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Many cargoes

by W. W. Jacobs · English · Gutenberg #5758 · 400,018 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Many cargoes

Author: W. W. Jacobs


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #5758]
                Most recently updated: March 16, 2025

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MANY CARGOES ***
MANY CARGOES

by W. W. JACOBS

Second Edition

New York

1894




Contents

 A CHANGE OF TREATMENT
 A LOVE PASSAGE
 THE CAPTAIN’S EXPLOIT
 CONTRABAND OF WAR
 A BLACK AFFAIR
 THE SKIPPER OF THE “OSPREY”
 IN BORROWED PLUMES
 THE BOATSWAIN’S WATCH
 LOW WATER
 IN MID-ATLANTIC
 AFTER THE INQUEST
 IN LIMEHOUSE REACH
 AN ELABORATE ELOPEMENT
 THE COOK OF THE “GANNET”
 A BENEFIT PERFORMANCE
 A CASE OF DESERTION
 OUTSAILED
 MATED
 THE RIVAL BEAUTIES
 MRS. BUNKER’S CHAPERON
 A HARBOUR OF REFUGE




A CHANGE OF TREATMENT


Yes, I’ve sailed under some ’cute skippers in my time,” said the
night-watchman; “them that go down in big ships see the wonders o’ the
deep, you know,” he added with a sudden chuckle, “but the one I’m going
to tell you about ought never to have been trusted out without ’is ma.
A good many o’ my skippers had fads, but this one was the worst I ever
sailed under.

“It’s some few years ago now; I’d shipped on his barque, the _John
Elliott_, as slow-going an old tub as ever I was aboard of, when I
wasn’t in quite a fit an’ proper state to know what I was doing, an’ I
hadn’t been in her two days afore I found out his ’obby through
overhearing a few remarks made by the second mate, who came up from
dinner in a hurry to make ’em. ‘I don’t mind saws an’ knives hung round
the cabin,’ he ses to the fust mate, ‘but when a chap has a ’uman ’and
alongside ’is plate, studying it while folks is at their food, it’s
more than a Christian man can stand.’

“‘That’s nothing,’ ses the fust mate, who had sailed with the barque
afore. ‘He’s half crazy on doctoring. We nearly had a mutiny aboard
once owing to his wanting to hold a _post-mortem_ on a man what fell
from the mast-head. Wanted to see what the poor feller died of.’

“‘I call it unwholesome,’ ses the second mate very savage.’ He offered
me a pill at breakfast the size of a small marble; quite put me off my
feed, it did.’

“Of course, the skipper’s fad soon got known for’ard. But I didn’t
think much about it, till one day I seed old Dan’l Dennis sitting on a
locker reading. Every now and then he’d shut the book, an’ look up,
closing ’is eyes, an’ moving his lips like a hen drinking, an’ then
look down at the book again.

“‘Why, Dan,’ I ses, ‘what’s up? you ain’t larning lessons at your time
o’ life?’

“‘Yes, I am,’ ses Dan very soft. ‘You might hear me say it, it’s this
one about heart disease.’

“He hands over the book, which was stuck full o’ all kinds o’ diseases,
and winks at me ’ard.

“‘Picked it up on a book-stall,’ he ses; then he shut ’is eyes an’ said
his piece wonderful. It made me quite queer to listen to ’im. ‘That’s
how I feel,’ ses he, when he’d finished. ‘Just strength enough to get
to bed. Lend a hand, Bill, an’ go an’ fetch the doctor.’

“Then I see his little game, but I wasn’t going to run any risks, so I
just mentioned, permiscous like, to the cook as old Dan seemed rather
queer, an’ went back an’ tried to borrer the book, being always fond of
reading. Old Dan pretended he was too ill to hear what I was saying,
an’ afore I could take it away from him, the skipper comes hurrying
down with a bag in his ’and.

“‘What’s the matter, my man?’ ses he, ‘what’s the matter?’

“‘I’m all right, sir,’ ses old Dan, ’cept that I’ve been swoonding away
a little.’

“‘Tell me exactly how you feel,’ ses the skipper, feeling his pulse.

“Then old Dan said his piece over to him, an’ the skipper shook his
head an’ looked very solemn.

“‘How long have you been like this?’ he ses.

“‘Four or five years, sir,’ ses Dan. ‘It ain’t nothing serious, sir, is
it?’

“‘You lie quite still,’ ses the skipper, putting a little trumpet thing
to his chest an’ then listening. ‘Um! there’s serious mischief here I’m
afraid, the prognotice is very bad.’

“‘Prog what, sir?’ ses Dan, staring.

“‘Prognotice,’ ses the skipper, at least I think that’s the word he
said. ‘You keep perfectly still, an’ I’ll go an’ mix you up a draught,
and tell the cook to get some strong beef-tea on.’

“Well, the skipper ’ad no sooner gone, than Cornish Harry, a great big
lumbering chap o’ six feet two, goes up to old Dan, an’ he ses, ‘Gimme
that book.’

“‘Go away,’ says Dan, ‘don’t come worrying ’ere; you ’eard the skipper
say how bad my prognotice was.’

“‘You lend me the book,’ ses Harry, ketching hold of him, ‘or else I’ll
bang you first, and split to the skipper arterwards. I believe I’m a
bit consumptive. Anyway, I’m going to see.’

“He dragged the book away from the old man, and began to study. There
was so many complaints in it he was almost tempted to have something
else instead of consumption, but he decided on that at last, an’ he got
a cough what worried the fo’c’sle all night long, an’ the next day,
when the skipper came down to see Dan, he could ’ardly ’ear hisself
speak.

“‘That’s a nasty cough you’ve got, my man,’ ses he, looking at Harry.

“‘Oh, it’s nothing, sir,’ ses Harry, careless like. ‘I’ve ’ad it for
months now off and on. I think it’s perspiring so of a night does it.”

“‘What?’ ses the skipper. ‘Do you perspire of a night?’

“‘Dredful,’ ses Harry. ‘You could wring the clo’es out. I s’pose it’s
healthy for me, ain’t it, sir?’

“‘Undo your shirt,’ ses the skipper, going over to him, an’ sticking
the trumpet agin him. ‘Now take a deep breath. Don’t cough.’

“‘I can’t help it, sir,’ ses Harry, ‘it will come. Seems to tear me to
pieces.’

“‘You get to bed at once,” says the skipper, taking away the trumpet,
an’ shaking his ’ed. ‘It’s a fortunate thing for you, my lad, you’re in
skilled hands. With care, I believe I can pull you round. How does that
medicine suit you, Dan?’

“‘Beautiful, sir,’ says Dan. ‘It’s wonderful soothing, I slep’ like a
new-born babe arter it.’

“‘I’ll send you some more,’ ses the skipper. ‘You’re not to get up
mind, either of you.’

“‘All right, sir,’ ses the two in very faint voices, an’ the skipper
went away arter telling us to be careful not to make a noise.

“We all thought it a fine joke at first, but the airs them two chaps
give themselves was something sickening. Being in bed all day, they was
naturally wakeful of a night, and they used to call across the fo’c’sle
inquiring arter each other’s healths, an’ waking us other chaps up. An’
they’d swop beef-tea an’ jellies with each other, an’ Dan ’ud try an’
coax a little port wine out o’ Harry, which he ’ad to make blood with,
but Harry ’ud say he hadn’t made enough that day, an’ he’d drink to the
better health of old Dan’s prognotice, an’ smack his lips until it
drove us a’most crazy to ’ear him.

“Arter these chaps had been ill two days, the other fellers began to
put their heads together, being maddened by the smell o’ beef-tea an’
the like, an’ said they was going to be ill too, and both the invalids
got into a fearful state of excitement.

“‘You’ll only spoil it for all of us,’ ses Harry, ‘and you don’t know
what to have without the book.’

“‘It’s all very well doing your work as well as our own,’ ses one of
the men. ‘It’s our turn now. It’s time you two got well.’

“‘_Well?_ ses Harry, ‘_well?_ Why you silly iggernerant chaps, we
shan’t never get well, people with our complaints never do. You ought
to know that.’

“‘Well, I shall split,’ ses one of them. “‘You do!’ ses Harry, ‘you do,
an’ I’ll put a ’ed on you that all the port wine and jellies in the
world wouldn’t cure. ’Sides, don’t you think the skipper knows what’s
the matter with us?’

“‘Afore the other chap could reply, the skipper hisself comes down,
accompanied by the fust mate, with a look on his face which made Harry
give the deepest and hollowest cough he’d ever done.

“‘What they reely want,’ ses the skipper, turning to the mate, ‘is
keerful nussing.’

“‘I wish you’d let _me_ nuss ’em,’ ses the fust mate, ‘only ten
minutes—I’d put ’em both on their legs, an’ running for their lives
into the bargain, in ten minutes.’

“‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ ses the skipper; ‘what you say is unfeeling,
besides being an insult to me. Do you think I studied medicine all
these years without knowing when a man’s ill?’

“The fust mate growled something and went on deck, and the skipper
started examining of ’em again. He said they was wonderfully patient
lying in bed so long, an’ he had ’em wrapped up in bedclo’es and
carried on deck, so as the pure air could have a go at ’em. _We_ had to
do the carrying, an’ there they sat, breathing the pure air, and
looking at the fust mate out of the corners of their eyes. If they
wanted anything from below one of us had to go an’ fetch it, an’ by the
time they was taken down to bed again, we all resolved to be took ill
too.

“Only two of ’em did it though, for Harry, who was a powerful,
ugly-tempered chap, swore he’d do all sorts o’ dreadful things to us if
we didn’t keep well and hearty, an’ all ’cept these two did. One of
’em, Mike Rafferty, laid up with a swelling on his ribs, which I knew
myself he ’ad ’ad for fifteen years, and the other chap had paralysis.
I never saw a man so reely happy as the skipper was. He was up an down
with his medicines and his instruments all day long, and used to make
notes of the cases in a big pocket-book, and read ’em to the second
mate at mealtimes.

“The fo’c’sle had been turned into hospital about a week, an’ I was on
deck doing some odd job or the other, when the cook comes up to me
pulling a face as long as a fiddle.

“‘Nother invalid,’ ses he; ‘fust mate’s gone stark, staring mad!’

“‘Mad?’ ses I.

“‘Yes,’ ses he. ‘He’s got a big basin in the galley, an’ he’s laughing
like a hyener an’ mixing bilge-water an’ ink, an’ paraffin an’ butter
an’ soap an’ all sorts o’ things up together. The smell’s enough to
kill a man; I’ve had to come away.’

“Curious-like, I jest walked up to the galley an’ puts my ’ed in, an’
there was the mate as the cook said, smiling all over his face, and
ladling some thick sticky stuff into a stone bottle.

“‘How’s the pore sufferers, sir?’ ses he, stepping out of the galley
jest as the skipper was going by.

“‘They’re very bad; but I hope for the best,” ses the skipper, looking
at him hard. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve turned a bit more feeling.’

“‘Yes, sir,’ ses the mate. ‘I didn’t think so at fust, but I can see
now them chaps is all very ill. You’ll s’cuse me saying it, but I don’t
quite approve of your treatment.’

“I thought the skipper would ha’ bust.

“‘My treatment?’ ses he. ‘My treatment? What do you know about it?’

“‘You’re treating ’em wrong, sir,’ ses the mate. ‘I have here’ (patting
the jar) ‘a remedy which ’ud cure them all if you’d only let me try
it.’

“‘Pooh!’ ses the skipper. ‘One medicine cure all diseases! The old
story. What is it? Where’d you get it from?’ ses he.

“‘I brought the ingredients aboard with me,’ ses the mate. ‘It’s a
wonderful medicine discovered by my grandmother, an’ if I might only
try it I’d thoroughly cure them pore chaps.’

