I fear.  How was it
that you came so near bein' wrecked?"

Before the skipper could reply I stood in the doorway of his berth.

"Good-day, Haco," said I; "glad to see you safe back once more."

"Thankee, Cap'n Bingley--same to you, sir," said Haco, rising hastily
from the bed and seizing my hand, which he shook warmly, and, I must
add, painfully; for the skipper was a hearty, impulsive fellow, apt to
forget his strength of body in the strength of his feelings, and given
to grasp his male friends with a gripe that would, I verily believe,
have drawn a roar from Hercules.

"I've come back to the old bunk, you see," he continued, while I sat
down on a chest which served for a chair.  "I likes the Home better an'
better every time I comes to it, and I've brought all my crew with me;
for you see, sir, the `Coffin's' a'most fallin' to pieces, and will have
to go into dock for a riglar overhaul."

"The Coffin?" said Susan, interrogatively.

"Yes, lass; it's only a nickname the old tub got in the north, where
they call the colliers coal-coffins, 'cause it's ten to one you'll go to
the bottom in 'em every time ye go to sea."

"Are they _all_ so bad as to deserve the name?" inquired Susan.

"No, not 'xactly all of 'em; but there's a good lot as are not half so
fit for sea as a washin' tub.  You see, they ain't worth repairin', and
owners sometimes just take their chance o' makin' a safe run by keepin'
the pumps goin' the whole time."

I informed Haco that I had called for the purpose of telling him that I
had applied to Mr Stuart, who owned his little coal sloop, to give a
few wrecked Russians a passage to London, in order that they might be
handed over to the care of their consul; but that I would have to find a
passage for them in some other vessel, as the "Coffin" was so
unseaworthy.

"Don't be in too great a hurry, sir," said Haco, with a peculiar smile
and twinkle in his eye; "I'm inclined to think that Mr Stuart will send
her back to London to be repaired there--"

"What!" exclaimed Susan, with a flush of indignation, "an' risk your
life, father?"

"As to that, lass, my life has got to be risked anyhow, and it ain't
much worth, to say the truth; so you needn't trouble yourself on that
pint."

"It's worth a great deal to me," said Susan, drawing herself closer to
the side of her rugged parent.

I could not help smiling as I looked at this curious specimen of a
British seaman shaking his head gravely and speaking so disparagingly of
himself, when I knew, and every one in the town knew, that he was one of
the kindest and most useful of men.  He was a very giant in size, with a
breadth of shoulder that would have made him quite ridiculous had it not
been counterbalanced by an altitude of six feet four.  He had a huge
head of red hair, and a huge heart full of tenderness.  His only fault
was utter recklessness in regard to his own life and limbs--a fault
which not unfrequently caused him to place the lives and limbs of others
in jeopardy, though he never could be brought to perceive that fact.

"Whatever your life may be worth, my friend," said I, "it is to be hoped
that Mr Stuart will not risk it by sending you to sea in the `Coffin'
till it is thoroughly overhauled."

"Come in!" shouted the skipper, in answer to a rap at the door.

The invitation to enter was not accepted, but the rap was repeated.

"Go, Susan," said I, "see who it is."

Susan obeyed--with unusual alacrity, as I fancied, but did not return
with equal quickness.  We heard her whispering with some one; then there
was a sound as if of a suppressed scream, followed by something that was
marvellously like a slap applied to a cheek with an open hand.  Next
moment Susan re-appeared with a letter and a very flushed face.

"A letter, sir," said Susan, dropping her eyes.

"Who brought it?"  I inquired.

"Mr Horsey, sir."  Susan stammered the name, and looked confused.  "He
waits an answer, sir."

Haco Barepoles had been eyeing his daughter gravely the while.  He now
sprang up with the wild energy that was his peculiar characteristic, and
flinging the door wide-open with a crash that shook the whole framework
of the berth, stood face to face with Dan Horsey.

Intense gravity marked the features of the groom, who stood, hat in
hand, tapping the side of his top-boot with a silver-mounted
riding-whip.  He met Haco's steady frown with a calm and equally steady
gaze of his clear grey eyes; and then, relaxing into a smile, nodded
familiarly, and inquired if the weather was fine up there, bekaise,
judgin' from his, (Haco's), face he would be inclined to think it must
be raither cowld!

Haco smiled grimly: "Ye was to wait an answer, was ye?"

"If I may venture to make so bowld as to say so in the presence of your
highness, I was."

"Then wait," said Haco, smiling a little less grimly.

"Thank ye, sir, for yer kind permission," said Dan in a tone and with an
air of assumed meekness.

The skipper returned to the bed, which creaked as if taxed to its
utmost, when he sat down on it, and drew Susan close to his side.

"This is from Mr Stuart, Haco," said I, running my eye hastily over the
note; "he consents to my sending the men in your vessel, but after what
you have told me--"

"Don't mind wot I told ye, Captain Bingley.  I'll see Mr Stuart to-day,
an'll call on you in the afternoon.  The `Coffin' ain't quite so bad as
she looks.  Have 'ee any answer to send back?"

"No," said I, turning to Dan, who still stood at the door tapping his
right boot with a jaunty air; "tell your master, with my compliments,
that I will see him about this matter in the evening."

"And hark'ee, lad," cried Haco, again springing up and confronting the
groom, "d'ye see this young 'ooman?"  (pointing to Susan.)

"Sure I do," replied Dan, with a smile and a nod to Susan, "an' a purty
cratur she is, for the eye of man to rest upon."

"And," shouted Haco, shaking his enormous fist within an inch of the
other's nose, "d'ye see them there knuckles?"

Dan regarded them steadfastly for a moment or two without winking or
flinching.

"They're a purty bunch o' fives," he said at length, drawing back his
head, and placing it a little on one side in order to view the "bunch,"
with the air of a connoisseur; "very purty, but raither too fat to do
much damage in the ring.  I should say, now, that it would get `puffy'
at the fifth round, supposin' that you had wind and pluck left, at your
time of life, to survive the fourth."

"Well now, lad," retorted the skipper, "all I've to say is, that you've
seed it, an' if you don't mind yer eye ye'll _feel_ it.  `A nod's as
good as a wink to a blind horse.'"

Haco plunged the "bunch of fives" into his coat-pocket, and sat down
again beside his agitated daughter.

"I can speak purfessionally," said Dan, "in regard to yer last
obsarvation consarnin' blind hosses, and I belave that ye're c'rect.  It
_don't_ much matter whether ye nod or wink to a blind hoss; though I
can't spake from personal exparience 'caise I niver tried it on, not
havin' nothin' to do with blind hosses.  Ye wouldn't have a weed, would
ye, skipper?" he added, pulling out a neat leather case from which he
drew a cigar!

"Go away, Dan, directly," said I with some asperity, for I was nettled
at the impudence of the man in my presence, and not a little alarmed
lest the angry Haco should kick him down-stairs.

Dan at once obeyed, bowing respectfully to me, and, as I observed,
winking to Susan as he turned away.  He descended the stair in silence,
but we heard him open the door of the public room and address the
Russians, who were assembled there, warming themselves at the fire, and
enjoying their pipes.

"Hooray! my hearties," said Dan; "got yer broken legs rewived I hope,
and yer spurrits bandaged up?  Hey,--och!  I forgot ye can swaller
nothin' but Toorko--cum, squaki lorum ho po, doddie jairum frango
whiskie looro--whack?--eh!  Arrah! ye don't need to answer for fear the
effort opens up yer wounds afresh.  Farewell, lads, or may be it's
wishin' ye fair-wind would be more nat'ral."

So saying he slammed the door, and we heard him switching his boots as
he passed along the street under the windows, whistling the air of "The
girls we left behind us," followed, before he was quite out of earshot,
by "Oh my love is like the red red rose, that's newly sprung in June."

Immediately after Dan's departure I left Haco and Susan together, and
they held the following conversation when left alone.  I am enabled to
report it faithfully, reader, because Susan told it word for word to her
mistress, who has a very reprehensible habit of listening to the gossip
of her maid.  Of course Mrs B told it to me, because she tells
everything to me, sometimes a good deal more than I care to hear.  This
I think a very reprehensible habit also.  I am bound to listen, because
when my strong-minded wife begins to talk I might as well try to stop a
runaway locomotive as attempt to silence her.  And so it comes about
that I am now making the thing public!

"Susan," said Haco, earnestly looking at his daughter's downcast face,
on which the tell tale blood was mantling.  "Are you fond o' that--that
feller?"

"Ye-yes, father," replied Susan, with some hesitation.

"Humph! an' is he fond o' _you_?"

"Oh, isn't he, just," said Susan, with a little confused laugh.

"Susan," continued Haco, with increasing earnestness, "Are ye sure he's
worthy of you?"

"Yes, father, I'm _quite_ sure of that."

"Well then, Susan, you're a sensible girl, and you ought to know best;
but I don't feel easy about ye, 'cause you're just as like as two peas
to your dear mother, what went to the bottom in the last coal-coffin I
commanded, an' you would ha' gone too, darlin', if I hadn't bin spared
to swim ashore with ye on my back.  It was all I could do.  Ah, Susan!
it was a black night for you an' me that.  Well, as I was a sayin',
you're as like yer mother as two peas, and she was as trustful as you
are, an' little knew wot a bad lot she got when she set her heart on
me."

"Father, that's not true."

"Ain't it, lass?  Well, let it pass, but then this feller, this Dan
Hursey--"

"Horsey, father," said Susan.

"Well, well, it ain't much better; this Horsey is an Irishman, an' I
don't like Irishmen."

"Father, you'd get to like 'em if you only knew 'em better," said Susan
earnestly.  "What bell's that?" she added, as a loud ringing echoed
through the house.

"The dinner bell, lass.  Come an' see wot a comf'rable feed they git.  I
can tell 'ee that them Sailors' Homes is the greatest blessin' that was
ever got up for us sea-dogs.  We ain't 'xactly such soft good natur'd
ignorant big babies as some o' your well-meanin' pheelanthropists would
make us out; but we _are_ uncommon hard put to it when we git ashore,
for every port is alive with crimps an' land-sharks to swaller us up
when we come off a long voyage; an' the wust of it is, that we're in a
wild reckless humour for the most part when we git ashore with our
pockets full o' yellow boys, an' are too often quite willin' to _be_
swallered up, so that lots of us are constantly a-goin' to sticks an'
stivers.  An' then before the Homes was set a-goin', the fellers as
wanted to get quiet lodgin's didn't find it easy to know where to look
for 'em, an' was often took in; an' when they wanted to send cash to
their wives or mothers, they didn't well know how to manage it; but now,
wherever there's a Home you can git cheap board, good victuals, help in
the way o' managin' yer cash, an' no end of advice gratis.  It's only a
pity there ain't one or two of 'em in every port in the kingdom.

"See here," continued Haco, warming with his subject as he led Susan
past the dormitories where the Russians, who had been maimed during the
recent wrecks, were being supplied with dinner in their berths, "see
here,--another o' the best o' the institootions o' this land looks arter
them poor fellers, an' pays their shot for 'em as long as they're here,
an' sends them to their homes free of expense--that's the Shipwrecked
Fishermen's and Mariners' Society.  You've heerd o' that Society, Susan,
haven't 'ee?"