“‘Rubbish!’ ses the skipper.

“‘Very well, sir,’ ses the mate, shrugging his shoulders. ‘O’ course,
if you won’t let me you won’t. Still I tell you, if you’d let me try
I’d cure ’em all in two days. That’s a fair challenge.’

“Well, they talked, and talked, and talked, until at last the skipper
give way and went down below with the mate, and told the chaps they was
to take the new medicine for two days, jest to prove the mate was
wrong.

“‘Let pore old Dan try it first, sir,’ ses Harry, starting up, an’
sniffing as the mate took the cork out; ‘he’s been awful bad since
you’ve been away.’

“‘Harry’s worse than I am, sir,’ ses Dan; ‘it’s only his kind heart
that makes him say that.’

“‘It don’t matter which is fust,’ ses the mate, filling a tablespoon
with it, ‘there’s plenty for all. Now, Harry.’

“‘Take it,’ ses the skipper.

“Harry took it, an’ the fuss he made you’d ha’ thought he was
swallering a football. It stuck all round his mouth, and he carried on
so dredful that the other invalids was half sick afore it came to them.

“By the time the other three ’ad ’ad theirs it was as good as a
pantermime, an’ the mate corked the bottle up, and went an’ sat down on
a locker while they tried to rinse their mouths out with the luxuries
which had been given ’em.

“‘How do you feel?’ ses the skipper.

“‘I’m dying,’ ses Dan.

“‘So’m I,’ ses Harry; ‘I b’leeve the mate’s pisoned us.”

“The skipper looks over at the mate very stern an’ shakes his ’ed
slowly.

“‘It’s all right,’ ses the mate. ‘It’s always like that the first dozen
or so doses.’

“‘Dozen or so doses!’ ses old Dan, in a far-away voice.

“‘It has to be taken every twenty minutes,’ ses the mate, pulling out
his pipe and lighting it; an’ the four men groaned all together.

“‘I can’t allow it,’ ses the skipper, ‘I can’t allow it. Men’s lives
mustn’t be sacrificed for an experiment.’

“‘’T ain’t a experiment,’ ses the mate very indignant, ‘it’s an old
family medicine.’

“‘Well, they shan’t have any more,’ ses the skipper firmly.

“‘Look here,’ ses the mate. ‘If I kill any one o’ these men I’ll give
you twenty pound. Honour bright, I will.’

“‘Make it twenty-five,’ ses the skipper, considering.

“‘Very good,’ ses the mate. ‘Twenty-five; I can’t say no fairer than
that, can I? It’s about time for another dose now.’

“He gave ’em another tablespoonful all round as the skipper left, an’
the chaps what wasn’t invalids nearly bust with joy. He wouldn’t let
’em have anything to take the taste out, ’cos he said it didn’t give
the medicine a chance, an’ he told us other chaps to remove the
temptation, an’ you bet we did.

“After the fifth dose, the invalids began to get desperate, an’ when
they heard they’d got to be woke up every twenty minutes through the
night to take the stuff, they sort o’ give up. Old Dan said he felt a
gentle glow stealing over him and strengthening him, and Harry said
that it felt like a healing balm to his lungs. All of ’em agreed it was
a wonderful sort o’ medicine, an’ arter the sixth dose the man with
paralysis dashed up on deck, and ran up the rigging like a cat. He sat
there for hours spitting, an’ swore he’d brain anybody who interrupted
him, an’ arter a little while Mike Rafferty went up and j’ined him, an’
if the fust mate’s ears didn’t burn by reason of the things them two
pore sufferers said about ’im, they ought to.

“They was all doing full work next day, an’ though, o’ course, the
skipper saw how he’d been done, he didn’t allude to it. Not in words,
that is; but when a man tries to make four chaps do the work of eight,
an’ hits ’em when they don’t, it’s a easy job to see where the shoe
pinches.”




A LOVE PASSAGE


The mate was leaning against the side of the schooner, idly watching a
few red-coated linesmen lounging on the Tower Quay. Careful mariners
were getting out their side-lights, and careless lightermen were
progressing by easy bumps from craft to craft on their way up the
river. A tug, half burying itself in its own swell, rushed panting by,
and a faint scream came from aboard an approaching skiff as it tossed
in the wash.

“_Jessica_ ahoy!” bawled a voice from the skiff as she came rapidly
alongside.

The mate, roused from his reverie, mechanically caught the line and
made it fast, moving with alacrity as he saw that the captain’s
daughter was one of the occupants. Before he had got over his surprise
she was on deck with her boxes, and the captain was paying off the
watermen.

“You’ve seen my daughter Hetty afore, haven’t you?” said the skipper.
“She’s coming with us this trip. You’d better go down and make up her
bed, Jack, in that spare bunk.”

“Ay, ay,” said the mate dutifully, moving off.

“Thank you, I’ll do it myself,” said the scandalised Hetty, stepping
forward hastily.

“As you please,” said the skipper, leading the way below. “Let’s have a
light on, Jack.”

The mate struck a match on his boot, and lit the lamp.

“There’s a few things in there’ll want moving,” said the skipper, as he
opened the door. “I don’t know where we’re to keep the onions now,
Jack.”

“We’ll find a place for ’em,” said the mate confidently, as he drew out
a sack and placed it on the table.

“I’m not going to sleep in there,” said the visitor decidedly, as she
peered in. “Ugh! there’s a beetle. Ugh!”

“It’s quite dead,” said the mate reassuringly. “I’ve never seen a live
beetle on this ship.”

“I want to go home,” said the girl. “You’ve no business to make me come
when I don’t want to.”

“You should behave yourself then,” said her father magisterially. “What
about sheets, Jack; and pillers?”

The mate sat on the table, and, grasping his chin, pondered. Then as
his gaze fell upon the pretty, indignant face of the passenger, he lost
the thread of his ideas.

“She’ll have to have some o’ my things for the present,” said the
skipper.

“Why not,” said the mate, looking up again—“why not let her have your
state-room?”

“’Cos I want it myself,” replied the other calmly.

The mate blushed for him, and, the girl leaving them to arrange matters
as they pleased, the two men, by borrowing here and contriving there,
made up the bunk. The girl was standing by the galley when they went on
deck again, an object of curious and respectful admiration to the crew,
who had come on board in the meantime. She stayed on deck until the air
began to blow fresher in the wider reaches, and then, with a brief
good-night to her father, retired below.

“She made up her mind to come with us rather suddenly, didn’t she?”
inquired the mate after she had gone.

“She didn’t make up her mind at all,” said the skipper; “we did it for
her, me an’ the missus. It’s a plan on our part.”

“Wants strengthening?” said the mate suggestively.

“Well, the fact is,” said the skipper, “it’s like this, Jack; there’s a
friend o’ mine, a provision dealer in a large way o’ business, wants to
marry my girl, and me an’ the missus want him to marry her, so, o’
course, she wants to marry someone else. Me an’ ’er mother we put our
’eads together and decided for her to come away. When she’s at ’ome,
instead o’ being out with Towson, direckly her mother’s back’s turned
she’s out with that young sprig of a clerk.”

“Nice-looking young feller, I s’pose?” said the mate somewhat
anxiously.

“Not a bit of it,” said the other firmly. “Looks as though he had never
had a good meal in his life. Now my friend Towson, he’s all right; he’s
a man of about my own figger.”

“She’ll marry the clerk,” said the mate, with conviction.

“I’ll bet you she don’t,” said the skipper. “I’m an artful man, Jack,
an’ I, generally speaking, get my own way. I couldn’t live with my
missus peaceable if it wasn’t for management.”

The mate smiled safely in the darkness, the skipper’s management
consisting chiefly of slavish obedience.

“I’ve got a cabinet fortygraph of him for the cabin mantel-piece,
Jack,” continued the wily father. “He gave it to me o’ purpose. She’ll
see that when she won’t see the clerk, an’ by-and-bye she’ll fall into
our way of thinking. Anyway, she’s going to stay here till she does.”

“You know your way about, cap’n,” said the mate, in pretended
admiration.

The skipper laid his finger on his nose, and winked at the mainmast.
“There’s few can show me the way, Jack,” he answered softly; “very few.
Now I want you to help me too; I want you to talk to her a great deal.”

“Ay, ay,” said the mate, winking at the mast in his turn.

“Admire the fortygraph on the mantel-piece,” said the skipper.

“I will,” said the other.

“Tell her about a lot o’ young girls you know as married young
middle-aged men, an’ loved ’em more an’ more every day of their lives,”
continued the skipper.

“Not another word,” said the mate. “I know just what you want. She
shan’t marry the clerk if I can help it.”

The other turned and gripped him warmly by the hand. “If ever you are a
father your self, Jack,” he said with emotion, “I hope as how
somebody’ll stand by you as you’re standing by me.”

The mate was relieved the next day when he saw the portrait of Towson.
He stroked his moustache, and felt that he gained in good looks every
time he glanced at it.

Breakfast finished, the skipper, who had been on deck all night,
retired to his bunk. The mate went on deck and took charge, watching
with great interest the movements of the passenger as she peered into
the galley and hotly assailed the cook’s method of washing up.

“Don’t you like the sea?” he inquired politely, as she came and sat on
the cabin skylight.

Miss Alsen shook her head dismally. “I’ve got to like it,” she remarked.

“Your father was saying something to me about it,” said the mate
guardedly.

“Did he tell the cook and the cabin boy too?” inquired Miss Alsen,
flushing somewhat. “What did he tell you?”

“Told me about a man named Towson,” said the mate, becoming intent on
the sails, “and—another fellow.”

“I took a little notice of _him_ just to spoil the other,” said the
girl, “not that I cared for him. I can’t understand a girl caring for
any man. Great, clumsy, ugly things.”

“You don’t like him then?” said the mate.

“Of course not,” said the girl, tossing her head.

“And yet they’ve sent you to sea to get out of his way,” said the mate
meditatively. “Well, the best thing you can do”—His hardihood failed
him at the pitch.

“Go on,” said the girl.

“Well, it’s this way,” said the mate, coughing; “they’ve sent you to
sea to get you out of this fellow’s way, so if you fall in love with
somebody on the ship they’ll send you home again.”

“So they will,” said the girl eagerly. “I’ll pretend to fall in love
with that nice-looking sailor you call Harry. What a lark!”

“I shouldn’t do that,” said the mate gravely.

“Why not?” said the girl.

“’Tisn’t discipline,” said the mate very firmly; “it wouldn’t do at
all. He’s before the mast.”

“Oh, I see,” remarked Miss Alsen, smiling scornfully.

“I only mean pretend, of course,” said the mate, colouring. “Just to
oblige you.”

“Of course,” said the girl calmly. “Well, how are we to be in love?”

The mate flushed darkly. “I don’t know much about such things,” he said
at length; “but we’ll have to look at each other, and all that sort of
thing, you know.”

“I don’t mind that,” said the girl.

“Then we’ll get on by degrees,” said the other. “I expect we shall both
find it come easier after a time.”

“Anything to get home again,” said the girl, rising and walking slowly
away.

The mate began his part of the love-making at once, and, fixing a gaze
of concentrated love on the object of his regard, nearly ran down a
smack. As he had prognosticated, it came easy to him, and other
well-marked symptoms, such as loss of appetite and a partiality for
bright colours, developed during the day. Between breakfast and tea he
washed five times, and raised the ire of the skipper to a dangerous
pitch by using the ship’s butter to remove tar from his fingers.

By ten o’clock that night he was far advanced in a profound melancholy.
All the looking had been on his side, and, as he stood at the wheel
keeping the schooner to her course, he felt a fellow-feeling for the
hapless Towson. His meditations were interrupted by a slight figure
which emerged from the companion, and, after a moment’s hesitation,
came and took its old seat on the skylight.

“Calm and peaceful up here, isn’t it?” said he, after waiting some time
for her to speak. “Stars are very bright to-night.”

“Don’t talk to me,” said Miss Alsen snappishly.

“Why doesn’t this nasty little ship keep still? I believe it’s you
making her jump about like this.”

“Me?” said the mate in amazement.

“Yes, with that wheel.”

“I can assure you “—began the mate.

“Yes, I knew you’d say so,” said the girl.

“Come and steer yourself,” said the mate; “then you’ll see.”

Much to his surprise she came, and, leaning limply against the wheel,
put her little hands on the spokes, while the mate explained the
mysteries of the compass. As he warmed with his subject he ventured to
put his hands on the same spokes, and, gradually becoming more
venturesome, boldly supported her with his arm every time the schooner
gave a lurch.

“Thank you,” said Miss Alsen, coldly extricating herself, as the male
fancied another lurch was coming. “Good-night.”

She retired to the cabin as a dark figure, which was manfully knuckling
the last remnant of sleep from its eyelids, stood before the mate,
chuckling softly.

“Clear night,” said the seaman, as he took the wheel in his great paws.

“Beastly,” said the mate absently, and, stifling a sigh, went below and
turned in.

He lay awake for a few minutes, and then, well satisfied with the day’s
proceedings, turned over and fell asleep. He was pleased to discover,
when he awoke, that the slight roll of the night before had
disappeared, and that there was hardly any motion on the schooner. The
passenger herself was already at the breakfast-table.

“Cap’n’s on deck, I s’pose?” said the mate, preparing to resume
negotiations where they were broken off the night before. “I hope you
feel better than you did last night.”

“Yes, thank you,” said she.

“You’ll make a good sailor in time,” said the mate.

“I hope not,” said Miss Alsen, who thought it time to quell a gleam of
peculiar tenderness plainly apparent in the mate’s eyes. “I shouldn’t
like to be a sailor even if I were a man.”

“Why not?” inquired the other.

“I don’t know,” said the girl meditatively; “but sailors are generally
such scrubby little men, aren’t they?”

“_Scrubby?_” repeated the mate, in a dazed voice.

“I’d sooner be a soldier,” she continued; “I like soldiers—they’re so
manly. I wish there was one here now.”

“What for?” inquired the mate, in the manner of a sulky schoolboy.

“If there was a man like that here now,” said Miss Alsen thoughtfully,
“I’d dare him to mustard old Towson’s nose.”

“Do what?” inquired the astonished mate.

“Mustard old Towson’s nose,” said Miss Alsen, glancing lightly from the
cruet-stand to the portrait.

The infatuated man hesitated a moment, and then, reaching over to the
cruet, took out the spoon, and with a pale, determined face,
indignantly daubed the classic features of the provision dealer. His
indignation was not lessened by the behaviour of the temptress, who,
instead of fawning upon him for his bravery, crammed her handkerchief
to her mouth and giggled foolishly.

“Here’s father,” she said suddenly, as a step sounded above. “Oh, you
will get it!”

She rose from her seat, and, standing aside to let her father pass,
went on deck. The skipper sank on to a locker, and, raising the
tea-pot, poured himself out a cup of tea, which he afterwards decanted
into a saucer. He had just raised it to his lips, when he saw something
over the rim of it which made him put it down again untasted, and stare
blankly at the mantel-piece.

“Who the—what the—who the devil’s done this?” he inquired in a
strangulated voice, as he rose and regarded the portrait.

“I did,” said the mate.

“You did?” roared the other. “You? What for?”

“I don’t know,” said the mate awkwardly. “Something seemed to come over
me all of a sudden, and I felt as though I _must_ do it.”

“But what for? Where’s the sense of it?” said the skipper.

The mate shook his head sheepishly.

“But what did you want to do such a monkey-trick _for?_” roared the
skipper.

“I don’t know,” said the mate doggedly; “but it’s done, ain’t it? and
it’s no good talking about it.”

The skipper looked at him in wrathful perplexity. “You’d better have
advice when we get to port, Jack,” he said at length; “the last few
weeks I’ve noticed you’ve been a bit strange in your manner. You go an’
show that ’ed of yours to a doctor.”

The mate grunted, and went on deck for sympathy, but, finding Miss
Alsen in a mood far removed from sentiment, and not at all grateful,
drew off whistling. Matters were in this state when the skipper
appeared, wiping his mouth.

“I’ve put another portrait on the mantel-piece, Jack,” he said
menacingly; “it’s the only other one I’ve got, an’ I wish you to
understand that if that only _smells_ mustard, there’ll be such a row
in this ’ere ship that you won’t be able to ’ear yourself speak for the
noise.”

He moved off with dignity as his daughter, who had overheard the
remark, came sidling up to the mate and smiled on him agreeably.

“He’s put another portrait there,” she said softly.

“You’ll find the mustard-pot in the cruet,” said the mate coldly.

Miss Alsen turned and watched her father as he went forward, and then,
to the mate’s surprise, went below without another word. A prey to
curiosity, but too proud to make any overture, he compromised matters
by going and standing near the companion.

“Mate!” said a stealthy whisper at the foot of the ladder.

The mate gazed calmly out to sea.

“Jack!” said the girl again, in a lower whisper than before.

The mate went hot all over, and at once descended. He found Miss Alsen,
her eyes sparkling, with the mustard-pot in her left hand and the spoon
in her right, executing a war-dance in front of the second portrait.

“Don’t do it,” said the mate, in alarm.

“Why not?” she inquired, going within an inch of it.

“He’ll think it’s me,” said the mate.

“That’s why I called you down here,” said she; “you don’t think I
wanted you, do you?”

“You put that spoon down,” said the mate, who was by no means desirous
of another interview with the skipper.

“Shan’t!” said Miss Alsen.

The mate sprang at her, but she dodged round the table. He leaned over,
and, catching her by the left arm, drew her towards him; then, with her
flushed, laughing face close to his, he forgot everything else, and
kissed her.

“Oh!” said Hetty indignantly.

“Will you give it to me now?” said the mate, trembling at his boldness.

“Take it,” said she. She leaned across the table, and, as the mate
advanced, dabbed viciously at him with the spoon. Then she suddenly
dropped both articles on the table and moved away, as the mate,
startled by a footstep at the door, turned a flushed visage, ornamented
with three streaks of mustard, on to the dumbfounded skipper.

“Sakes alive!” said that astonished mariner, as soon as he could speak;
“if he ain’t a-mustarding his own face now—I never ’eard of such a
thing in all my life. Don’t go near ’im, Hetty. Jack!”

“Well,” said the mate, wiping his smarting face with his handkerchief.

“You’ve never been took like this before?” queried the skipper
anxiously.

“O’ course not,” said the mortified mate.

“Don’t you say o’ course not to me,” said the other warmly, “after
behaving like this. A straight weskit’s what you want. I’ll go an’ see
old Ben about it. He’s got an uncle in a ’sylum. You come up too, my
girl.”

He went in search of Ben, oblivious of the fact that his daughter,
instead of following him, came no farther than the door, where she
stood and regarded her victim compassionately.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Does it smart?”

“A little,” said the mate; “don’t you trouble about me.”

“You see what you get for behaving badly,” said Miss Alsen judicially.

“It’s worth it,” said the mate, brightening.

“I’m afraid it’ll blister,” said she. She crossed over to him, and
putting her head on one side, eyed the traces wisely. “Three marks,”
she said.

“I only had one,” suggested the mate.

“One what?” enquired Hetty.

“Those,” said the mate.

In full view of the horrified skipper, who was cautiously peeping at
the supposed lunatic through the skylight, he kissed her again.

“You can go away, Ben,” said the skipper huskily to the expert. “D’ye
hear, you can go _away_, and not a word about this, mind.”

The expert went away grumbling, and the father, after another glance,
which showed him his daughter nestling comfortably on the mate’s right
shoulder, stole away and brooded darkly over this crowning
complication. An ordinary man would have run down and interrupted them;
the master of the _Jessica_ thought he could attain his ends more
certainly by diplomacy, and so careful was his demeanour that the
couple in the cabin had no idea that they had been observed—the mate
listening calmly to a lecture on incipient idiocy which the skipper
thought it advisable to bestow.

Until the mid-day meal on the day following he made no sign. If
anything he was even more affable than usual, though his wrath rose at
the glances which were being exchanged across the table.

“By the way, Jack,” he said at length, “what’s become of Kitty Loney?”

“Who?” inquired the mate. “Who’s Kitty Loney?”

It was now the skipper’s turn to stare, and he did it admirably.

“Kitty Loney,” he said in surprise, “the little girl you are going to
marry.”

“Who are you getting at?” said the mate, going scarlet as he met the
gaze opposite.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the skipper with dignity. “I’m
allooding to Kitty Loney, the little girl in the red hat and white
feathers you introduced to me as your future.”

The mate sank back in his seat, and regarded him with open-mouthed,
horrified astonishment.

“You don’t mean to say you’ve chucked ’er,” pursued the heartless
skipper, “after getting an advance from me to buy the ring with, too?
Didn’t you buy the ring with the money?”

“No,” said the mate, “I—oh, no—of course—what on earth are you talking
about?”

The skipper rose from his seat and regarded him sorrowfully but
severely. “I’m sorry, Jack,” he said stiffly, “if I’ve said anything to
annoy you, or anyway hurt your feelings. O’ course it’s your business,
not mine. P’raps you’ll say you never heard o’ Kitty Loney?”

“I do say so,” said the bewildered mate; “I do say so.”

The skipper eyed him sternly, and without another word left the cabin.
“If she’s like her mother,” he said to himself, chuckling as he went up
the companion-ladder, “I think that’ll do.”

There was an awkward pause after his departure. “I’m sure I don’t know
what you must think of me,” said the mate at length, “but I don’t know
what your father’s talking about.”

“I don’t think anything,” said Hetty calmly. “Pass the potatoes,
please.”

“I suppose it’s a joke of his,” said the mate, complying.

“And the salt,” said she; “thank you.”

“But you don’t believe it?” said the mate pathetically.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” said the girl calmly. “What does it matter
whether I do or not?”

“It matters a great deal,” said the mate gloomily. “It’s life or death
to me.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Hetty. “She won’t know of your foolishness. I
won’t tell her.”

“I tell you,” said the mate desperately, “there never was a Kitty
Loney. What do you think of that?”

“I think you are very mean,” said the girl scornfully; “don’t talk to
me any more, please.”

“Just as you like,” said the mate, beginning to lose his temper.

He pushed his plate from him and departed, while the girl, angry and
resentful, put the potatoes back as being too floury for consumption in
the circumstances.

For the remainder of the passage she treated him with a politeness and
good humour through which he strove in vain to break. To her surprise
her father made no objection, at the end of the voyage, when she
coaxingly suggested going back by train; and the mate, as they sat at
dummy-whist on the evening before her departure, tried in vain to
discuss the journey in an unconcerned fashion.

“It’ll be a long journey,” said Hetty, who still liked him well enough
to make him smart a bit, “What’s trumps?”

“You’ll be all right,” said her father. “Spades.”

He won for the third time that evening, and, feeling wonderfully well
satisfied with the way in which he had played his cards generally,
could not resist another gibe at the crestfallen mate.

“You’ll have to give up playing cards and all that sort o’ thing when
you’re married, Jack,” said he.

“Ay, ay,” said the mate recklessly, “Kitty don’t like cards.”

“I thought there was no Kitty,” said the girl, looking up, scornfully.

“She don’t like cards,” repeated the mate. “Lord, what a spree we had,
cap’n, when we went to the Crystal Palace with her that night.”

“Ay, that we did,” said the skipper.