"No father, never."

"What, never heerd o' the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society with its
hundreds o' honorary agents all round the coast, who have done more to
dry the tears o' orphans an' comfort widders' hearts than tongue can
tell?--Never heerd o' it, an' you a sailor's daughter?"

"I daresay I'm very stupid for being so ignorant, father; but I never
heard of it.  You know I've spent most o' my life inland with old Auntie
Bess, an' only come here this year.

"Mayhap," continued Haco, shaking his head gravely, "you've never
heer'd, neither, o' the Lifeboat Institootion."

"Never," said Susan meekly.  "I've seen the lifeboat we have here, you
know, but I never heard of the Institootion."

"Well, well, Susan, I needn't be surprised, for, to say truth, there's
many in this country, who think no small beer o' theirselves, that know
precious little about either the one or the other, although they're the
most valooable Institootions in the country.  I'll tell 'ee about 'em,
lass, some other time--how they saves hundreds o' lives, an' relieves no
end o' distress annooally.  It's enough just now to say that the two
Institootions is what I calls brother an' sister--the Lifeboat one bein'
the brother; the Shipwrecked Mariners' one bein' the sister.  The
brother, besides savin' thousands o' pounds worth o' goods, saves
hundreds o' lives every year.  But when the brother has saved the
shipwrecked sailor, his work is done.  He hands him over to the sister,
who clothes him, feeds him, warms him--as you see bein' done to them
there Roosians--and then sends him home.  Every sailor in the country
should be a member o' the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, say I.  I've
been one myself for many years, an' it only costs me three shillings a
year.  I'll tell 'ee some other time what good it does me; but just now
you an' I shall go an' have some grub."

"Where shall we go to get it, father?"

"To the refreshment room below, lass.  It won't do to take ye to the
dinin' hall o' the Home for three reasons,--first, 'cause ye're a
'ooman, an' they ain't admitted; second, 'cause it wouldn't be pleasant
for ye to dine wi' forty or fifty Jack-tars; and, thirdly, if ye wanted
it ever so much yer old father wouldn't let ye--so come along, lass, to
dinner."



CHAPTER TEN.

THE DINNER IN THE RESTAURANT--HACO MEETS AN OLD FRIEND AND BECOMES
COMMUNICATIVE.

The room to which Haco led his daughter was a small oblong one, divided
off into compartments similar to those with which we are familiar in
eating-houses and restaurants of the poorer class.  It formed part of
the Home, but was used by the general public as well as by seamen, who
wished to order a meal at any time and pay for it.

Haco Barepoles, being at the time a boarder in the home, was entitled to
his dinner in the general mess-room, but being bent on enjoying his meal
in company with Susan, he chose to forego his rights on that occasion.

Being the hour at which a number of seamen, labourers, clerks, and
others were wont to experience the truth of the great fact that nature
abhors a vacuum, the room was pretty full, and a brisk demand was going
on for soup, tea, coffee, rolls, and steaks, etcetera, all of which were
supplied on the most moderate terms, in order to accommodate the
capacities of the poorest purse.

In this temple of luxury you could get a small bowl of good soup for one
penny, which, with a halfpenny roll, might form a dinner to any one
whose imagination was so strong as to enable him to believe he had had
enough.  Any one who was the fortunate possessor of threepence, could,
by doubling the order, really feel his appetite appeased.  Then for
those whose poverty was extreme, or appetite unusually small, a little
cup of tea could be supplied for one halfpenny--and a good cup of tea
too, not particularly strong, it is true, but with a fair average
allowance of milk and sugar.

"Waiter," cried Haco Barepoles in a voice that commanded instant
attention.

"Yessir."

"Soup for two, steaks an' 'taties for ditto to foller."

"Yessir."

"Please, father, I would like a cup of coffee after the soup instead of
a steak.  I don't feel very hungry."

"All right, lass.  Waiter, knock off one o' the steaks an' clap a cup o'
coffee in its place."

"Yessir.  Roll with it, Miss?"

"Of course," said Haco.

"Butter, Miss?"

"Sartinly.  An' double allowance o' milk an' sugar," replied the
skipper.  "S'pose you han't got cream?"

"No sir."

"Never mind.  Look alive now, lad.  Come, Susan, here's a box with only
one man in't, we'll--Hallo! shiver my timbers if it ain't--no--it can't
be--Stephen Gaff, eh! or his ghost?"

"Just so," said Stephen, laying down his knife and fork, and shaking
warmly the hand which Haco stretched across the table to him; "I'm
always turnin' up now an' again like a bad shillin'.  How goes life with
'ee, Haco? you don't seem to have multiplied the wrinkles since I last
saw ye."

"Thank 'ee, I'm pretty comf'rable.  This is my darter Susan," said Haco,
observing that his friend glanced inquiringly at his fair
companion--"The world always uses me much the same.  I find it a
roughish customer, but it finds me a jolly one, an' not easily put out.
When did I see ye last?  Let me see,--two years come Christmas.  Why,
I've been wrecked three times since then, run down twice, an' drownded
at least half-a-dozen times; but by good luck they always manages to
bring me round--rowsussitate me, as the doctors call it."

"Ay, you've had hard times of it," observed Gaff, finishing his last
morsel of meat, and proceeding to scrape up the remains of gravy and
potato with his knife; "I've bin wrecked myself sin' we last met, but
only once, and that warn't long ago, just the last gale.  You coasters
are worse off than we are.  Commend me to blue water, and plenty o'
sea-room."

"I believe you, my boy," responded the skipper.  "There's nothin' like a
good offing an' a tight ship.  We stand but a poor chance as we go
creepin' 'long shore in them rotten tubs, that are well named
`Coal-Coffins.'  Why, if it comes on thick squally weather or a gale
when yer dodgin' off an' on, the `Coal-Coffins' go down by dozens.
Mayhap at the first burst o' the gale you're hove on your beam-ends, an'
away go the masts, leavin' ye to drift ashore or sink; or p'raps you're
sharp enough to get in sail, and have all snug, when, just as ye're
weatherin' a headland, away goes the sheet o' the jib, jib's blowed to
ribbons, an' afore ye know where ye are, `breakers on the lee bow!' is
the cry.  Another gust, an' the rotten foretops'l's blow'd away,
carryin' the fore-topmast by the board, which, of course, takes the
jib-boom along with it, if it an't gone before.  Then it's `stand by to
let go the anchor.'  `Let go!'  `Ay, ay, sir.'  Down it goes, an' the
`Coffin's' brought up sharp; not a moment too soon, mayhap, for ten to
one but you see an' hear the breakers, roarin' like mad, thirty yards or
so astern.  It may be good holdin' ground, but what o' that?--the
anchor's an old 'un, or too small; the fluke gives way, and ye're
adrift; or the cable's too small, and can't stand the strain, so you let
go both anchors, an' ye'd let go a dozen more if ye had 'em for dear
life; but it's o' no use.  First one an' then the other parts; the stern
is crushed in a'most afore ye can think, an' in two minutes more, if not
less, it's all up with ye, unless there's a lifeboat at hand."

"Ah! pity there's not more of 'em on the coast," said Gaff.

"True," rejoined Haco, "many a poor feller's saved every year by them
blessed boats, as would otherwise have gone to the bottom, an' left
widder and childer to weep for him, an' be a burden, more or less, on
the country."

The waiter appeared at this point in the conversation with the soup, so
Haco devoted himself to dinner, while Gaff ordered a plate of bread and
cheese extra in order to keep him company.  For some minutes they all
ate in silence.  Then Haco, during the interval between the courses,
informed Gaff that he expected to return to the port of London in a day
or two; whereupon Gaff said that he just happened to be lookin' out for
a ship goin' there, as he had business to do in the great city, and
offered to work his way.  The skipper readily promised to ship him as an
extra hand, if the owner chose to send the `Coffin' to sea without
repairs, "which," observed Haco, "is not unlikely, for he's a
close-fisted customer."

"Who is he?" inquired Gaff.

"Stuart of Seaside Villa," said Haco.

"Ha! he _is_ a tough un," observed Gaff, with a significant grin.  "I
knows him well.  He don't much care riskin' fellers' lives, though I
never heard of him riskin' his own."

"He'd very near to answer for mine this voyage," said Haco, as well as
he could through a mouthful of steak and potato.

"How was that?"

"This is how it was," answered the skipper, bolting the mouthful, "you
see the `Coffin's' not in a fit state for sea; she's leaky all over, an'
there's a plank under the starboard quarter, just abaft the cabin
skylight, that has fairly struck work, caulk it and pitch it how you
please, it won't keep out the sea no longer, so when we was about to
take in cargo, I wrote to Mr Stuart tellin' him of it, an' advisin'
repairs, but he wrote back, sayin' it was very awk'ard at this time to
delay that cargo, an' askin' if I couldn't work the pumps as I had used
to do, besides hintin' that he thought I must be gettin' timid as I grew
old!  You may be sure I didn't think twice.  Got the cargo aboard; up
sail an' away.

"Well, it was blowin' a stiff nor'-wester when we got away, an' we
couldn't have beat into port again if our lives depended on it.  So I
calls the crew aft, an' told 'em how the matter stood.  `Now, lads,'
says I, `to speak plain English, the sloop is sinkin' so you had as well
turn to an' pump for yer lives, an' I'll show ye how.'  With that I off
coat an' set to work, an' took my turn the whole voyage.  But it was
touch an' go with us.  We nigh sank in the harbour here, an' I had to
run her ashore to perwent her goin' down in deep water.  They're
patchin' up the rotten plank at this minute, an' if old Stuart won't go
in for a general overhaul, we'll be ready for sea in a day or two, and
you'll have the pleasure o' navigatin' a lot o' wrecked Roosians to
London.  Now, waiter, ahoy!--"

"Yessir."

"Fetch me a pannikin o' tea, for it's dry work tellin' a anikdot.  You
see, Gaff, I'm a reg'lar teetotaller--never go the length o' coffee even
without a doctor's surtificate.  Another cup, Susan?"

"No thank 'ee, father, I couldn't."

"Werry good.  Now, Gaff, what's the 'ticklers o' _your_ case.  Time
about's fair play, you know."

Gaff, feeling a gush of confidence come over him, and having ascertained
that, in regard to secrecy, Susan was as "safe as the bank," related the
circumstances of the wreck, and his having left Emmie at her
grandfather's villa; the relation of all which caused Haco Barepoles to
give vent to a series of low grunts and whistles, expressive of great
surprise.

"Now," said Gaff in conclusion, "there's a land-shark, (by which I means
a lawyer), in London what writes to me that there's somethin' I'll hear
of to my advantage if I calls on him."

"Don't go," said Haco, stoutly, as he struck the table with his fist,
causing the crockery to rattle again; "take the advice of an old friend,
an' _don't go_.  If you do, he'll _do_ you."

"Thank'ee, an' I'd foller yer advice, but I happens to know this
land-shark.  He's an old acquaintance, an' I can trust him."

"Oh, that alters the case--well?"

"Well, but before I go," continued Gaff, "I wants to write a letter to
old Stuart to warn him to look arter Emmie; a very partikler letter."

"Ay, how much partikler a one?" inquired Haco.

"A hambigoo-ous one," replied his friend.

"A ham--what?" said Haco interrogatively.

"A ham-big-oo-ous one."

"What sort of a one may that be, mate?"

"Well," said Gaff, knitting his heavy brows, and assuming altogether a
learned aspect, "it's a one that you can't make head nor tail of nohow;
one as'll read a'rnost as well back'ard as for'ard, an' yet has got a
smack o' somethin' mysterious in it, w'ich shows, so to speak, to what
pint o' the compass your steerin' for--d'ye see?"

"H'm--rather hazy ahead," answered the skipper with a deeply sagacious
look; "a difficult letter to write in my opinion.  How d'ye mean to do
it?"

"Don't mean to do it at all.  Couldn't do it to save my life; but I'll
get a clerk to do it for me, a smart young clerk too; _you_ know who I
mean."

"Ay, who'll it be?  I'll never guess; never guessed a guess in my life."

"You know my darter Tottie?"

"What, blue-eyed Tottie? oh, yer jokin'!"

"Not a bit.  That child's a parfec' cooriosity of intelligence.  She can
write and read most wonderful for her age."

"But she'll never be able to do the ham--what d'ye call it?" suggested
Haco.

"Of course not; she's too young for that, but the wife'll do that.
You've no notion how powerful hambigoo-ous she is now an' again.  We'll
manage it amongst us.  Tottie can write like a parson, my wife can read,
though she can't write, an'll see that it's all c'rect, specially the
spellin' an' the makin' of it hambigoo-ous; an' I'll supply the idees,
the notions like, an' superintend, so to speak, an' we'll make little
Billy stand by wi' the blottin'-paper, just to keep him out o'
mischief."

Haco regarded his friend with deepening admiration.  The idea of
producing a "hambigoo-ous" letter by such an elaborate family
combination, in which each should supply his co-labourer's deficiency,
was quite new and exceedingly interesting to him.  Suddenly his
countenance became grave, as it occurred to him that there was no call
for such a letter at all, seeing that Kenneth Stuart was sure to do his
best to induce his father to take care of the child.  On observing this
to his friend, the latter shook his head.

"I'm not quite sure o' Mister Kenneth," said he, "it's likely that he'll
do the right thing by her, but `like father, like son' is an old
proverb.  He may be a chip o' the old block."

"That he is not," interrupted Haco warmly.  "I know the lad well.  He
takes after his poor mother, and I'm sartin sure ye may trust him."

"Well, I _must_ trust him," said Gaff, "but I've had no experience of
him; so I mean to `make assurance doubly sure,' as the prophet says, if
it wasn't the poet--an' that's why I'll write this letter.  If it don't
do no good, it won't do no harm."

"I'm not so sure o' that," said Haco, shaking his head as they rose to
depart, "hows'ever, you know best.  Now mind, Susan, not a word o' this
to any one."

Susan promised, and in the course of the evening related the whole
affair to Daniel Horsey "_in confidence_;" her conscience being
apparently relieved by the idea that having told it only in strict
confidence she had not broken her word!

Dan made her promise solemnly that she would tell the tale to no one
else on earth, either in confidence or otherwise, and thus he checked
the stream of gossip as close to its fountain-head as possible.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE WRITING OF THE "HAMBIGOO-OUS" LETTER.

When Stephen Gaff approached his own cottage, he beheld his wife
belabouring the Bu'ster with both hands and tongue unmercifully.  What
special piece of mischief Billy had been doing is not of much
consequence.  It is enough to state that he suddenly planted the heel of
his naked foot somewhat effectively on his mother's little toe, which
chanced to be resting on a sharp stone at the moment, burst from her
grasp, and rushed down the steep bank to the beach cheering, weeping,
and laughing all at once, in a sort of hysterical triumph.

Mrs Gaff shouted at the top of her voice to the cherub to come back and
get mauled; but the cherub declined the invitation until he heard his
father's voice, when he returned joyously, and took shelter under his
wing.  Mrs Gaff, who could change at a moment's notice from the extreme
of anger to perfect quiescence, contented herself with shaking her fist
at the Bu'ster, and then relapsed from the condition of a fury into a
quiet, good-looking dame.

This appears to be the normal condition of fisher-folk, who would seem
to require to make use of an excessive amount of moral and physical
suasion in order suitably to impress their offspring.

"Now, Jess," said Gaff, leading his son by the hand; "let's set to work
at once wi' that there letter."

"What's all the hurry, Stephen?"

"I've just seed my old shipmate, Haco Barepoles, an' it's not unlikely
he'll be ready for sea day arter to-morrow; so the sooner we turn this
little job out o' hands the better.  Come, Tottie, you're a good _girl_;
I see you've purvided the paper and ink.  Get the table cleaned, lass,
and you, Billy, come here."

The Bu'ster, who had suddenly willed to have a shy at the household cat
with a small crab which he had captured, and which was just then
endeavouring vainly to ascend the leg of a chair, for a wonder did not
carry out his will, but went at once to his sire.

"Whether would ye like to go play on the beach, lad, or stop here and
hold the blottin'-paper while we write a letter?"

Billy elected to hold the blotting-paper and watch proceedings, being
curious to know what the letter was to be about.

When all was ready--the table cleared of everything except what
pertained to the literary work then in hand--Stephen Gaff sat down at
one end of the table; his wife drew her chair to the other end; Tottie,
feeling very proud and rather nervous, sat between them, with a new
quill in her hand, and a spotless sheet of foolscap before her.  The
Bu'ster stood by with the blot-sheet, looking eager, as if he rather
wished for blots, and was prepared to swab them up without delay.

"Are ye ready, Tot?" asked Gaff.

"Yes, quite," answered the child.

"Then," said Gaff; with the air of a general officer who gives the word
for the commencement of a great fight, "begin, an' fire away."

"But what am I to say, daddy?"

"Ah, to be sure, you'd better begin, Tottie," said Gaff, evidently in
perplexity; "you'd better begin as they teach you to at the school,
where you've larnt to write so butiful."

Here Mrs Gaff advised, rather abruptly, that she had better write,
"this comes hoping you're well;" but her husband objected, on the ground
that the words were untrue, inasmuch as he did not care a straw whether
the person to be written to was well or ill.

"Is't to a man or a 'ooman we're a-writin', daddie?" inquired the
youthful scribe.

"It's a gentleman."

"Then we'd better begin `dear sir,' don't you think?"

"But he an't dear to me," said Gaff.

"No more is he to me," observed his wife.

"Make it `sir,' plain `sir' means nothin' in partickler, I b'lieve,"
said Gaff with animation, "so we'll begin it with plain `sir.'  Now,
then, fire away, Tottie."

"Very well," said Tottie, dipping her pen in the ink-bottle, which was a
stone one, and had been borrowed from a neighbour who was supposed to
have literary tendencies in consequence of his keeping such an article
in his cottage.  Squaring her elbows, and putting her head _very_ much
on one side, to the admiration of her parents, she prepared to write.

The Bu'ster clutched the blotting-paper, and looked on eagerly, not to
say hopefully.

"Oh!" exclaimed Tottie, "it's _red_ ink; see."

She held up the pen to view, and no one could deny the fact, not even
Billy, who, feeling that he had repressed his natural flow of spirits
rather longer than he was accustomed to, and regarding the incident as
in some degree destructive of his mother's peace of mind, hailed the
discovery with an exulting cheer.

Mrs Gaff's palm instantly exploded like a pistol-shot on Billy's ear,
and he measured his length--exactly three feet six--on the floor.

To rise yelling, and receive shot number two from his mother, which sent
him headlong into the arms of his father, who gave him the red
ink-bottle, and bade him cut away and get it changed as fast as he could
scuttle--to do all this, I say, was the work of a moment or two.

Presently Billy returned with the same bottle, and the information that
the literary neighbour had a black-ink-bottle, but as there was no ink
in it he didn't think it worth while to send it.  A kind offer was made
of a bottle of shoe-blacking if the red ink would not do.

"This is awk'ard," said Gaff, rubbing his nose.

"Try some tar in it," suggested Mrs Gaff.

Gaff shook his head; but the suggestion led him to try a little soot,
which was found to answer admirably, converting the red ink into a rich
dark brown, which might pass for black.

Supplied with this fluid, which having been made too thick required a
good deal of water to thin it, Tottie again squared her elbows on the
table; the parents sat down, and the Bu'ster re-mounted guard with the
blotting-paper, this time carefully out of earshot.

"Now, then, `dear sir,'" said Tottie, once more dipping her pen.

"No, no; didn't I say, plain `Sir,'" remonstrated her father.

"Oh, I forgot, well--there--it--is--now, `_Plane sur_,' but I've not
been taught that way at school yet."

"Never mind what you've bin taught at school," said Mrs Gaff somewhat
sharply, for her patience was gradually oozing out, "do you what you're
bid."

"Why, it looks uncommon like _two_ words, Tottie," observed her father,
eyeing the letters narrowly.  "I would ha' thought, now, that three
letters or four at most would have done it, an' some to spare."

"Three letters, daddie!" exclaimed the scribe with a laugh, "there's
eight of 'em no less."

"Eight!" exclaimed Gaff in amazement.  "Let's hear 'em, dear."

Tottie spelled them off quite glibly.  "P-l-a-n-e, that's plane; s-u-r,
that's sur."

"Oh, Tot," said Gaff with a mingled expression of annoyance and
amusement, "I didn't want ye to _write_ the word `plain.'  Well, well,"
he added, patting the child on the head, while she blushed up to the
roots of her hair and all down her neck and shoulders, "it's not much
matter, just you score it out; there, go over it again, once or twice,
an' scribble through it,--that's your sort.  Now, can ye read what it
was?"

"No, daddie."

"Are ye sure?"

"Quite sure, for I've scratched it into a hole right through the paper."

"Never mind, it's all the better."

"Humph!" interjected Mrs Gaff.  "He'll think we began `dear sir,' and
then changed our minds and scratched out the `dear!'"

To this Gaff replied that what was done couldn't be undone, and ordered
Tottie to "fire away once more."

"What next," asked the scribe, a good deal flurried and nervous by this
time, in consequence of which she dipped the pen much too deep, and
brought up a globule of ink, which fell on the paper just under the word
that had been written down with so much pains, making a blot as large as
a sixpence.

The Bu'ster came down on it like lightning with the blot-sheet, and
squashed it into an irregular mass bigger than half-a-crown.

For this he received another open-hander on the ear, and was summarily
dismissed to the sea-beach.

By this time the family tea-hour had arrived, so Mrs Gaff proposed an
adjournment until after tea.  Tottie, who was now blotting the letter
with an occasional tear, seconded the motion, which was carried by
acclamation.  While the meal was being prepared, Gaff fondled Tottie
until she was restored to her wonted equanimity, so that after tea the
task was resumed with spirit.  Words and ideas seemed to flow more
easily, and the letter was finally concluded, amid many sighs of relief,
about bed-time.