“Remember the roundabouts?” said the mate.

“I do,” said the skipper merrily. “I’ll never forget ’em.”

“You and that friend of hers, Bessie Watson, lord how you did go on!”
continued the mate, in a sort of ecstasy. The skipper stiffened
suddenly in his chair. “What on earth are you talking about?” he
inquired gruffly.

“Bessie Watson,” said the mate, in tones of innocent surprise. “Little
girl in a blue hat with white feathers, and a blue frock, that came
with us.”

“You’re drunk,” said the skipper, grinding his teeth, as he saw the
trap into which he had walked.

“Don’t you remember when you two got lost, an’ me and Kitty were
looking all over the place for you?” demanded the mate, still in the
same tones of pleasant reminiscence.

He caught Hetty’s eye, and noticed with a thrill that it beamed with
soft and respectful admiration.

“You’ve been drinking,” repeated the skipper, breathing hard. “How dare
you talk like that afore my daughter?”

“It’s only right I should know,” said Hetty, drawing herself up. “I
wonder what mother’ll say to it all?”

“You say anything to your mother if you dare,” said the now maddened
skipper. “You know what _she_ is. It’s all the mate’s nonsense.”

“I’m very sorry, cap’n,” said the mate, “if I’ve said anything to annoy
you, or anyway hurt your feelings. O’ course it’s your business, not
mine. Perhaps you’ll say you never heard o’ Bessie Watson?”

“Mother shall hear of her,” said Hetty, while her helpless sire was
struggling for breath.

“Perhaps you’ll tell us who this Bessie Watson is, and where she
lives?” he said at length.

“She lives with Kitty Loney,” said the mate simply.

The skipper rose, and his demeanour was so alarming that Hetty shrank
instinctively to the mate for protection. In full view of his captain,
the mate placed his arm about her waist, and in this position they
confronted each other for some time in silence. Then Hetty looked up
and spoke.

“I’m going home by water,” she said briefly.




THE CAPTAIN’S EXPLOIT


It was a wet, dreary night in that cheerless part of the great
metropolis known as Wapping. The rain, which had been falling heavily
for hours, still fell steadily on to the sloppy pavements and roads,
and joining forces in the gutter, rushed impetuously to the nearest
sewer. The two or three streets which had wedged themselves in between
the docks and the river, and which, as a matter of fact, really
comprise the beginning and end of Wapping, were deserted, except for a
belated van crashing over the granite roads, or the chance form of a
dock-labourer plodding doggedly along, with head bent in distaste for
the rain, and hands sunk in trouser-pockets.

“Beastly night,” said Captain Bing, as he rolled out of the private bar
of the “Sailor’s Friend,” and, ignoring the presence of the step, took
a little hurried run across the pavement. “Not fit for a dog to be out
in.”

He kicked, as he spoke, at a shivering cur which was looking in at the
crack of the bar-door, with a hazy view of calling its attention to the
matter, and then, pulling up the collar of his rough pea-jacket,
stepped boldly out into the rain. Three or four minutes’ walk, or
rather roll, brought him to a dark narrow passage, which ran between
two houses to the water-side. By a slight tack to starboard at a
critical moment he struck the channel safely, and followed it until it
ended in a flight of old stone steps, half of which were under water.

“Where for?” inquired a man, starting up from a small penthouse formed
of rough pieces of board.

“Schooner in the tier, _Smiling Jane_,” said the captain gruffly, as he
stumbled clumsily into a boat and sat down in the stern. “Why don’t you
have better seats in this ’ere boat?”

“They’re there, if you’ll look for them,” said the waterman; “and
you’ll find ’em easier sitting than that bucket.”

“Why don’t you put ’em where a man can see ’em?” inquired the captain,
raising his voice a little.

The other opened his mouth to reply, but realising that it would lead
to a long and utterly futile argument, contented himself with asking
his fare to trim the boat better; and, pushing off from the steps,
pulled strongly through the dark lumpy water. The tide was strong, so
that they made but slow progress.

“When I was a young man,” said the fare with severity, “I’d ha’ pulled
this boat across and back afore now.”

“When you was a young man,” said the man at the oars, who had a local
reputation as a wit, “there wasn’t no boats; they was all Noah’s arks
then.”

“Stow your gab,” said the captain, after a pause of deep thought.

The other, whose besetting sin was certainly not loquacity, ejected a
thin stream of tobacco-juice over the side, spat on his hands, and
continued his laborious work until a crowd of dark shapes, surmounted
by a network of rigging, loomed up before them.

“Now, which is your little barge?” he inquired, tugging strongly to
maintain his position against the fast-flowing tide.

“_Smiling Jane_” said his fare.

“Ah,” said the waterman, “_Smiling Jane_, is it? You sit there, cap’n,
an’ I’ll row round all their sterns while you strike matches and look
at the names. We’ll have quite a nice little evening.”

“There she is,” cried the captain, who was too muddled to notice the
sarcasm; “there’s the little beauty. Steady, my lad.”

He reached out his hand as he spoke, and as the boat jarred violently
against a small schooner, seized a rope which hung over the side, and,
swaying to and fro, fumbled in his pocket for the fare.

“Steady, old boy,” said the waterman affectionately. He had just
received twopence-halfpenny and a shilling by mistake for threepence.
“Easy up the side. You ain’t such a pretty figger as you was when your
old woman made such a bad bargain.”

The captain paused in his climb, and poising himself on one foot,
gingerly felt for his tormentor’s head with the other. Not finding it,
he flung his leg over the bulwark, and gained the deck of the vessel as
the boat swung round with the tide and disappeared in the darkness.

“All turned in,” said the captain, gazing owlishly at the deserted
deck. “Well, there’s a good hour an’ a half afore we start; I’ll turn
in too.”

He walked slowly aft, and sliding back the companion-hatch, descended
into a small evil-smelling cabin, and stood feeling in the darkness for
the matches. They were not to be found, and, growling profanely, he
felt his way to the state-room, and turned in all standing.

It was still dark when he awoke, and hanging over the edge of the bunk,
cautiously felt for the floor with his feet, and having found it, stood
thoughtfully scratching his head, which seemed to have swollen to
abnormal proportions.

“Time they were getting under weigh,” he said at length, and groping
his way to the foot of the steps, he opened the door of what looked
like a small pantry, but which was really the mate’s boudoir.

“Jem,” said the captain gruffly.

There was no reply, and jumping to the conclusion that he was above,
the captain tumbled up the steps and gained the deck, which, as far as
he could see, was in the same deserted condition as when he left it.
Anxious to get some idea of the time, he staggered to the side and
looked over. The tide was almost at the turn, and the steady clank,
clank of neighbouring windlasses showed that other craft were just
getting under weigh. A barge, its red light turning the water to blood,
with a huge wall of dark sail, passed noiselessly by, the indistinct
figure of a man leaning skilfully upon the tiller.

As these various signs of life and activity obtruded themselves upon
the skipper of the _Smiling Jane_, his wrath rose higher and higher as
he looked around the wet, deserted deck of his own little craft. Then
he walked forward and thrust his head down the forecastle hatchway.

As he expected, there was a complete sleeping chorus below; the deep
satisfied snoring of half-a-dozen seamen, who, regardless of the tide
and their captain’s feelings, were slumbering sweetly, in blissful
ignorance of all that the _Lancet_ might say upon the twin subjects of
overcrowding and ventilation.

“Below there, you lazy thieves!” roared the captain; “tumble up, tumble
up!”

The snores stopped. “Ay, ay!” said a sleepy voice. “What’s the matter,
master?”

“Matter!” repeated the other, choking violently. “Ain’t you going to
sail to-night?”

“To-night!” said another voice, in surprise. “Why, I thought we wasn’t
going to sail till Wen’sday.”

Not trusting himself to reply, so careful was he of the morals of his
men, the skipper went and leaned over the side and communed with the
silent water. In an incredibly short space of time five or six dusky
figures pattered up on to the deck, and a minute or two later the harsh
clank of the windlass echoed far and wide.

The captain took the wheel. A fat and very sleepy seaman put up the
side-lights, and the little schooner, detaching itself by the aid of
boat-hooks and fenders from the neighbouring craft, moved slowly down
with the tide. The men, in response to the captain’s fervent orders,
climbed aloft, and sail after sail was spread to the gentle breeze.

“Hi! you there,” cried the captain to one of the men who stood near
him, coiling up some loose line.

“Sir?” said the man.

“Where is the mate?” inquired the captain.

“Man with red whiskers and pimply nose?” said the man interrogatively.

“That’s him to a hair,” answered the other.

“Ain’t seen him since he took me on at eleven,” said the man.

“How many new hands are there?”

“I b’leeve we’re all fresh,” was the reply. “I don’t believe some of
’em have ever smelt salt water afore.”

“The mate’s been at it again,” said the captain warmly, “that’s what he
has. He’s done it afore and got left behind. Them what can’t stand
drink, my man, shouldn’t take it, remember that.”

“He said we wasn’t going to sail till Wen’sday,” remarked the man, who
found the captain’s attitude rather trying.

“He’ll get sacked, that’s what he’ll get,” said the captain warmly. “I
shall report him as soon as I get ashore.”

The subject exhausted, the seaman returned to his work, and the captain
continued steering in moody silence.

Slowly, slowly darkness gave way to light. The different portions of
the craft, instead of all being blurred into one, took upon themselves
shape, and stood out wet and distinct in the cold grey of the breaking
day. But the lighter it became, the harder the skipper stared and
rubbed his eyes, and looked from the deck to the flat marshy shore, and
from the shore back to the deck again.

“Here, come here,” he cried, beckoning to one of the crew.

“Yessir,” said the man, advancing.

“There’s something in one of my eyes,” faltered the skipper. “I can’t
see straight; everything seems mixed up. Now, speaking deliberate and
without any hurry, which side o’ the ship do you say the cook’s
galley’s on?”

“Starboard,” said the man promptly, eyeing him with astonishment.

“Starboard,” repeated the other softly. “He says starboard, and that’s
what it seems to me. My lad, yesterday morning it was on the port
side.”

The seaman received this astounding communication with calmness, but,
as a slight concession to appearances, said “Lor!”

“And the water-cask,” said the skipper; “what colour is it?”

“Green,” said the man.

“Not white?” inquired the skipper, leaning heavily upon the wheel.

“Whitish-green,” said the man, who always believed in keeping in with
his superior officers.

The captain swore at him.

By this time two or three of the crew who had over-heard part of the
conversation had collected aft, and now stood in a small wondering knot
before their strange captain.

“My lads,” said the latter, moistening his dry lips with his tongue, “I
name no names—I don’t know ’em yet—and I cast no suspicions, but
somebody has been painting up and altering this ’ere craft, and
twisting things about until a man ’ud hardly know her. Now what’s the
little game?”

There was no answer, and the captain, who was seeing things clearer and
clearer in the growing light, got paler and paler.

“I must be going crazy,” he muttered. “Is this the _Smiling Jane_, or
am I dreaming?”

“It ain’t the _Smiling Jane_,” said one of the seamen; “leastways,” he
added cautiously, “it wasn’t when I came aboard.”

“Not the _Smiling Jane!_” roared the skipper; “what is it, then?”

“Why, the _Mary Ann_,” chorused the astonished crew.

“My lads,” faltered the agonised captain after a long pause. “My lads—”
He stopped and swallowed something in his throat. “I’ve been and
brought away the wrong ship,” he continued with an effort; “that’s what
I’ve done. I must have been bewitched.”

“Well, who’s having the little game now?” inquired a voice.

“Somebody else’ll be sacked as well as the mate,” said another.

“We must take her back,” said the captain, raising his voice to drown
these mutterings. “Stand by there!”