Much blotted, and almost unreadable though it was, I think it worthy of
being presented to my readers without correction.

"I beggs to stait that ittle bee for yoor int'rest for to look arter
that air gurl cald Eme as was left yoor doar sum dais bak, if yoo doant
ittle bee wors for yer, yood giv yer eer an noas too to no wot i nos
abowt that gurl, it's not bostin nor yet threttenin I am, no, I'm in
Downrite arnist wen I sais as yool bee sorrie if yoo doant do it."

(This part was at first written, "if you doant look arter the gurl," but
by the advice of Mrs Gaff the latter part was cut out, and "doant do
it" substituted as being more hambigoo-ous and alarming!  The letter
continued:--)

"Now sur, i must cloas, not becaws my papers dun, no nor yet my idees,
but becaws a nods as good as a wink--yoo no the rest.  Wot ive said is
troo as gospl it's of no use tryn to find owt hoo _i_ am, caws whi--yoo
kant, and if yoo cood it wood doo yoo no good.

"Yoors to comand,

"The riter."

When this letter was placed in Mr Stuart's hands the following morning
he was in the act of concluding a conversation with Haco Barepoles.

"Well, Haco," he said, regarding the ill-folded and dirty epistle with
suspicion, as it lay on the table before him; "of course I have no wish
that men should risk their lives in my service, so you may lay up the
sloop in dock and have her overhauled; but I have always been under the
impression until now that you were a fearless seaman.  However, do as
you please."

Mr Stuart knew well the character of the man with whom he had to do,
and spoke thus with design.  Haco fired at once, but he displayed no
temper.

"Very likely I _am_ gittin' summat fusty an' weak about the buzzum," he
said, almost sadly.  "A man can't expect to keep young and strong for
ever, Mr Stuart.  Hows'ever, I'll look at her bottom again, an' if she
can float, I'll set sail with the first o' the ebb day arter to-morrow.
Good-day, sir."  Haco bowed and left the room quite modestly, for he
hated the very appearance of boasting; but when he was in the passage
his teeth snapped together like nut-crackers as he compressed his lips,
and on gaining the street he put on his hat with a bang that would have
ruinously crushed it had it not been made of some glazed material that
was evidently indestructible.

Going straight to the docks he gave orders to the carpenter to have all
tight before next morning--this in a tone that the carpenter knew from
experience meant, "fail if you dare."

Then he went up to the Home, and ordered his men and the Russians to get
ready for sea.  Thereafter he went away at full speed to Cove, with his
red locks and his huge coat-tails flowing in the breeze.  Rapping at the
door he was bid to enter.

"How are 'ee, lad?" said Haco to Uncle John, who was seated at the
fireside smoking.

"Thank'ee, rather shaky.  I must ha' bin pretty nigh finished that
night; but I feel as if I'd be all taught and ready for sea in a few
days."

"That's right!" said Haco heartily.  "Is Gaff hereabouts to-day?"

The man in request entered at the moment.

"Good-day, skipper," said Gaff, "I seed 'ee comin'.  Ony news?"

"Ay, the `Coffin' starts day arter to-morrow.  I just run down to let
you know.  Sink or swim, fair or foul, it's up anchor with the first o'
the mornin' ebb.  I'm goin' up to see Cap'n Bingley now.  Not a moment
to spare."

"Avast heavin'," said Gaff, pulling on a pilot coat; "I'm goin' with
'ee.  Goin' to jine the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society.  Since my last
swim I've bin thinkin' that three shillin's a year is but a small sum,
and the good that they'd do to my widder and childer, if I was drownded,
would be worth while havin'."

"Right, lad, right; every sailor and fisherman should jine it.  But come
along; no time for talkin' here.  My respects to the missus.  Good-bye,
lad."

Shaking hands with Uncle John, the restless skipper once more put on the
imperishable hat with inconceivable violence and left the hut, followed
by his friend.

Returning to Mr Stuart, we find him perusing the ambiguous letter.  His
first glance at the contents called forth a look of indignation, which
was succeeded by one of surprise, and that was followed by a smile of
contempt, mingled with amusement.

"Kenneth," he said, tossing the letter to his son, who entered at the
moment, "can you make anything of that?"

"Not much," replied Kenneth, who at once guessed that it came from Gaff.
"The persons who left the child here would appear to be mad, and
anxious to get rid of their own offspring.  But I came to tell you of
sad forebodings that fill my breast, father."

"Don't give way to forebodings, Kenneth," said the father gravely; "it
is unmanly, unreasonable."

"Well, suspicions, if you think the word more appropriate.  I fear much,
_very_ much, that my dear sister and poor Tom Graham were lost in the
last storm--"

"Why do you omit the child?" asked Mr Stuart quietly, almost coldly.

"I was thinking only of those whom I had known and loved when I spoke,"
replied Kenneth with some emotion.

"There is no _certainty_ that they are lost," observed Mr Stuart.

Kenneth thought there was a slight tremor in his father's voice, but, on
glancing at his stern features, he felt that he must have been mistaken.

"We know that the ship was telegraphed as having been seen in the
Channel; we have heard that they were passengers in her, and nothing has
been heard or seen of her since the night of the storm."

"There is no _certainty_ in all that," reiterated the other; "they may
not have come in that vessel; if they did, some of them may have
escaped.  We cannot tell."

Mr Stuart looked so cold and so sternly immovable as he said this,
while carelessly turning over some papers, that Kenneth, who had come
prepared to reveal all, resolved to keep his secret, believing that
there was no pity left in his father's breast.

As he lay awake and sorrowing that night he heard his father's step
pacing to and fro incessantly during the whole night, and hoped that the
loss he had in all probability sustained would break up the ice; but
next morning at breakfast he was as cold as ever.  He looked very pale,
indeed, but he was sterner and even more irascible than usual in regard
to the merest trifles, so Kenneth's resolution not to confide in his
father was confirmed.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE BU'STER WILLS TO ACCOMPLISH MISCHIEF, AND GETS INTO TROUBLE.

"At sea."--How differently do human beings regard that phrase!  To one
it arouses feelings akin to rapture; to another it is suggestive of
heavings and horror.  To him whose physical condition is easily and
disagreeably affected by aquatic motion, "at sea" savours of bad smells
and misery.  To him who sings of the intensity of his love for "a ride
on the fierce, foaming, bursting tide," "at sea" sounds like the sweet
ringing of a silver bell floating towards him, as if from afar, fraught
with the fragrance and melody of distant climes--such as coral isles,
icy mountains, and golden sands.

Let us regard the phrase in its pleasant aspect just now, good reader.

I have always loved the sea myself, from the hour I first set foot on
board a man-of-war and skylarked with the middies, to that sad and
memorable day when, under the strong--I might almost say irresistible--
influence of my strong-minded wife, I bade adieu to the royal navy for
ever, and retired into private life.  Alas!  But what is the use of
sighing?  If a man _will_ get born in his wrong century, he ought to lay
his account with being obliged to suffer much from the strange, I had
almost said childish, fallacies, follies, and inconsistencies peculiar
to the more early period in which his lot has been cast by mistake.

You see, reader, I have accepted my position.  There is a bare
possibility that those who have assigned it to me may be wrong, but I
have long ago ceased to dispute that point.

At sea!  Haco's sloop is there now, just out of sight of land, although
not far from it, and resting on as glassy a sheet of water as is ever
presented by the ocean in a deep dead calm.  Haco himself, big, hairy,
jovial, ruddy, is seated on the after skylight, the sole occupant of the
deck.

To look at him one might fancy that Neptune having found a deserted
ship, had clambered upon deck and sat him down to take a complacent view
of his wide domains, and enjoy a morning pipe.

It is early morning, and the other inhabitants of that floating house
are asleep below.

The "Coal-Coffin," albeit an unseaworthy vessel, is a picturesque
object.  Its dirty sails are of a fine rich colour, because of their
very dirtiness.  Its weather-worn and filthy spars, and hull and
rigging, possess a harmony of _tone_ which can only be acquired by age.
Its cordage being rotten and very limp, hangs, on that account, all the
more gracefully in waving lines of beauty and elegant festoons; the reef
points hang quite straight, and patter softly on the sails--in short,
the _tout ensemble_ of the little craft is eminently picturesque--
draped, as it were, with the mellowness of antiquity; and the whole--
hull, spars, sails, cordage, and reef points,--clearly and sharply
reflected in the depths below.

"Wot a splendid mornin'!" said Stephen Gaff, putting his head and
shoulders out of the after hatchway, and yawning violently.

"So 'tis, shipmet," responded the skipper, "a'most too butiful for this
world."

Both men spoke in subdued tones, as if unwilling to disturb the
delightful stillness of nature.  Gaff, having slowly raised himself out
of the hole in the deck which served as a door to the bandbox, termed,
out of courtesy, the cabin, looked up at the mast-head to see if the
vane indicated any wind; then he gazed slowly round the horizon.
Meeting with nothing particular there to arrest his eyes, he let them
fall on Haco, who was gazing dreamily at the bowl of his German pipe.

"Dead calm," said Gaff.

"Won't last long," said Haco.

"Won't it?"

"No.  Glass fallin' fast."

This seemed to be as much mental food as Gaff could comfortably digest
at that time, for he made no rejoinder, but, drawing a short black pipe
from his vest-pocket, sat down beside his friend, and filled and smoked
it in silence.

"How's the Roosians?" he inquired, after a long pause.

"All square," said the skipper, who was addicted somewhat to figurative
language and hyperbole in the form of slang, "another week in the
doctor's hands, an' the grub of the London Home, will set 'em up taught
an' trim as ever."

"Goin' to blow hard, think 'ee?" asked Gaff.

"Great guns," said Haco, puffing a cloud of smoke from his mouth, which
was at that time not a bad imitation of a _little_ gun.

"Soon?" inquired Gaff.

"P'r'aps yes, p'r'aps no."

Once more the seamen relapsed into a silence which was not again broken
until two of the crew and several Russians came on deck.

Haco gave orders to have the topsail reefed, and then commencing to pace
to and fro on the small deck, devoted himself entirely to smoke and
meditation.

Soon after, there was a loud cheer from Billy Gaff.  The Bu'ster had
suddenly awakened from an unbroken sleep of twelve hours, tumbled
incontinently out of his berth, rushed up the ladder, thrust his head
above the hatchway, and, feeling the sweet influences of that lovely
morning, vented his joy in the cheer referred to.

Billy had begged hard to be taken to London, and his father, thinking
that, the sooner he began the seafaring life to which he was destined,
the better, had consented to take him.

Billy willed to accomplish a great number of pieces of mischief during
the five minutes which he spent in gazing breathlessly round the ship
and out upon the glittering sea; but he was surrounded by so many
distracting novelties, and the opportunities for mischief were so
innumerable, that, for the first time in his life, he felt perplexed,
and absolutely failed to accomplish anything for a considerable time.

This calm, however, like the calm of nature, was not destined to last
long.

"Daddy," said the cherub suddenly, "I'm a-goin' up the shrouds."

"Very good, my lad," said Gaff, "ye'll tumble down likely, but it don't
much matter."

Billy clambered up the side, and seized the shrouds, but missing his
foothold at the first step, he fell down sitting-wise, from a height of
three feet.

There was a sounding thud on the deck, followed by a sharp gasp, and the
boy sat staring before him, considering, apparently, whether it were
necessary or not to cry in order to relieve his feelings.  Finding that
it was not, he swallowed his heart with an effort, got up, and tried it
again.

The second effort was more successful.

"That'll do, lad, come down," said Gaff, when his son had got half-way
up the mast, and paused to look down, with a half-frightened expression.

Contrary to all precedent, Billy came down, and remained quiet for ten
minutes.  Then he willed to go out on the bowsprit, but, being observed
in a position of great danger thereon, was summarily collared by a
sailor, and hauled inboard.  He was about to hurl defiance in the teeth
of the seaman, and make a second effort on the bowsprit, when Haco
Barepoles thrust his red head up the after-hatch, and sang
out--"breakfast!"

"Breakfast, Billy," repeated Gaff.

To which the cherub responded by rushing aft with a cheer, and
descending the square hole after his father.

Having been horribly sea-sick the first day of his voyage, and having
now quite recovered, Billy was proportionably ravenous, and it was a
long time before he ceased to demand and re-demand supplies of biscuit,
butter, and tea.  With appetite appeased at last, however, he returned
to the deck, and, allowing quarter of an hour for digestion and
reflection, began to consider what should next be done.

The opportunity for some bold stroke was a rare one, for the crew,
consisting of five men and a boy, were all forward, earnestly
endeavouring to pick acquaintance by means of signs with the
convalescent Russians, while Gaff and Haco were still below at
breakfast, so that Billy had the after part of the sloop all to himself.

He began operations by attempting to get at the needle of the compass,
but finding that this was secured powerfully by means of glass and
brass, he changed his mind, and devoted himself heart and soul to the
wheel.  Turning it round until the helm was hard down, he looked up at
the sails, and with some curiosity awaited the result, but the vessel
having no motion no result followed.

Failing in this he forced the wheel round with all his might and let it
go suddenly, so that it spun round with the recoil, and narrowly missed
knocking him down!

This was a pleasant source of amusement, uniting, as it did,
considerable effort and some danger, with the prospect of a smash in
some of the steering tackle, so Billy prepared to indulge himself; but
it struck him that the frequent recurrence of the accompanying noise
would bring the skipper on deck and spoil the fun, so on second thoughts
he desisted, and glanced eagerly about for something else, afraid that
the golden opportunity would pass by unimproved.

Observing something like a handle projecting from a hole, he seized it,
and hauled out a large wooden reel with a log-line on it.  With this he
at once began to play, dipping the log into the sea and hauling it up
repeatedly as though he were fishing, but there was want of variety in
this.  Looking about him he espied a lead-line near the binnacle; he cut
the lead from this, and fastening it to the end of the log-line, began
forthwith to take deep-sea soundings.  This was quite to his taste, for
when he stood upon the vessel's side, in order to let the line run more
freely, and held up the reel with both hands, the way in which it spun
round was quite refreshing to his happy spirit.  There must have been a
hitch in the line, however, for it was suddenly checked in its
uncoiling, and the violence of the stoppage wrenched the reel from his
grasp, and the whole affair disappeared beneath the calm water!

The Bu'ster's heart smote him.  He had not meant anything so wicked as
_that_.

"Ha! you young rascal, _I_ saw you," said one of the men coming up at
that moment.

Billy turned round with a start, and in doing so fell headlong into the
sea.

The sailor stood aghast as if paralysed for a moment, then--as Billy
rose to the surface with outstretched hands and staring eyes, and
uttered a yell which was suddenly quenched in a gurgling cry--he
recovered himself, and hastily threw a coil of rope towards the boy.

Now it is a curious and quite unaccountable fact, that comparatively few
sailors can swim.  At all events no one can deny the fact that there are
hundreds, ay, thousands, of our seafaring men and boys who could not
swim six yards to save their lives.  Strange to say, of all the men who
stood on the deck of that sloop, at the time of the accident to Billy,
(Russians included), not one could swim a stroke.  The result was that
they rushed to the stern of the vessel and gazed anxiously over the
side; some shouting one thing, and some another, but not one venturing
to jump overboard, because it was as much as his life was worth to do
so!

Several ropes were instantly thrown over the drowning boy, but being
blinded both by terror and salt water, he did not see them.  Then one of
the men hastily fastened the end of a line round his waist, intending to
spring over and trust to his comrades hauling him on board.  At the same
moment several men rushed to the stern boat, intent on lowering her.
All this occurred in a few brief seconds.  Billy had risen a second time
with another wild cry when his father and the skipper sprang up the
after-hatch and rushed to the side.  Haco dashed his indestructible hat
on the deck, and had his coat almost off, when Gaff went overboard, head
first, hat, coat, and all, like an arrow, and caught Billy by the hair
when he was about four feet below the surface.

Of course Gaff's re-appearance with his son in his arms was greeted with
heartfelt and vociferous cheers; and, of course, when they were hauled
on board, and Gaff handed Billy to the skipper, in order that he might
the more conveniently wring a little of the superabundant water from his
garments, another and a still more hearty cheer was given; but Gaff
checked it rather abruptly by raising himself and saying sternly--

"Shame on you, lads, for not bein' able to swim.  The child might ha'
drownded for all _you_ could do to help him.  A soldier as don't know
how to shoot is not much wuss than a sailor as don't know how to swim.
Why, yer own mothers--yer own _sweet-hearts_--might be a-drownin' afore
yer eyes, an' you'd have to run up an' down like helpless noodles, not
darin' to take to the water, (which ought to be your native element),
any more than a blue-nosed Kangaroo.  Shame on ye, I say, for not bein'
able to swim."

"Amen to that, say I," observed Haco with emphasis.  "Shame on stout
hulkin' fellers like you for not bein' able to swim, and shame on them
as steers the ship o' State for not teachin' ye.  You can put that in
yer pipes and smoke it, lads, an' if it don't smoke well, ye can make a
quid of it, and chew it.  If I could make quids o' them there
sentiments, I'd set up a factory an' send a inexhaustible supply to the
big-wigs in parlymint for perpetooal mastication.  There now, don't
stare, but go for'ard, an' see, two of you take in another reef o' the
mains'l.  If the glass speaks true, we'll be under my namesake--
barepoles--before long; look alive, boys!"

It was something new to the crew of the "Coal-Coffin" to be thus checked
in an enthusiastic cheer, and to be rebuked by the object of their
admiration for _not being able to swim_.

Deep and long was the discussion they had that evening around the
windlass on this subject.  Some held that it was absurd to blame men for
not being able, "when p'raps they couldn't if they wor to try."  Others
thought that they might have tried first before saying that "p'raps they
couldn't."  One admitted that it was nothing but laziness that had
prevented _him_ from learning, whereupon another opined that dirtiness
had something to do with it too.  But all agreed in wishing earnestly
that they had learned the noble and useful art, and in regretting deeply
that they had not been taught it when young.

The boy, who formed one of the crew, silently congratulated himself that
he _was_ young, and resolved in his own mind that he would learn as soon
as possible.

The sun set in the west, and the evening star arose to cheer the world
with her presence, while the greater luminary retired.  Slowly the day
retreated and dusky night came on.  One by one the stars shone out,
faintly at first, as if too modest to do more than glimmer, but stronger
and brighter, and more numerous by degrees, until the whole sky became
like a great resplendent milky way.

Still there was no evidence that a double-reef in the mainsail was
necessary; no indication that the weather-glass had told a truthful
tale.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE STORM, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

It came at length with awful speed and fury.

At first there was a stifling heat in the atmosphere; then clouds began
to dim the sky.  Mysterious and solemn changes seemed to be taking place
in nature--noiselessly for a time.  Ere long the war began with a burst
of heaven's artillery.  It was distant at first; muttering, prolonged,
and fitful, like the rattling musketry of advancing skirmishers.  Soon a
roar of deafening thunder rent the sky.  Another and another followed,
with blinding flashes of lightning between, while rain came down in
torrents.

The order had been given to take in the mainsail, and the little vessel
was almost under bare poles, when the storm burst upon it, and threw it
nearly on its beam-ends.

Righting from the first shock, it sprang away like a living creature
trying to escape from some deadly foe.  Ere long the waves were up and
the storm was raging in all its fury.

"If it holds like this till to-morrow, we'll be in port by noon," said
Haco Barepoles to Gaff as they stood near the wheel, holding on to the
backstays, and turning their backs to the seas that swept heavily over
the side from time to time.

"You speak as if you wor _sure_ o' gettin' in," said Gaff.

"Well, we an't sure o' nothin' in this world," replied the skipper; "if
Providence has willed it otherwise, we can't help it, you know.  We must
submit whether we will or no."

"D'ye know," rejoined Gaff, "it has often bin in my mind, that as
Christian men, (which we profess to be, whether we believe our own
profession or not), we don't look at God's will in the right way.  The
devil himself is obliged to submit to God whether he will or no, because
he can't help it.  Don't 'ee think it would be more like Christians if
we was to submit _because_ it is His will?"

Before Haco could answer, an enormous wave came curling over the stern.

"Mind your helm, lad!"

The words were scarce uttered when a heavy mass of water fell inboard,
almost crushing down the deck.  For some moments it seemed as if the
little vessel were sinking, but she cleared herself, and again rushed
onward.

That night the wind chopped round, and Haco was obliged to lay-to until
daylight, as the weather was thick.  Before morning the gale took off
and at sunrise had moderated into a stiff breeze.  All that day they
beat slowly and heavily against the wind, which, however, continued to
decrease.  At night the wind again veered round to the northward,
enabling the "Coal-Coffin" to spread most of her canvass, keep her
course, and bowl pleasantly along before the breeze.  But the weather
was still thick, necessitating a sharp look-out.

During most of this time our friend Billy was confined, much against his
will, to the bandbox cabin, where he did as much mischief as he could in
the circumstances.

Towards midnight, while Haco and Gaff were standing by the man on the
look-out, who was on the heel of the bowsprit, they fancied they
observed something looming up against the dark sky on the weather bow.

The look-out gave a shout.

"Port! port! hard a-port!" roared the skipper, at the same moment
bounding aft.

"Port it is!" replied the man at the wheel, obeying with promptitude.

The sloop sheered away to leeward.  At the same instant the hull of a
great vessel bore right down upon them.  The yell of the steam-whistle
betrayed her character, while the clanging of the fog-bell, and shouts
of those on board, proved that the sloop had been observed.  At the same
time the seething sea that flowed like milk round her bow, showed that
the engines had been reversed, while the captain's voice was heard
distinctly to shout "starboard! starboard hard!" to the steersman.

The promptitude with which these orders were given and obeyed, prevented
the steamer from running down the sloop altogether.  A collision,
however, was unavoidable.  The crew of the sloop and the Russians,
seeing this, rushed to the place where they expected to be struck, in
order to leap, if possible, into the head of the steamer.  Even the
steersman left his post, and sprang into the weather shrouds in the hope
of catching some of the ropes or chains below the bowsprit.