The bewildered crew went to their posts, the captain gave his orders in
a voice which had never been so subdued and mellow since it broke at
the age of fourteen, and the _Mary Ann_ took in sail, and, dropping her
anchor, waited patiently for the turning of the tide.


The church bells in Wapping and Rotherhithe were just striking the hour
of mid-day, though they were heard by few above the noisy din of
workers on wharves and ships, as a short stout captain, and a mate with
red whiskers and a pimply nose, stood up in a waterman’s boat in the
centre of the river, and gazed at each other in blank astonishment.

“She’s gone, clean gone!” murmured the bewildered captain.

“Clean as a whistle,” said the mate. “The new hands must ha’ run away
with her.”

Then the bereaved captain raised his voice, and pronounced a pathetic
and beautiful eulogy upon the departed vessel, somewhat marred by an
appendix in which he consigned the new hands, their heirs, and
descendants, to everlasting perdition.

“Ahoy!” said the waterman, who was getting tired of the business,
addressing a grimy-looking seaman hanging meditatively over the side of
a schooner. “Where’s the _Mary Ann?_”

“Went away at half-past one this morning,” was the reply.

“’Cos here’s the cap’n an’ the mate,” said the waterman, indicating the
forlorn couple with a bob of his head.

“My eyes!” said the man, “I s’pose the cook’s in charge then. We was to
have gone too, but our old man hasn’t turned up.”

Quickly the news spread amongst the craft in the tier, and many and
various were the suggestions shouted to the bewildered couple from the
different decks. At last, just as the captain had ordered the waterman
to return to the shore, he was startled by a loud cry from the mate.

“Look there!” he shouted.

The captain looked. Fifty or sixty yards away, a small
shamefaced-looking schooner, so it appeared to his excited imagination,
was slowly approaching them. A minute later a shout went up from the
other craft as she took in sail and bore slowly down upon them. Then a
small boat put off to the buoy, and the _Mary Ann_ was slowly warped
into the place she had left ten hours before.

But while all this was going on, she was boarded by her captain and
mate. They were met by Captain Bing, supported by _his_ mate, who had
hastily pushed off from the _Smiling Jane_ to the assistance of his
chief. In the two leading features before mentioned he was not unlike
the mate of the _Mary Ann_, and much stress was laid upon this fact by
the unfortunate Bing in his explanation. So much so, in fact, that both
the mates got restless; the skipper, who was a plain man, and given to
calling a spade a spade, using the word “pimply” with what seemed to
them unnecessary iteration.

It is possible that the interview might have lasted for hours had not
Bing suddenly changed his tactics and begun to throw out dark hints
about standing a dinner ashore, and settling it over a friendly glass.
The face of the _Mary Ann’s_ captain began to clear, and, as Bing
proceeded from generalities to details, a soft smile played over his
expressive features. It was reflected in the faces of the mates, who by
these means showed clearly that they understood the table was to be
laid for four.

At this happy turn of affairs Bing himself smiled, and a little while
later a ship’s boat containing four boon companions put off from the
_Mary Ann_and made for the shore. Of what afterwards ensued there is no
distinct record, beyond what may be gleaned from the fact that the
quartette turned up at midnight arm-in-arm, and affectionately refused
to be separated—even to enter the ship’s boat, which was waiting for
them. The sailors were at first rather nonplussed, but by dint of much
coaxing and argument broke up the party, and rowing them to their
respective vessels, put them carefully to bed.




CONTRABAND OF WAR


A small but strong lamp was burning in the fo’c’sle of the schooner
_Greyhound_, by the light of which a middle-aged seaman of sedate
appearance sat crocheting an antimacassar. Two other men were snoring
with deep content in their bunks, while a small, bright-eyed boy sat up
in his, reading adventurous fiction.

“Here comes old Dan,” said the man with the anti-macassar warningly, as
a pair of sea boots appeared at the top of the companion-ladder;
“better not let him see you with that paper, Billee.”

The boy thrust it beneath his blankets, and, lying down, closed his
eyes as the new-comer stepped on to the floor.

“All asleep?” inquired the latter.

The other man nodded, and Dan, without any further parley, crossed over
to the sleepers and shook them roughly.

“Eh! wha’s matter?” inquired the sleepers plaintively.

“Git up,” said Dan impressively, “I want to speak to you. Something
important.”

With sundry growls the men complied, and, thrusting their legs out of
their bunks, rolled on to the locker, and sat crossly waiting for
information.

“I want to do a pore chap a good turn,” said Dan, watching them
narrowly out of his little black eyes, “an’ I want you to help me; an’
the boy too. It’s never too young to do good to your fellow-creatures,
Billy.”

“I know it ain’t,” said Billy, taking this as permission to join the
group; “I helped a drunken man home once when I was only ten years old,
an’ when I was only—”

The speaker stopped, not because he had come to the end of his remarks,
but because one of the seamen had passed his arm around his neck and
was choking him.

“Go on,” said the man calmly; “I’ve got him. Spit it out, Dan, and none
of your sermonising.”

“Well, it’s like this, Joe,” said the old man; “here’s a pore chap, a
young sojer from the depot here, an’ he’s cut an’ run. He’s been in
hiding in a cottage up the road two days, and he wants to git to
London, and git honest work and employment, not shooting, an’ stabbing,
an’ bayoneting—”

“Stow it,” said Joe impatiently.

“He daren’t go to the railway station, and he dursen’t go outside in
his uniform,” continued Dan. “My ’art bled for the pore young feller,
an’ I’ve promised to give ’im a little trip to London with us. The
people he’s staying with won’t have him no longer. They’ve only got one
bed, and directly he sees any sojers coming he goes an’ gits into it,
whether he’s got his boots on or not.”

“Have you told the skipper?” inquired Joe sardonically.

“I won’t deceive you, Joe, I ’ave not,” replied the old man. “He’ll
have to stay down here of a daytime, an’ only come on deck of a night
when it’s our watch. I told ’im what a lot of good-’arted chaps you
was, and how—”

“How much is he going to give you?” inquired Joe impatiently.

“It’s only fit and proper he should pay a little for the passage,” said
Dan.

“How _much?_” demanded Joe, banging the little triangular table with
his fist, and thereby causing the man with the antimacassar to drop a
couple of stitches.

“Twenty-five shillings,” said old Dan reluctantly; “an’ I’ll spend the
odd five shillings on you chaps when we git to Limehouse.”

“I don’t want your money,” said Joe; “there’s a empty bunk he can have;
and mind, you take all the responsibility—I won’t have nothing to do
with it.”

“Thanks, Joe,” said the old man, with a sigh of relief; “he’s a nice
young chap, you’re sure to take to him. I’ll go and give him the tip to
come aboard at once.”

He ran up on deck again and whistled softly, and a figure, which had
been hiding behind a pile of empties, came out, and, after looking
cautiously around, dropped noiselessly on to the schooner’s deck, and
followed its protector below.

“Good evening, mates,” said the linesman, gazing curiously and
anxiously round him as he deposited a bundle on the table, and laid his
swagger cane beside it.

“What’s your height?” inquired Joe abruptly. “Seven foot?”

“No, only six foot four,” said the new arrival, modestly. “I’m not
proud of it. It’s much easier for a small man to slip off than a big
one.”

“It licks me,” said Joe thoughtfully, “what they want ’em back for—I
should think they’d be glad to git rid o’ such”—he paused a moment
while politeness struggled with feeling, and added, “skunks.”

“P’raps I’ve a reason for being a skunk, p’raps I haven’t,” retorted
Private Smith, as his face fell.

“This’ll be your bunk,” interposed Dan hastily; “put your things in
there, and when you are in yourself you’ll be as comfortable as a
oyster in its shell.”

The visitor complied, and, first extracting from the bundle some tins
of meat and a bottle of whiskey, which he placed upon the table,
nervously requested the honour of the present company to supper. With
the exception of Joe, who churlishly climbed back into his bunk, the
men complied, all agreeing that boys of Billy’s age should be reared on
strong teetotal principles.

Supper over, Private Smith and his protectors retired to their couches,
where the former lay in much anxiety until two in the morning, when
they got under way.

“It’s all right, my lad,” said Dan, after the watch had been set, as he
came and stood by the deserter’s bunk; “I’ve saved you—I’ve saved you
for twenty-five shillings.”

“I wish it was more,” said Private Smith politely.

The old man sighed—and waited.

“I’m quite cleaned out, though,” continued the deserter, “except
fi’pence ha’penny. I shall have to risk going home in my uniform as it
is.”

“Ah, you’ll get there all right,” said Dan cheerfully; “and when you
get home no doubt you’ve got friends, and if it seems to you as you’d
like to give a little more to them as assisted you in the hour of need,
you won’t be ungrateful, my lad, I know. You ain’t the sort.”

With these words old Dan, patting him affectionately, retired, and the
soldier lay trying to sleep in his narrow quarters until he was aroused
by a grip on his arm.

“If you want a mouthful of fresh air you’d better come on deck now,”
said the voice of Joe; “it’s my watch. You can get all the sleep you
want in the daytime.”

Glad to escape from such stuffy quarters, Private Smith clambered out
of his bunk and followed the other on deck. It was a fine clear night,
and the schooner was going along under a light breeze; the seaman took
the wheel, and, turning to his companion, abruptly inquired what he
meant by deserting and worrying them with six foot four of underdone
lobster.

“It’s all through my girl,” said Private Smith meekly; “first she
jilted me, and made me join the army; now she’s chucked the other
fellow, and wrote to me to go back.”

“An’ now I s’pose the other chap’ll take your place in the army,” said
Joe. “Why, a gal like that could fill a regiment, if she liked. Pah!
They’ll nab you too, in that uniform, and you’ll get six months, and
have to finish your time as well.”

“It’s more than likely,” said the soldier gloomily. “I’ve got to tramp
to Manchester in these clothes, as far as I can see.”

“What did you give old Dan all your money for?” inquired Joe.

“I was only thinking of getting away at first,” said Smith, “and I had
to take what was offered.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can for you,” said the seaman. “If you’re in
love, you ain’t responsible for your actions. I remember the first time
I got the chuck. I went into a public-house bar, and smashed all the
glass and bottles I could get at. I felt as though I must do something.
If you were only shorter, I’d lend you some clothes.”

“You’re a brick,” said the soldier gratefully.

“I haven’t got any money I could lend you either,” said Joe. “I never
do have any, somehow. But clothes you must have.”

He fell into deep thought, and cocked his eye aloft as though
contemplating a cutting-out expedition on the sails, while the soldier,
sitting on the side of the ship, waited hopefully for a miracle.

“You’d better get below again,” said Joe presently.

“There seems to be somebody moving below; and if the skipper sees you,
you’re done. He’s a regular Tartar, and he’s got a brother what’s a
sergeant-major in the army. He’d give you up d’rectly if he spotted
you.”

“I’m off,” said Smith; and with long, cat-like strides he disappeared
swiftly below.

For two days all went well, and Dan was beginning to congratulate
himself upon his little venture, when his peace of mind was rudely
disturbed. The crew were down below, having their tea, when Billy, who
had been to the galley for hot water, came down, white and scared.

“Look here,” he said nervously, “I’ve not had anything to do with this
chap being aboard, have I?”

“What’s the matter?” inquired Dan quickly.

“It’s all found out,” said Billy.

“_What!_” cried the crew simultaneously.

“Leastways, it will be,” said the youth, correcting himself. “You’d
better chuck him overboard while you’ve got time. I heard the cap’n
tell the mate as he was coming down in the fo’c’sle to-morrow morning
to look round. He’s going to have it painted.”

“This,” said Dan, in the midst of a painful pause, “this is what comes
of helping a fellow-creature. What’s to be done?”

“Tell the skipper the fo’c’sle don’t want painting,” suggested Billy.