On came the steamer like a great mountain.  Her way had been so much
checked that she seemed merely to touch the side of the sloop; but the
touch was no light one.  It sent the cutwater crashing through bulwark,
plank, and beam, until the "Coal-Coffin" was cut right down amidships,
within a foot of the water-line.  There was a wild cry from the men as
they leaped towards their destroyer.  Some succeeded in grasping ropes,
others missed and fell back bruised and stunned on the sloop's deck.

Billy had been standing beside his father when the steamer was first
observed, and naturally clung to him.  Gaff put his left arm tight round
the boy, and with the others prepared for a spring, believing, as did
all the rest, that the sloop would be sunk at once.

Not so Haco Barepoles, who went to the wheel of his little vessel, and
calmly awaited the result.

Gaff's spring at the chains of the cutwater was successful, but in
making it he received a blow on the head from one of the swinging blocks
of the sloop which almost stunned him, insomuch that he could only cling
to the chain he had caught with the tenacity of despair.

One of the sailors observed him in this position of danger, and
instantly descending with a rope fastened it under his chest, so that he
and Billy were safely hauled on board, and the former was led below to
have his head examined by the surgeon.

Meanwhile the men in the bow of the steamer shouted to Haco to come on
board.

"No, thank'ee," replied the skipper, "shake yourself clear o' my riggin'
as fast as ye can, and let me continoo my voyage."

"Your sloop is sinking," urged the captain of the steamer.

"Not sinkin' yet; I'll stick to her as long as she can float."

"But you've none of your men left on board, have you?"

"No; better without 'em if they're so easy frightened."

As he said this one of his own men slid quickly down a rope that hung
from the steamer's bowsprit, and dropt on the deck of the sloop,
exclaiming--

"It'll never be said o' Tom Grattan that he forsack his ship so long as
a man wos willin' to stick by her."

Haco took Tom by the hand as he went aft and shook it.

"Any more comin'?" he said, glancing at the faces of the men that stared
down upon him.

There was no reply.

"You can't expect men to volunteer to go to the bottom," said the
captain of the steamer.  "You're mad, both of you.  Think better of it."

"Back your ship off, sir!" said Haco in a deep stern voice.

The order was given to back off, and the vessels were soon clear.  Haco
put his sloop at once on the larboard tack, and looking over the side
observed that the bottom of the yawning gap was thus raised nearly three
feet out of the water.

"Tom," said he, resuming his place at the wheel, "go and nail a bit of
canvas over that hole.  You'll find materials down below.  We'll have to
steer into port on this tack, 'cause if we try to go on the other,
she'll sink like a stone.  I only hope the wind'll hold as it is.  Look
alive now!"

In a few minutes the little craft was away and the captain of the
steamer, seeing that she did not sink, continued his course.

Next day Haco Barepoles steered the "Coal-Coffin" triumphantly into the
port of London, with a hole in her side big enough, if Tom Grattan's
report is to be believed, "to admit of a punt bein' row'd d'rect from
the sea into the hold!"



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

GAFF AND BILLY BECOME THE SPORT OF FORTUNE, AND SEE STRANGE THINGS.

The steamer which had run down the sloop of Haco Barepoles was a large
iron one, which had just set out on a voyage to the West Indies.

Being anxious to send on shore the men whom he had so unexpectedly
picked up at sea, the captain hailed the first inward-bound vessel he
met with, and put them on board.  It was found, however, that the blow
received by Stephen Gaff had been more severe than was at first
imagined, and the doctor advised that he should not be moved until
farther down the Channel.  He and Billy were therefore retained on
board; but when the steamer passed the Isle of Wight, the weather became
thick and squally, and continued so for several days, so that no vessel
could be spoken with.

In these circumstances the captain was compelled to carry Gaff and his
boy away to sea, much to the regret of the former, who was curious to
know what the news could be that was to be to his advantage in London,
besides being grieved at the anxiety his sudden disappearance with Billy
would cause to his wife.

The Bu'ster did not by any means share the regret or grief of his
father.  To that amiable cherub the whole affair was a piece of
unexpected and unparalleled good fortune.  It was the realisation to
some extent of his rapturous dreams of travel and adventure in foreign
lands, and it freed him, at one fell swoop, from the iron yoke of his
mother.

Billy, although he congratulated himself on the deliverance, did,
strange to say, shed a few tears in memory of his mother, for the boy
had an affectionate disposition, and really loved his mother, and would
have shown his love too if she would have let him.

Gaff feared there was but little prospect of being speedily delivered
from the steamer; nevertheless he begged the captain to put him on board
the first homeward-bound vessel they should meet with.  To this request
the captain agreed.

An opportunity occurred sooner than had been expected.  On the afternoon
of the fifth day out, a large barque hove in sight.  On nearing this
vessel the captain ran up his colours, and the signal was replied to by
the Union Jack.  On being asked as to where they were bound, the port of
Liverpool was signalled in answer.

"You're in luck.  Gaff," said the captain; "I'll put you on board of
that barque if you choose."

"Thank 'ee, sir, I'd like it well."

"I rather think that your little boy would prefer to go with _us_,"
added the captain, laughing.

Billy at once admitted that he would, and begged to be allowed to stay
where he was, but this request could not be granted.

"Now, Gaff," said the captain confidentially, "if you're short o' cash
I'll be happy to--"

"Thank'ee, sir, I've as much as I require."

"Very well, then, you'd better get ready, and I'll order a boat to be
lowered."

Half an hour afterwards Gaff stood on the deck of the barque, waving his
hat to the few friends he had made during his short stay in the steamer.

The barque turned out to be a South Sea whaler from New York, which had
suffered severely in a recent gale which had driven her far out of her
course to the northward.  She was obliged to run to Liverpool for
repairs.  The captain, whose name was Graddy, and who was one of the
most ill-favoured and ill-mannered men that Gaff had ever set eyes on,
agreed to take the newcomer to England on condition that he should work
his way besides paying for his rations.

There was something about this vessel which was very offensive to the
critical eye of Gaff.  The nature of her work might account for her
being so dirty; but that was no reason for the slovenliness of her
rigging and general management, the surliness and tyranny of her
captain, and the semi-mutinous condition of her crew.

The crew was a mixed one.  There seemed to be representatives of at
least half a dozen nations.  The captain himself was of mixed blood, and
no one could have told from his look or speech to what nation he
belonged.  He was a big powerful man, much feared by the crew, who hated
him cordially.  He was well aware of this, and returned the hatred with
interest.  Besides this, being monarch of the ship, he worried them in
every way that lay in his power.

It is awful to think of the ruinous effects of sin, and how nearly men
can come to resemble devils.  This monster actually laid plots to entrap
his men in order that he might have an excuse to vent his hatred on
them.

Gaff soon found that he had got into a nest, so to speak, of evil
spirits.  Before he had been two days with them, he would have given all
he possessed, or ever hoped to possess, in order to escape from the
"Rattlesnake," which was the vessel's name.

As for Billy, his heart sank to a depth of woe he had never hitherto
conceived of.  Every one kicked and cuffed him and swore at him for
being in the way, and when he was wanted he was kicked, cuffed, and
sworn at for being out of the way.  Poor boy! his dreams had never
presented him with _this_ species of adventure.

So bad did the state of things become that the men began to talk among
themselves of deserting the moment they should reach port, no matter
what should be the consequences.  This threat reached the captain's
ears, and he frustrated it by telling the mate that he thought the
needful repairs could be managed on board by the ship's carpenters; and
so gave orders to alter the course for South America!

Deep and fierce were the counsels that went on in the forecastle that
night among the men.  Some hinted darkly at murder.  Others suggested
that the captain should be put on shore on a desert island and left to
his fate.  All agreed that something must be done, that a decisive blow
must be struck, with the exception of Gaff, who remained silent while
his shipmates were discussing the matter.

Observing this they called upon him for his opinion.

"Lads," said he in decided tones, "I've got no opinion to offer.  I am--
at least I strive to be--a Christian man; an', to be plain with ye, I
won't go for to consult or act with murderers, or mutineers, or pirates,
which it appears you intend to become, if you're not that a'ready.  One
opinion I will give ye, however, an' one piece of advice I'll offer.
The opinion is, that if you go on as you've bin a-goin' on since I came
aboard, you'll all live to be hanged.  The advice is, that you should
face yer troubles like men--take things as ye find 'em, an' if ye can't
mend 'em, why grin and bear 'em."

The crew received this in varied mood.  Some laughed, others swore, and
one suggested that Gaff should be thrown overboard.

This latter, who was a big strong man, and a sort of bully among his
mates, shook his fist at Gaff, and said--

"Now, I'll tell ye wot it is, Mister Toogood, if you go for to tell the
cap'n wot we've bin a-talkin' about, I'll knock yer two daylights into
one, so see that ye keep yer tongue in order."

"What's past is past," said Gaff quietly; "but I tell ye plainly, that
if you let _your_ tongues go the same pace again in my hearin', I'll go
aft and report ye.  I'll be no spy, but I give ye fair warnin'."

At this the bully lost command of himself.  Seizing an iron bar that lay
on a chest close by, he rushed at Gaff with the evident intention of
felling him.  But the latter was on his guard.  He was active and
powerful too, besides being quite cool.  Leaping nimbly aside, he
avoided the bully's onset, and at the same moment laid him flat on the
deck with one blow of his fist.

"Sarves him right!"

"So it does!" exclaimed several of the men, who were not sorry to see
one whom they disliked so roughly handled.

"Well, so it does sarve him right," added one who had been a prominent
speaker in the recent debates; "but hark'ee, friend," he said, turning
to Gaff with a scowl, "you can't knock the whole crew down in that
fashion.  I advise ye, for your own sake, to mind what ye're about."

"I means to do so," said Gaff; "I'll stick to my dooty and to the
cap'n."

"Very good," replied the other with a sneer, "then wotiver is the
cap'n's fate you'll have the pleasure of sharin' it with him."

"Tumble up there! tumble up, an' reef tops'ls!" roared the captain down
the hatch at that moment.

The men obeyed, and for the time their mutinous intentions seemed to
have been dismissed.  For many weeks after this Gaff heard nothing that
could lead him to suppose that the men still harboured their dark
designs.  Yet the state of affairs on board became worse and worse.  The
captain cursed and tyrannised more than ever, and the men grew sulkier
and more wretched, but no word of a murderous nature was ever uttered in
the hearing of Gaff or his little son.

As for Billy his small mind had received such a rude shock by the sudden
and terrible change in his circumstances, that he seemed to have lost
all his wonted vivacity as well as his mischief.  In fact, both
qualities, or tendencies, had been thoroughly kicked out of him before
he had been a week on board.  He was protected to some extent by his
father, who one day quietly knocked another of the men down for giving
Billy an undeserved beating; but some of them kicked and cuffed the poor
boy when his father was not present.