The agonised old seaman, carefully putting down his saucer of tea,
cuffed his head spitefully.

“It’s a smooth sea,” said he, looking at the perturbed countenance of
Private Smith, “an there’s a lot of shipping about. If I was a
deserter, sooner than be caught, I would slip overboard to-night with a
lifebelt and take my chance.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Mr. Smith, with much decision.

“You wouldn’t? Not if you was quite near another ship?” cooed Dan.

“Not if I was near fifty blooming ships, all trying to see which could
pick me up first,” replied Mr. Smith, with some heat.

“Then we shall have to leave you to your fate,” said Dan solemnly. “If
a man’s unreasonable, his best friends can do nothing for him.”

“Chuck all his clothes overboard, anyway,” said Billy.

“That’s a good idea o’ the boy’s. You leave his ears alone,” said Joe,
stopping the ready hand of the exasperated Dan. “He’s got more sense
than any of us. Can you think of anything else, Billy? What shall we do
then?”

The eyes of all were turned upon their youthful deliverer, those of Mr.
Smith being painfully prominent. It was a proud moment for Billy, and
he sat silent for some time, with a look of ineffable wisdom and
thought upon his face. At length he spoke.

“Let somebody else have a turn,” he said generously.

The voice of the antimacassar worker broke the silence.

“Paint him all over with stripes of different-coloured paint, and let
him pretend he’s mad, and didn’t know how he got here,” he said, with
an uncontrollable ring of pride at the idea, which was very coldly
received, Private Smith being noticeably hard on it.

“I know,” said Billy shrilly, clapping his hands. “I’ve got it, I’ve
got it. After he’s chucked his clothes overboard to-night, let him go
overboard too, with a line.”

“And tow him the rest o’ the way, and chuck biscuits to him, I
suppose,” snarled Dan.

“No,” said the youthful genius scornfully; “pretend he’s been upset
from a boat, and has been swimming about, and we heard him cry out for
help and rescued him.”

“It’s about the best way out of it,” said Joe, after some deliberation;
“it’s warm weather, and you won’t take no harm, mate. Do it in my
watch, and I’ll pull you out directly.”

“Wouldn’t it do if you just chucked a bucket of water over me and
_said_ you’d pulled me out,” suggested the victim. “The other thing
seems a downright _lie_.”

“No,” said Billy authoritatively, “you’ve got to look half-drowned, and
swallow a lot of water, and your eyes be all bloodshot.”

Everybody being eager for the adventure, except Private Smith, the
arrangements were at once concluded, and the approach of night
impatiently awaited. It was just before midnight when Smith, who had
forgotten for the time his troubles in sleep, was shaken into
wakefulness.

“Cold water, sir?” said Billy gleefully.

In no mood for frivolity, Private Smith rose and followed the youth on
deck. The air struck him as chill as he stood there; but, for all that,
it was with a sense of relief that he saw Her Majesty’s uniform go over
the side and sink into the dark water.

“He don’t look much with his padding off, does he?” said Billy, who had
been eyeing him critically.

“You go below,” said Dan sharply.

“Garn,” said Billy indignantly; “I want to see the fun as well as you
do. I thought of it.”

“Fun?” said the old man severely. “Fun? To see a feller creature
suffering, and perhaps drowned—”

“I don’t think I had better go,” said the victim; “it seems rather
underhand.”

“Yes, you will,” said Joe. “Wind this line round an’ round your arm,
and just swim about gently till I pull you in.”

Sorely against his inclination Private Smith took hold of the line,
and, hanging over the side of the schooner, felt the temperature with
his foot, and, slowly and tenderly, with many little gasps, committed
his body to the deep. Joe paid out the line and waited, letting out
more line, when the man in the water, who was getting anxious, started
to come in hand over hand.

“That’ll do,” said Dan at length.

“I think it will,” said Joe, and, putting his hand to his mouth, gave a
mighty shout. It was answered almost directly by startled roars from
the cabin, and the skipper and mate came rushing hastily upon deck, to
see the crew, in their sleeping gear, forming an excited group round
Joe, and peering eagerly over the side.

“What’s the matter?” demanded the skipper.

“Somebody in the water, sir,” said Joe, relinquishing the wheel to one
of the other seamen, and hauling in the line. “I heard a cry from the
water and threw a line, and, by gum, I’ve hooked it!”

He hauled in, lustily aided by the skipper, until the long white body
of Private Smith, blanched with the cold, came bumping against the
schooner’s side.

“It’s a mermaid,” said the mate, who was inclined to be superstitious,
as he peered doubtfully down at it. “Let it go, Joe.”

“Haul it in, boys,” said the skipper impatiently; and two of the men
clambered over the side and, stooping down, raised it from the water.

In the midst of a puddle, which he brought with him, Private Smith was
laid on the deck, and, waving his arms about, fought wildly for his
breath.

“Fetch one of them empties,” said the skipper quickly, as he pointed to
some barrels ranged along the side.

The men rolled one over, and then aided the skipper in placing the long
fair form of their visitor across it, and to trundle it lustily up and
down the deck, his legs forming convenient handles for the energetic
operators.

“He’s coming round,” said the mate, checking them; “he’s speaking. How
do you feel, my poor fellow?”

He put his ear down, but the action was unnecessary. Private Smith felt
bad, and, in the plainest English he could think of at the moment, said
so distinctly.

“He’s swearing,” said the mate. “He ought to be ashamed of himself.”

“Yes,” said the skipper austerely; “and him so near death too. How did
you get in the water?”

“Went for a—swim,” panted Smith surlily.

“_Swim?_” echoed the skipper. “Why, we’re ten miles from land!”

“His mind’s wandering, pore feller,” interrupted Joe hurriedly. “What
boat did you fall out of, matey?”

“A row-boat,” said Smith, trying to roll out of reach of the skipper,
who was down on his knees flaying him alive with a roller-towel. “I had
to undress in the water to keep afloat. I’ve lost all my clothes.”

“Pore feller,” said Dan.

“A gold watch and chain, my purse, and three of the nicest fellers that
ever breathed,” continued Smith, who was now entering into the spirit
of the thing.

“Poor chaps,” said the skipper solemnly. “Any of ’em leave any family?”

“Four,” said Smith sadly.

“Children?” queried the mate.

“Families,” said Smith.

“Look here,” said the mate, but the watchful Joe interrupted him.

“His mind’s wandering,” said he hastily. “He can’t count, pore chap.
We’d better git him to bed.”

“Ah, do,” said the skipper, and, assisted by his friends, the rescued
man was half led, half carried below and put between the blankets,
where he lay luxuriously sipping a glass of brandy and water, sent from
the cabin.

“How’d I do it?” he inquired, with a satisfied air.

“There was no need to tell all them lies about it,” said Dan sharply;
“instead of one little lie you told half-a-dozen. I don’t want nothing
more to do with you. You start afresh now, like a new-born babe.”

“All right,” said Smith shortly; and, being very much fatigued with his
exertions, and much refreshed by the brandy, fell into a deep and
peaceful sleep.

The morning was well advanced when he awoke, and the fo’c’sle empty
except for the faithful Joe, who was standing by his side, with a heap
of clothing under his arm.

“Try these on,” said he, as Smith stared at him half awake; “they’ll be
better than nothing, at any rate.”

The soldier leaped from his bunk and gratefully proceeded to dress
himself, Joe eyeing him critically as the trousers climbed up his long
legs, and the sleeves of the jacket did their best to conceal his
elbows.

“What do I look like?” he inquired anxiously, as he finished.

“Six foot an’ a half o’ misery,” piped the shrill voice of Billy
promptly, as he thrust his head in at the fo’c’sle. “You can’t go to
church in those clothes.”

“Well, they’ll do for the ship, but you can’t go ashore in ’em,” said
Joe, as he edged towards the ladder, and suddenly sprang up a step or
two to let fly at the boy. “The old man wants to see you; be careful
what you say to him.”

With a very unsuccessful attempt to appear unconscious of the figure he
cut, Smith went up on deck for the interview.

“We can’t do anything until we get to London,” said the skipper, as he
made copious notes of Smith’s adventures. “As soon as we get there,
I’ll lend you the money to telegraph to your friends to tell ’em you’re
safe and to send you some clothes, and of course you’ll have free board
and lodging till it comes, and I’ll write out an account of it for the
newspapers.”

“You’re very good,” said Smith blankly.

“And I don’t know what you are,” said the skipper, interrogatively;
“but you ought to go in for swimming as a profession—six hours’
swimming about like that is wonderful.”

“You don’t know what you can do till you have to,” said Smith modestly,
as he backed slowly away; “but I never want to see the water again as
long as I live.”

The two remaining days of their passage passed all too quickly for the
men, who were casting about for some way out of the difficulty which
they foresaw would arise when they reached London.

“If you’d only got decent clothes,” said Joe, as they passed Gravesend,
“you could go off and send a telegram, and not come back; but you
couldn’t go five yards in them things without having a crowd after
you.”

“I shall have to be taken I s’pose,” said Smith moodily.

“An’ poor old Dan’ll get six months hard for helping you off,” said Joe
sympathetically, as a bright idea occurred to him.

“Rubbish!” said Dan uneasily. “He can stick to his tale of being upset;
anyway, the skipper saw him pulled out of the water. He’s too honest a
chap to get an old man into trouble for trying to help him.”

“He must have a new rig out, Dan,” said Joe softly. “You an’ me’ll go
an’ buy ’em. I’ll do the choosing, and you’ll do the paying. Why, it’ll
be a reg’lar treat for you to lay out a little money, Dan. We’ll have
quite an evening’s shopping, everything of the best.”

The infuriated Dan gasped for breath, and looked helplessly at the
grinning crew.

“I’ll see him—overboard first,” he said furiously.

“Please yourself,” said Joe shortly, “If he’s caught you’ll get six
months. As it is, you’ve got a chance of doing a nice, kind little
Christian act, becos, o’ course, that twenty-five bob you got out of
him won’t anything like pay for his toggery.”

Almost beside himself with indignation, the old man moved off, and said
not another word until they were made fast to the wharf at Limehouse.
He did not even break silence when Joe, taking him affectionately by
the arm, led him aft to the skipper.

“Me an’ Dan, sir,” said Joe very respectfully, “would like to go ashore
for a little shopping. Dan has very kindly offered to lend that pore
chap the money for some clothes, and he wants me to go with him to help
carry them.”

“Ay, ay,” said the skipper, with a benevolent smile at the aged
philanthropist. “You’d better go at once, afore the shops shut.”

“We’ll run, sir,” said Joe, and taking Dan by the arm, dragged him into
the street at a trot.

Nearly a couple of hours passed before they returned, and no child
watched with greater eagerness the opening of a birthday present than
Smith watched the undoing of the numerous parcels with which they were
laden.

“He’s a reg’lar fairy godmother, ain’t he?” said Joe, as Smith joyously
dressed himself in a very presentable tweed suit, serviceable boots,
and a bowler hat. “We had a dreadful job to get a suit big enough, an’
the only one we could get was rather more money than we wanted to give,
wasn’t it, Dan?”

The fairy godmother strove manfully with his feelings.

“You’ll do now,” said Joe. “I ain’t got much, but what I have you’re
welcome to.” He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out some loose
coin. “What have you got, mates?”

With decent good will the other men turned out their pockets, and,
adding to the store, heartily pressed it upon the reluctant Smith, who,
after shaking hands gratefully, followed Joe on deck.

“You’ve got enough to pay your fare,” said the latter; “an’ I’ve told
the skipper you are going ashore to send off telegrams. If you send the
money back to Dan, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I won’t, then,” said Smith firmly; “but I’ll send theirs back to the
other chaps. Good-bye.”