Billy was found to be active and useful in small matters and light
duties suited to his age, and in the course of time was appointed to the
position of steward's assistant, in which capacity he became deeply
learned in the matter of washing cups, dishes, etcetera, besides
acquiring a knowledge of baking, pudding-making, and many other useful
arts more or less allied to cookery; in addition to which he had the
inestimable benefit of being taught thoroughly submission and
obedience--a lesson which the Bu'ster found very hard to learn, and
thought particularly grievous, but which at his age, and considering his
previous training, was an absolute blessing.

The way in which that cherub went about that ship in a little blue
jacket, straw hat, and canvas trousers, rubbing and cleaning, and
according prompt obedience at all times to every one, would have charmed
his mother as much as it gratified his father, who was in consequence
somewhat reconciled to his otherwise hard lot.

Now, philosophical reader--if such you be--do not suppose that I
advocate kicking and cuffing as the best possible cure for general
mischievousness and badness in a boy.  By no means.  My strong-minded
wife says I do; but then she always forms, or rather partially forms,
her opinions on assumptions, retains them in confusion, states them at
haphazard, according to her mood at the time being, and, having stated
them, sticks to them like a limpet to a rock.

You will judge differently when I explain my ideas on this point.  I
maintain that Billy Gaff, _alias_ the Bu'ster, was taught to accord
obedience--simple obedience and nothing else--by means of the kicking
and cuffing he received on board of that whaler; and, further, that the
method is a sure one.  I do not say that it is the _best_ one, but that
does not affect the fact that it is almost infallible.  It was reserved
for Billy's father, however, by means of wise counsels, kindly given
advice, and otherwise affectionate treatment, to save Billy from being
turned into an obedient but misanthropic brute, and to lead him to
accord his obedience, not because he could not help it, but because his
father wished him to do it.

This appeal went right home to Billy's heart, because he loved his
father fervently.  He had always loved him in time past, now more than
ever, for the poor boy regarded him much as a drowning man regards the
solitary plank to which he clings as his last hope.  Thus did Billy
practically learn the great truth, that "Love is the fulfilling of the
law."

Weeks rolled on; gales succeeded calms, and calms succeeded gales.  The
"line" was passed; southern seas were reached; new constellations
glittered overhead; strange fish and luminous creatures gambolled in the
sea, and the whalers' fishing-ground was entered.  Latterly the men had
ceased to grumble at the captain, although he had by no means ceased to
swear at and bully the men, and Gaff began to hope that they had got
over their bad fit, and were going to settle down to work peaceably.

The calm, however, was deceitful; it preceded a storm.

One sultry afternoon when Gaff was standing at the helm and the captain
beside him, the men came aft in a body, and two of their number, with
pistols in their hands, advanced to seize the captain.

He saw at once what they meant to do, and, springing back, seized a
handspike.

"Lay that down and surrender, else I'll blow out yer brains," said one
of the two, levelling his pistol.

Instead of obeying, the captain raised the heavy handspike, and the man
pulled the trigger.  At the same instant Gaff struck up the muzzle with
his hand; the ball passed over the captain's head, and the handspike
descended on the seaman's crown felling him at once.

Upon this the entire crew made a rush and overpowered Gaff and the
captain.  The latter, who struggled with the fury of a tiger, was kicked
while down until he was nearly dead.  Gaff at once gave in, knowing that
any attempt at further resistance, besides being hopeless, would only
render matters worse.  He was therefore allowed to rise, and his hands
were tied behind his back.

The captain, being similarly secured, was raised to his feet.

"Now, you tyrant," said the ringleader of the crew with a terrible oath,
"how would you like to have your throat cut?"

The man slowly opened a long clasp-knife as he spoke, and felt its keen
edge with his thumb.  Blood was flowing down his face and breast from
the wound inflicted by the handspike, and the fiendish expression of his
countenance, added to the terribleness of his aspect, while it showed
that his sarcastic question would certainly be followed by the murderous
deed.  But the other mutineers restrained him.

"It's too good for him, make him walk the plank and drown like a dog--as
he is," cried one.

"Hang him up to the yard-arm," said another.

Several voices here expressed dissent, and an elderly seaman stepped
forward and said that they didn't intend to become pirates, so they had
better not begin with murder.

"Hear, hear!" from several voices emphatically.

"What'll we do with him, then?" inquired one in angry excitement.

Upon this they all began to consult noisily, and they were so much
engrossed that they failed to perceive the movements of Billy, who, when
his first alarm at the uproar was over, began to feel deep anxiety in
regard to his father's bound and helpless condition.  His active mind
did not remain long paralysed; pulling out the clasp-knife which he
always carried in his pocket, he quickly cut the cords that fastened
Gaff's wrists.  Before the latter could avail himself of his freedom the
act was discovered, and he was secured again more firmly than before,
while Billy was favoured with a slap on the ear so tremendous that it
threw all those he had ever received from his mother utterly into the
shade!

Recovering from this, he sat down on the deck at his father's feet, and
wept silently.

In a few minutes the mutineers agreed among themselves.  One of the
smallest boats in the ship was lowered, and the captain and Gaff having
been cast loose were ordered to get into it.  The former obeyed at once,
pronouncing a terrible curse on the crew as he went down the side.

One of the men at the same time threw a bag of biscuit into the boat.

"Come along, Billy," said Gaff, as he followed the captain.

The boy was about to do so, when one of the men seized him and pulled
him back.

"No, no," said he, "the lad's useful, and will only eat up your biscuit
faster than need be.  We'll keep him aboard."

Gaff listened to this with an expression of agony on his rugged
features.

"Oh, have mercy on my son!" he cried, as they cast the boat adrift.
Then feeling that an appeal to such desperadoes was useless, he clasped
his hands, and, looking up to Heaven, prayed God, for Christ's sake, to
deliver him from the company of sinful men.

A light breeze was blowing, and the ship, which had been hove-to while
the boat was being lowered, soon gathered way, and left the boat behind.

All of a sudden Billy broke away, and, rushing towards the stern, sprang
wildly into the sea!

"Down with the helm! heave-to!" shouted some of the men.

"No, no, let the whelp go," cried others; "besides, he'd be able to
peach on us."

This last argument was all-powerful.  The ship held on her course, and
Billy was left to his fate.

The moment that Gaff saw him take the leap he seized the oars, and
applying all his strength to them, succeeded in catching hold of his son
before his struggles had ceased.

Billy was none the worse for his adventure beyond the ducking.  Gaff
soon wrung the water out of his garments, and then placing him on his
knee, sat down to watch the ship as it sailed slowly away.

The captain, who sat in the stern with his chin resting in his hand, and
a dark scowl on his face, also watched the retreating vessel.

Soon it glimmered like the wing of a sea-mew on the horizon, and then,
just as night began to set in, it disappeared, leaving the boat a
solitary speck in the midst of the great wide sea.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE DINNER PARTY--A SUDDEN PIECE OF QUESTIONABLE GOOD FORTUNE BEFALLS
MRS. GAFF.

"It is a most unfortunate piece of good fortune this that has befallen
Mrs Gaff," said Mr George Stuart, "a very unfortunate thing indeed."

"Dear me, do you think so?  Now I don't agree with you at all, brother,"
observed Miss Peppy.  "I think that good fortune is always good fortune,
and never can be bad fortune.  I wish it would only come to me
sometimes, but it never does, and when it does it never remains long.
Only think how she'll flaunt about now, with a coach-and-four perhaps,
and such like.  I really think that fortune made a mistake in this case,
for she has been used to such mean ways, not that I mean anything bad by
mean, you know, but only low and common, including food and domestic
habits, as well as society, that--that--dear me, I don't exactly know
how to express myself, but it's a puzzle to me to know how she'll ever
come to be able to spend it all, indeed it is.  I wonder why we are
subjected to such surprises so constantly, and then it's _so_ perplexing
too, because one will never be able to remember that she's not a
fisherwoman as she used to be, and will call her Jessie in spite of
one's-self; and how it ever came about, that's another puzzle.  But
after all there is no accounting for the surprising way in which things
_do_ come about, dear me, in this altogether unaccountable world.  Take
a little more soup, Captain Bingley?"

The above observations were made by Miss Peppy and my friend Stuart,
from the head and foot respectively of their dinner-table, around which
were assembled my wife, my niece Lizzie Gordon, an elderly spinster
named Miss Eve Flouncer, a Miss Martha Puff, (niece to Miss Flouncer), a
baronet named Sir Richard Doles, my son Gildart, and Kenneth Stuart.

I was seated beside Miss Peppy, opposite to Sir Richard Doles, who was
one of the slowest, dullest, stupidest men I ever met with.  He appeared
to me to have been born without any intellect.  When he told a story
there was no end to it, indeed there seldom was anything worthy the name
of a beginning to it, and it never by the remotest chance had any point.

In virtue of his rank, not his capacity of course, Sir Richard was in
great demand in Wreckumoft.  He was chairman at every public meeting;
honorary member of every society; a director in the bank, the insurance
company, the railway, the poorhouse, and the Sailors' Home; in all of
which positions and institutions he was a positive nuisance, because of
his insane determination to speak as long as possible, when he had not
the remotest notion of what he wished to say, so that business was in
his presence brought almost to a dead lock.  Yet Sir Richard was
tolerated; nay, courted and toadied, because of his title.

My wife was seated opposite to Miss Eve Flouncer, who was one of the
strong-minded women.  Indeed, I think it is but just to say of her that
she was one of the strongest-minded women in the town.  In her presence
the strength of Mrs Bingley's mind dwindled down to comparative
weakness.  In form she was swan-like, undulatory, so to speak.  Her
features were _prononce_; nose, aquiline; eyes, piercing; hair, black as
night, and in long ringlets.

Miss Flouncer was, as I have said, an elderly spinster.  Sir Richard was
an elderly bachelor.  Miss Flouncer thought of this, and often sighed.
Sir Richard didn't think of it, and never sighed, except when, having
finished a good dinner, he felt that he could eat no more.  By the way,
he also sighed at philanthropic meetings when cases of distress were
related, such as sudden bereavement, coupled, perhaps, with sickness and
deep poverty.  But Sir Richard's sighs were all his contributions to the
cause of suffering humanity.  Sometimes, indeed, he gave it his
blessing, though it would have puzzled the deepest philosopher to have
said what that consisted in, but he never gave it his prayers, for this
reason, that he never prayed for himself or anybody else.  He held that
this world was in a sufficiently satisfactory condition, and advised
that men should let well alone, and contended that any attempt to
interfere with its arrangements in the way of prayer was quite
indefensible.  He did indeed read his prayers in church on Sundays, in a
very loud and distinct voice, to the great annoyance and distraction,
not to say irritation, of all who sat within fifty yards of him, but
this he regarded as a commendable institution of the country.  But to
return to Miss Flouncer.

This state of affairs between Sir Richard and herself did not augur much
for her prospects; but then she was a very strong-minded woman, and had
hopes; whereas Sir Richard was a very weak-minded man, and had no hopes
of any kind worth mentioning, being perfectly satisfied--good, easy
man--with things as they then stood.