Joe shook him by the hand again, and bade him go while the coast was
clear, advice which Smith hastened to follow, though he turned and
looked back to wave his hand to the crew, who had come up on deck
silently to see him off; all but the philanthropist, who was down below
with a stump of lead-pencil and a piece of paper doing sums.




A BLACK AFFAIR


I didn’t want to bring it,” said Captain Gubson, regarding somewhat
unfavourably a grey parrot whose cage was hanging against the mainmast,
“but my old uncle was so set on it I had to. He said a sea-voyage would
set its ’elth up.”

“It seems to be all right at present,” said the mate, who was tenderly
sucking his forefinger; “best of spirits, I should say.”

“It’s playful,” assented the skipper. “The old man thinks a rare lot of
it. I think I shall have a little bit in that quarter, so keep your eye
on the beggar.”

“Scratch Poll!” said the parrot, giving its bill a preliminary strop on
its perch. “Scratch poor Polly!”

It bent its head against the bars, and waited patiently to play off
what it had always regarded as the most consummate practical joke in
existence. The first doubt it had ever had about it occurred when the
mate came forward and obligingly scratched it with the stem of his
pipe. It was a wholly unforeseen development, and the parrot, ruffling
its feathers, edged along its perch and brooded darkly at the other end
of it.

Opinion before the mast was also against the new arrival, the general
view being that the wild jealousy which raged in the bosom of the
ship’s cat would sooner or later lead to mischief.

“Old Satan don’t like it,” said the cook, shaking his head. “The
blessed bird hadn’t been aboard ten minutes before Satan was prowling
around. The blooming image waited till he was about a foot off the
cage, and then he did the perlite and asked him whether he’d like a
glass o’ beer. _I_ never see a cat so took aback in all my life.
Never.”

“There’ll be trouble between ’em,” said old Sam, who was the cat’s
special protector, “mark my words.”

“I’d put my money on the parrot,” said one of the men confidently.
“It’s ’ad a crool bit out of the mate’s finger. Where ’ud the cat be
agin that beak?”

“Well, you’d lose your money,” said Sam. “If you want to do the cat a
kindness, every time you see him near that cage cuff his ’ed.”

The crew being much attached to the cat, which had been presented to
them when a kitten by the mate’s wife, acted upon the advice with so
much zest that for the next two days the indignant animal was like to
have been killed with kindness. On the third day, however, the parrot’s
cage being on the cabin table, the cat stole furtively down, and, at
the pressing request of the occupant itself, scratched its head for it.

The skipper was the first to discover the mischief, and he came on deck
and published the news in a voice which struck a chill to all hearts.

“Where’s that black devil got to?” he yelled.

“Anything wrong, sir?” asked Sam anxiously.

“Come and look here,” said the skipper. He led the way to the cabin,
where the mate and one of the crew were already standing, shaking their
heads over the parrot.

“What do you make of that?” demanded the skipper fiercely.

“Too much dry food, sir,” said Sam, after due deliberation.

“Too much what?” bellowed the skipper.

“Too much dry food,” repeated Sam firmly. “A parrot—a grey parrot—wants
plenty o’ sop. If it don’t get it, it moults.”

“It’s had too much _cat_,” said the skipper fiercely, “and you know it,
and overboard it goes.”

“I don’t believe it was the cat, sir,” interposed the other man; “it’s
too soft-hearted to do a thing like that.”

“You can shut your jaw,” said the skipper, reddening. “Who asked you to
come down here at all?”

“Nobody saw the cat do it,” urged the mate.

The skipper said nothing, but, stooping down, picked up a tail feather
from the floor, and laid it on the table. He then went on deck,
followed by the others, and began calling, in seductive tones, for the
cat. No reply forthcoming from the sagacious animal, which had gone
into hiding, he turned to Sam, and bade him call it.

“No, sir, I won’t ’ave no ’and in it,” said the old man. “Putting aside
my liking for the animal, _I’m_ not going to ’ave anything to do with
the killing of a black cat.”

“Rubbish!” said the skipper.

“Very good, sir,” said Sam, shrugging his shoulders, “you know best, o’
course. You’re eddicated and I’m not, an’ p’raps you can afford to make
a laugh o’ such things. I knew one man who killed a black cat an’ he
went mad. There’s something very pecooliar about that cat o’ ours.”

“It knows more than we do,” said one of the crew, shaking his head.
“That time you—I mean we—ran the smack down, that cat was expecting of
it ’ours before. It was like a wild thing.”

“Look at the weather we’ve ’ad—look at the trips we’ve made since he’s
been aboard,” said the old man. “Tell me it’s chance if you like, but I
_know_ better.”

The skipper hesitated. He was a superstitious man even for a sailor,
and his weakness was so well known that he had become a sympathetic
receptacle for every ghost story which, by reason of its crudeness or
lack of corroboration, had been rejected by other experts. He was a
perfect reference library for omens, and his interpretations of dreams
had gained for him a widespread reputation.

“That’s all nonsense,” he said, pausing uneasily; “still, I only want
to be just. There’s nothing vindictive about me, and I’ll have no hand
in it myself. Joe, just tie a lump of coal to that cat and heave it
overboard.”

“Not me,” said the cook, following Sam’s lead, and working up a
shudder. “Not for fifty pun in gold. I don’t want to be haunted.”

“The parrot’s a little better now, sir,” said one of the men, taking
advantage of his hesitation, “he’s opened one eye.”

“Well, I only want to be just,” repeated the skipper. “I won’t do
anything in a hurry, but, mark my words, if the parrot dies that cat
goes overboard.”

Contrary to expectations, the bird was still alive when London was
reached, though the cook, who from his connection with the cabin had
suddenly reached a position of unusual importance, reported great loss
of strength and irritability of temper. It was still alive, but failing
fast on the day they were to put to sea again; and the fo’c’sle, in
preparation for the worst, stowed their pet away in the paint-locker,
and discussed the situation.

Their council was interrupted by the mysterious behaviour of the cook,
who, having gone out to lay in a stock of bread, suddenly broke in upon
them more in the manner of a member of a secret society than a humble
but useful unit of a ship’s company.

“Where’s the cap’n?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, as he took a seat on
the locker with the sack of bread between his knees.

“In the cabin,” said Sam, regarding his antics with some disfavour.
“What’s wrong, cookie?”

“What d’ yer think I’ve got in here?” asked the cook, patting the bag.

The obvious reply to this question was, of course, bread; but as it was
known that the cook had departed specially to buy some, and that he
could hardly ask a question involving such a simple answer, nobody gave
it.

“It come to me all of a sudden,” said the cook, in a thrilling whisper.
“I’d just bought the bread and left the shop, when I see a big black
cat, the very image of ours, sitting on a doorstep. I just stooped down
to stroke its ’ed, when it come to me.”

“They will sometimes,” said one of the seamen.

“I don’t mean that,” said the cook, with the contempt of genius. “I
mean the idea did. Ses I to myself, ‘You might be old Satan’s brother
by the look of you; an’ if the cap’n wants to kill a cat, let it be
you,’ I ses. And with that, before it could say Jack Robinson, I picked
it up by the scruff o’ the neck and shoved it in the bag.”

“What, all in along of our bread?” said the previous interrupter, in a
pained voice.

“Some of yer are ’ard ter please,” said the cook, deeply offended.

“Don’t mind him, cook,” said the admiring Sam. “You’re a masterpiece,
that’s what you are.”

“Of course, if any of you’ve got a better plan”—said the cook
generously.

“Don’t talk rubbish, cook,” said Sam; “fetch the two cats out and put
’em together.”

“Don’t mix ’em,” said the cook warningly; “for you’ll never know which
is which agin if you do.”

He cautiously opened the top of the sack and produced his captive, and
Satan, having been relieved from his prison, the two animals were
carefully compared.

“They’re as like as two lumps o’ coal,” said Sam slowly. “Lord, what a
joke on the old man. I must tell the mate o’ this; he’ll enjoy it.”

“It’ll be all right if the parrot don’t die,” said the dainty
pessimist, still harping on his pet theme. “All that bread spoilt, and
two cats aboard.”

“Don’t mind what he ses,” said Sam; “you’re a brick, that’s what you
are. I’ll just make a few holes in the lid o’ the boy’s chest, and pop
old Satan in. You don’t mind, do you, Billy?”

“Of course he don’t,” said the other men indignantly.

Matters being thus agreeably arranged, Sam got a gimlet, and prepared
the chest for the reception of its tenant, who, convinced that he was
being put out of the way to make room for a rival, made a frantic fight
for freedom.

“Now get something ’eavy and put on the top of it,” said Sam, having
convinced himself that the lock was broken; “and, Billy, put the noo
cat in the paint-locker till we start; it’s home-sick.”

The boy obeyed, and the understudy was kept in durance vile until they
were off Limehouse, when he came on deck and nearly ended his career
there and then by attempting to jump over the bulwark into the next
garden. For some time he paced the deck in a perturbed fashion, and
then, leaping on the stern, mewed plaintively as his native city
receded farther and farther from his view.

“What’s the matter with old Satan?” said the mate, who had been let
into the secret. “He seems to have something on his mind.”

“He’ll have something round his neck presently,” said the skipper
grimly.

The prophecy was fulfilled some three hours later, when he came up on
deck ruefully regarding the remains of a bird whose vocabulary had once
been the pride of its native town. He threw it overboard without a
word, and then, seizing the innocent cat, who had followed him under
the impression that it was about to lunch, produced half a brick
attached to a string, and tied it round his neck. The crew, who were
enjoying the joke immensely, raised a howl of protest.

“The _Skylark_’ll never have another like it, sir,” said Sam solemnly.
“That cat was the luck of the ship.”

“I don’t want any of your old woman’s yarns,” said the skipper
brutally. “If you want the cat, go and fetch it.”

He stepped aft as he spoke, and sent the gentle stranger hurtling
through the air. There was a “plomp” as it reached the water, a bubble
or two came to the surface, and all was over.

“That’s the last o’ that,” he said, turning away.

The old man shook his head. “You can’t kill a black cat for nothing,”
said he, “mark my words!”

The skipper, who was in a temper at the time, thought little of them,
but they recurred to him vividly the next day. The wind had freshened
during the night, and rain was falling heavily. On deck the crew stood
about in oilskins, while below, the boy, in his new capacity of gaoler,
was ministering to the wants of an ungrateful prisoner, when the cook,
happening to glance that way, was horrified to see the animal emerge
from the fo’c’sle. It eluded easily the frantic clutch of the boy as he
sprang up the ladder after it, and walked leisurely along the deck in
the direction of the cabin. Just as the crew had given it up for lost
it encountered Sam, and the next moment, despite its cries, was caught
up and huddled away beneath his stiff clammy oilskins. At the noise the
skipper, who was talking to the mate, turned as though he had been
shot, and gazed wildly round him.

“Dick,” said he, “can you hear a cat?”

“Cat!” said the mate, in accents of great astonishment.

“I thought I heard it,” said the puzzled skipper.

“Fancy, sir,” said Dick firmly, as a mewing, appalling in its wrath,
came from beneath Sam’s coat.

“Did you hear it, Sam?” called the skipper, as the old man was moving
off.

“Hear what, sir?” inquired Sam respectfully, without turning round.

“Nothing,” said the skipper, collecting himself. “Nothing. All right.”

The old man, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, made his way
forward, and, seizing a favourable opportunity, handed his ungrateful
burden back to the boy.

“Fancy you heard a cat just now?” inquired the mate casually.

“Well, between you an’ me, Dick,” said the skipper, in a mysterious
voice, “I did, and it wasn’t fancy neither. I heard that cat as plain
as if it was alive.”