Miss Martha Puff was niece to Miss Flouncer--age apparently sixteen.  It
struck me, as I sat looking at her placid face, that this young lady was
well named.  Her pink round visage was puffed up with something so soft
that I could scarcely venture to call it fat.  Her round soft arms were
so puffy to look at, that one could not help fearing that an accidental
prick from a pin would burst the skin and let them out.  She seemed so
like trifle in her pink muslin dress, that I could imagine a puff of
wind blowing her away altogether.  She could not be said to be puffed up
with conceit, poor girl; but she dined almost exclusively on puff paste,
to the evident satisfaction of my gallant son Gildart, who paid her
marked attention during dinner.

Miss Puff never spoke except when spoken to, never asked for anything,
never remarked upon anything, did not seem to care for anything, (puff
paste excepted), and never thought of anything, as far as I could judge
from the expression of her countenance.  Gildart might as well have had
a wax doll to entertain.

"To what unfortunate piece of good fortune does your brother refer, Miss
Stuart?" asked Sir Richard when Miss Peppy had concluded her
observations in regard to it.

"Is it possible that you have not heard of it?" exclaimed Miss Peppy in
surprise.  "Why, the town has been ringing with it for a fortnight at
least, and those odious creatures, the gossips, (who never come near me,
however, because they know I will not tolerate them), have got up all
sorts of wild stories, showing that the man must have got the money by
foul means, though I don't know, I'm sure, why he shouldn't have got a
surprise as well as anybody else, for the unaccountable and astonishing
way in which things _do_ happen in this world, at least to human beings,
for I do not believe that cows or sheep or horses ever experience them;
the want of expression on their faces shows that, at all events they
never leave their offspring at people's doors, and then go away
without--"

"You'd better tell Sir Richard what piece of news you refer to, my
dear," interrupted Mr Stuart, somewhat testily.

"Ah yes, I was forgetting--(a little more fowl, Captain Bingley?  May I
trouble you _again_, Sir Richard? thank you--a leg, if you please, I
know that the Captain prefers a leg)--well, as I was saying--let me see,
what _was_ I saying?"

"You had only got the length of forgetting, ma'am," observed the
baronet.

"Ah, to be sure, I was forgetting to tell you that Mrs Gaff has fallen
heir to ten thousand pounds."

Sir Richard exclaimed, with an appearance of what might have been
mistaken for surprise on his face, "Indeed!"

Miss Flouncer, to whom the news was also fresh, exclaimed, "You _don't_
say so!" with strong emphasis, and an immensely swan-like undulation of
her body.

"Indeed I do," continued Miss Peppy with much animation; "Mrs Gaff, the
fisherman's wife, has got a fortune left her amounting to ten thousand
pounds, which, at five per something or other, as my brother tells me,
yields an annual income of 500 pounds."

"But who left it to her, and how?" asked Sir Richard.

"Ah, who left it, and how?" echoed Miss Flouncer.

"What a jolly thing to be left five hundred a year!" whispered Gildart.
"Wouldn't you like some one to leave that to you, Miss Puff?"

"Yes," said Miss Puff.

"Have you any rich East Indian uncle or aunt who is likely to do it?"
inquired Gildart with a desperate attempt at jocularity.

"No," answered Miss Puff.

These two words--yes and no--were the utmost extent to which Miss Puff
had yet ventured into the dreaded sea of conversation.  I could perceive
by the fagged expression of his face that the middy was beginning to
lose heart.

"Brother," said Miss Peppy, "you had better tell Sir Richard how it
happened.  I have _such_ a memory--I really don't remember the details.
I never _could_ remember details of anything.  Indeed I have often
wondered why details were sent into this world to worry one so.  It _is_
so surprising and unaccountable.  Surely we might have got on quite well
without them."

"Well, you know," observed Gildart in a burst of reckless humour, "we
could not get on very well, Miss Stuart, without some sorts of details.
Ox-tails, for instance, are absolutely necessary to the soup which we
have just enjoyed so much.  So, in like manner, are pig-tails to
Chinamen."

"Ay, and coat-tails to puppies," added Kenneth slyly, alluding to a bran
new garment which the middy had mounted that day for the first time.

"Perhaps," interposed Miss Flouncer, "after such bright coruscations of
wit, Mr Stuart may be allowed to go on with his--"

"Wittles," whispered Gildart in Miss Puff's ear, to the alarm of that
young lady, who, being addicted to suppressed laughter, was in horror
lest she should have a fit.

"Allowed to go on," repeated Miss Flouncer blandly, "with his tale of
this unfortunate piece of good fortune, which I am sure Sir Richard is
dying to hear."

"It can hardly be called a tale," said Mr Stuart, "but it is a curious
enough circumstance.  You remember Stephen Gaff, Sir Richard?"

"Perfectly.  He is the man who appeared in the village of Cove rather
mysteriously some months ago, is he not?"

"The same," returned Mr Stuart; "and it was he who accompanied Haco
Barepoles in my sloop, which he persists in naming the `Coffin,'
although its proper name is the `Betsy Jane,' on that memorable voyage
when Haco sailed her into port on the larboard tack after she had been
cut down to the water's edge on the starboard side.  Well, it seems that
Gaff went with him on that occasion in consequence of having received a
letter from a London lawyer asking him to call, and he would hear
something to his advantage.

"You all know the way in which the people were taken out of the sloop by
the steamer which ran into her, and how they were all landed safely
except Gaff and his son William, who were carried away to sea.  You are
aware, also, that the steamer has since then returned to England,
telling us that Gaff and his boy were put on board a barque bound for
Liverpool, and that this vessel has never made its appearance, so that
we have reason to believe that it has perished in one of the great
storms which occurred about that time.

"Well," continued Mr Stuart, helping Mrs Bingley to a glass of sherry,
"not long ago I had occasion to send Haco Barepoles to London, and he
bethought him of the lawyer who had written to Gaff, so he called on him
and told him of his friend's disappearance.  The lawyer then asked if
Gaff's wife was alive, and on being informed that she was, he told Haco
that Gaff had had a brother in Australia who had been a very successful
gold digger, but whose health had broken down owing to the severity of
the work, and he had left the diggings and gone to Melbourne, where he
died.  Before his death this brother made a will, leaving the whole of
his fortune to Stephen.  The will stated that, in the event of Stephen
being dead, or at sea on a long voyage, the money should be handed over
unconditionally to his wife.  About three weeks ago the lawyer came here
to see Mrs Gaff, and make arrangements and inquiries, and in the course
of a short time this poor woman will be in possession of ten thousand
pounds."

"It will be the ruin of her, I fear," said Sir Richard.

"No doubt of it," observed Miss Flouncer, emphatically.

"It is always the way," said my wife.

"D'ye think it would ruin _you_?" whispered Gildart.

This being an impertinent question, Miss Puff blushed, and made no
reply.

"You need not be at all afraid of Mrs Gaff being ruined by prosperity,"
said Lizzie Gordon, with sudden animation.  "I have seen a good deal of
her during her recent sorrows, and I am quite sure that she is a good
sensible woman."

"What sorrows do you refer to, Miss Gordon?" asked Sir Richard.

"To her husband and son's sudden disappearance, and the death of her
brother-in-law John Furby," replied Lizzie.  "Uncle, you can tell more
about the matter than I can."

"Yes," said I; "it has been my lot to witness a good many cases of
distress in my capacity of agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society,
and I can answer for it that this has been a very severe one, and the
poor woman has borne up against it with Christian fortitude."

"How did it happen?  Pray _do_ tell us about it," cried Miss Flouncer,
with an undulating smile.

"How does it happen, Miss Flouncer, that you are not already acquainted
with these things?"

"Because I have been absent from home for more than two months, and, if
I mistake not, Sir Richard's ignorance rests on somewhat similar
foundation."

Miss Flouncer smiled and undulated towards the baronet, who, being thus
pointedly appealed to, smiled and bowed in return, and begged that I
would relate the facts of the case.

I observed that my son Gildart pressed Miss Puff to attempt another
tart, and whispered something impertinent in her ear, for the poor
thing's pink round face suddenly became scarlet, and she puffed out in a
dangerously explosive manner with suppressed laughter.

"Well then," said I, addressing myself to Miss Flouncer, "a month or so
before the lawyer brought Mrs Gaff tidings of her good fortune, her
brother-in-law John Furby was drowned.  The brave fellow, who, you are
aware, was coxswain of our lifeboat, and has helped to save many a life
since he was appointed to that post of danger, went off in his own
fishing-boat one day.  A squall upset the boat, and although the
accident was seen from the shore, and several boats put off at once to
the rescue, four of the crew perished, and Furby was one of these.

"The scene in Gaff's cottage when the body was carried in and laid on
the bed, was heartrending for the woe occasioned to poor Mrs Gaff by
the recent loss of her husband and little boy was, as it were, poured
upon her head afresh, and for some time she was inconsolable.  My good
niece went frequently to read the Bible and pray with her, and I believe
it was the blessed influence of God's word that brought her at length to
a state of calm resignation.  What made her case worse was the fact,
that, both husband and brother-in-law being taken away, she was left in
a state of absolute destitution.  Now, at this point she began to feel
the value of the noble institution of which I have the happiness of
being an honorary agent--I mean the Shipwrecked Fishermen and Mariners'
Society.  Poor Furby had been a member for several years, and regularly
paid his annual sum of three shillings.  Stephen Gaff had also become a
member, just before starting on his last voyage, having been persuaded
thereto by Haco Barepoles, who is a stanch adherent and advocate of our
cause.  Many a sailor has Haco brought to me to enrol as a member, and
many a widow and fatherless child has had occasion to thank God that he
did so.  Although Gaff had only paid his first year's contribution of
three shillings, I took upon me to give the sum of 5 pounds to Mrs Gaff
and her little girl, and the further sum of 3 pounds because of Furby's
membership.  This sum was quite sufficient to relieve her from want at
the time, so that, in the midst of her deep affliction, she was spared
the additional pains and anxieties of destitution."

"The society is a most noble one," said Miss Flouncer, with a burst of
enthusiasm.

"It is," said I, much pleased with her warmth of manner; "I think--at
least if my memory does not play me false--you are a contributor to its
funds, are you not?"

"Well, a--no.  I have not the pleasure--a--"

Miss Flouncer was evidently a little put out.

"Then I trust, my dear madam," said I, hasting to her relief by
affording her an opportunity of being generous, "that you will allow me
to put down your name as an annual subscriber."

Miss Flouncer, being a _very_ strong-minded woman, had recovered herself
very suddenly, and replied with calm deliberation, accompanied by an
undulation--

"No, Captain Bingley, I have made it a rule never to give charity from
impulse; I always give, when I _do_ give--"

"Ahem!" coughed Gildart slightly.

"When I _do_ give," repeated Miss Flouncer, "from principle, and after a
careful examination of the merits of each particular case."

"Indeed!" said Sir Richard, with an appearance of faint surprise; "what
a bore you must find the examination of the cases!"

"By no means, Sir Richard.  _Very_ little time suffices for each case,
for many of them, I find, almost intuitively, merit dismissal on the
spot; and I assure you it saves a great deal of money.  You would be
surprised if you knew how little I find it necessary to give away in
charity in the course of the year."

Miss Flouncer undulated at Sir Richard as she gave utte

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