“Well, I’ve heard of such things,” said the other, “but I don’t believe
’em. What a lark if the old cat comes back climbing up over the side
out of the sea to-night, with the brick hanging round its neck.”

The skipper stared at him for some time without speaking. “If that’s
your idea of a lark,” he said at length, in a voice which betrayed
traces of some emotion, “it ain’t mine.”

“Well, if you hear it again,” said the mate cordially, “you might let
me know. I’m rather interested in such things.”

The skipper, hearing no more of it that day, tried hard to persuade
himself that he was the victim of imagination, but, in spite of this,
he was pleased at night, as he stood at the wheel, to reflect on the
sense of companionship afforded by the look-out in the bows. On his
part the look-out was quite charmed with the unwonted affability of the
skipper, as he yelled out to him two or three times on matters only
faintly connected with the progress of the schooner.

The night, which had been dirty, cleared somewhat, and the bright
crescent of the moon appeared above a heavy bank of clouds, as the cat,
which had by dint of using its back as a lever at length got free from
that cursed chest, licked its shapely limbs, and came up on deck. After
its stifling prison, the air was simply delicious.

“Bob!” yelled the skipper suddenly.

“Ay, ay, sir!” said the look-out, in a startled voice.

“Did you mew?” inquired the skipper.

“Did I _wot_, sir?” cried the astonished Bob.

“Mew,” said the skipper sharply, “like a cat?”

“No, sir,” said the offended seaman. “What ’ud I want to do that for?”

“I don’t know what you want to for,” said the skipper, looking round
him uneasily. “There’s some more rain coming, Bob.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Bob.

“Lot o’ rain we’ve had this summer,” said the skipper, in a meditative
bawl.

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Bob. “Sailing-ship on the port bow, sir.”

The conversation dropped, the skipper, anxious to divert his thoughts,
watching the dark mass of sail as it came plunging out of the darkness
into the moonlight until it was abreast of his own craft. His eyes
followed it as it passed his quarter, so that he saw not the stealthy
approach of the cat which came from behind the companion, and sat down
close by him. For over thirty hours the animal had been subjected to
the grossest indignities at the hands of every man on board the ship
except one. That one was the skipper, and there is no doubt but that
its subsequent behaviour was a direct recognition of that fact. It rose
to its feet, and crossing over to the unconscious skipper, rubbed its
head affectionately and vigorously against his leg.

From simple causes great events do spring. The skipper sprang four
yards, and let off a screech which was the subject of much comment on
the barque which had just passed. When Bob, who came shuffling up at
the double, reached him he was leaning against the side, incapable of
speech, and shaking all over.

“Anything wrong, sir?” inquired the seaman anxiously, as he ran to the
wheel.

The skipper pulled himself together a bit, and got closer to his
companion.

“Believe me or not, Bob,” he said at length, in trembling accents,
“just as you please, but the ghost of that —— cat, I mean the ghost of
that poor affectionate animal which I drowned, and which I wish I
hadn’t, came and rubbed itself up against my leg.”

“Which leg?” inquired Bob, who was ever careful about details.

“What the blazes does it matter which leg?” demanded the skipper, whose
nerves were in a terrible state. “Ah, look—look there!”

The seaman followed his outstretched finger, and his heart failed him
as he saw the cat, with its back arched, gingerly picking its way along
the side of the vessel.

“I can’t see nothing,” he said doggedly.

“I don’t suppose you can, Bob,” said the skipper in a melancholy voice,
as the cat vanished in the bows; “it’s evidently only meant for me to
see. What it means I don’t know. I’m going down to turn in. I ain’t fit
for duty. You don’t mind being left alone till the mate comes up, do
you?”

“I ain’t afraid,” said Bob.

His superior officer disappeared below, and, shaking the sleepy mate,
who protested strongly against the proceedings, narrated in trembling
tones his horrible experiences.

“If I were you”—said the mate.

“Yes?” said the skipper, waiting a bit. Then he shook him again,
roughly.

“What were you going to say?” he inquired.

“Say?” said the mate, rubbing his eyes. “Nothing.”

“About the cat?” suggested the skipper.

“Cat?” said the mate, nestling lovingly down in the blankets again.
“Wha’ ca’—goo’ ni’”—

Then the skipper drew the blankets from the mate’s sleepy clutches,
and, rolling him backwards and forwards in the bunk, patiently
explained to him that he was very unwell, that he was going to have a
drop of whiskey neat, and turn in, and that he, the mate, was to take
the watch. From this moment the joke lost much of its savour for the
mate.

“You can have a nip too, Dick,” said the skipper, proffering him the
whiskey, as the other sullenly dressed himself.

“It’s all rot,” said the mate, tossing the spirits down his throat,
“and it’s no use either; you can’t run away from a ghost; it’s just as
likely to be in your bed as anywhere else. Good-night.”

He left the skipper pondering over his last words, and dubiously eyeing
the piece of furniture in question. Nor did he retire until he had
subjected it to an analysis of the most searching description, and
then, leaving the lamp burning, he sprang hastily in, and forgot his
troubles in sleep.

It was day when he awoke, and went on deck to find a heavy sea running,
and just sufficient sail set to keep the schooner’s head before the
wind as she bobbed about on the waters. An exclamation from the
skipper, as a wave broke against the side and flung a cloud of spray
over him, brought the mate’s head round.

“Why, you ain’t going to get up?” he said, in tones of insincere
surprise.

“Why not?” inquired the other gruffly.

“You go and lay down agin,” said the mate, “and have a cup o’ nice hot
tea an’ some toast.”

“Clear out,” said the skipper, making a dash for the wheel, and
reaching it as the wet deck suddenly changed its angle. “I know you
didn’t like being woke up, Dick; but I got the horrors last night. Go
below and turn in.”

“All right,” said the mollified mate.

“You didn’t see anything?” inquired the skipper, as he took the wheel
from him.

“Nothing at all,” said the other.

The skipper shook his head thoughtfully, then shook it again
vigorously, as another shower-bath put its head over the side and
saluted him.

“I wish I hadn’t drowned that cat, Dick,” he said.

“You won’t see it again,” said Dick, with the confidence of a man who
had taken every possible precaution to render the prophecy a safe one.

He went below, leaving the skipper at the wheel idly watching the cook
as he performed marvellous feats of jugglery, between the galley and
the fo’c’sle, with the men’s breakfast.

A little while later, leaving the wheel to Sam, he went below himself
and had his own, talking freely, to the discomfort of the
conscious-stricken cook, about his weird experiences of the night
before.

“You won’t see it no more, sir, I don’t expect,” he said faintly; “I
b’leeve it come and rubbed itself up agin your leg to show it forgave
you.”

“Well, I hope it knows it’s understood,” said the other. “I don’t want
it to take any more trouble.”

He finished the breakfast in silence, and then went on deck again. It
was still blowing hard, and he went over to superintend the men who
were attempting to lash together some empties which were rolling about
in all directions amidships. A violent roll set them free again, and at
the same time separated two chests in the fo’c’sle, which were standing
one on top of the other. This enabled Satan, who was crouching in the
lower one, half crazed with terror, to come flying madly up on deck and
give his feelings full vent. Three times in full view of the horrified
skipper he circled the deck at racing speed, and had just started on
the fourth when a heavy packing-case, which had been temporarily set on
end and abandoned by the men at his sudden appearance, fell over and
caught him by the tail. Sam rushed to the rescue.

“Stop!” yelled the skipper.

“Won’t I put it up, sir?” inquired Sam.

“Do you see what’s beneath it?” said the skipper, in a husky voice.

“Beneath it, sir?” said Sam, whose ideas were in a whirl.

“The cat, can’t you see the cat?” said the skipper, whose eyes had been
riveted on the animal since its first appearance on deck.

Sam hesitated a moment, and then shook his head.

“The case has fallen on the cat,” said the skipper. “I can see it
distinctly.”

He might have said heard it, too, for Satan was making frenzied appeals
to his sympathetic friends for assistance.

“Let me put the case back, sir,” said one of the men, “then p’raps the
wision ’ll disappear.”

“No, stop where you are,” said the skipper. “I can stand it better by
daylight. It’s the most wonderful and extraordinary thing I’ve ever
seen. Do you mean to say you can’t see anything, Sam?”

“I can see a case, sir,” said Sam, speaking slowly and carefully, “with
a bit of rusty iron band sticking out from it. That’s what you’re
mistaking for the cat, p’raps, sir.”

“Can’t you see anything, cook?” demanded the skipper.

“It may be fancy, sir,” faltered the cook, lowering his eyes, “but it
does seem to me as though I can see a little misty sort o’ thing there.
Ah, now it’s gone.”

“No, it ain’t,” said the skipper. “The ghost of Satan’s sitting there.
The case seems to have fallen on its tail. It appears to be howling
something dreadful.”

The men made a desperate effort to display the astonishment suitable to
such a marvel, whilst Satan, who was trying all he knew to get his tail
out, cursed freely. How long the superstitious captain of the _Skylark_
would have let him remain there will never be known, for just then the
mate came on deck and caught sight of it before he was quite aware of
the part he was expected to play.

“Why the devil don’t you lift the thing off the poor brute,” he yelled,
hurrying up towards the case.

“What, can _you_ see it, Dick?” said the skipper impressively, laying
his hand on his arm.

“_See_ it?” retorted the mate. “D’ye think I’m blind. Listen to the
poor brute. I should—Oh!”

He became conscious of the concentrated significant gaze of the crew.
Five pairs of eyes speaking as one, all saying “idiot” plainly, the
boy’s eyes conveying an expression too great to be translated.

Turning, the skipper saw the bye-play, and a light slowly dawned upon
him. But he wanted more, and he wheeled suddenly to the cook for the
required illumination.

The cook said it was a lark. Then he corrected himself and said it
wasn’t a lark, then he corrected himself again and became incoherent.
Meantime the skipper eyed him stonily, while the mate released the cat
and good-naturedly helped to straighten its tail.

It took fully five minutes of unwilling explanation before the skipper
could grasp the situation. He did not appear to fairly understand it
until he was shown the chest with the ventilated lid; then his
countenance cleared, and, taking the unhappy Billy by the collar, he
called sternly for a piece of rope.

By this statesmanlike handling of the subject a question of much
delicacy and difficulty was solved, discipline was preserved, and a
practical illustration of the perils of deceit afforded to a youngster
who was at an age best suited to receive such impressions. That he
should exhaust the resources of a youthful but powerful vocabulary upon
the crew in general, and Sam in particular, was only to be expected.
They bore him no malice for it, but, when he showed signs of going
beyond his years, held a hasty consultation, and then stopped his mouth
with sixpence-halfpenny and a broken jack-knife.




THE SKIPPER OF THE “OSPREY”


It was a quarter to six in the morning as the mate of the sailing-barge
_Osprey_ came on deck and looked round for the master, who had been
sleeping ashore and was somewhat overdue. Ten minutes passed before he
appeared on the wharf, and the mate saw with surprise that he was
leaning on the arm of a pretty girl of twenty, as he hobbled painfully
down to the barge.

“Here you are then,” said the mate, his face clearing. “I began to
think you weren’t coming.”

“I’m not,” said the skipper; “I’ve got the gout crool bad. My darter
here’s going to take my place, an’ I’m going to take it easy in bed for
a bit.”

“I’ll go an’ make it for you,” said the mate.

“I mean my bed at home,” said the skipper sharply. “I want good nursing
an’ attention.”

The mate looked puzzled.

“But you don’t really mean to say this young lady is coming aboard
instead of you?” he said.

“That’s just what I do mean,” said the skipper. “She knows as much
about it as I do. She lived aboard with me until she was quite a big
girl. You’ll take your orders from her. What are you whistling about?
Can’t I do as I like about my own ship?”

“O’ course you can,” said the mate drily; “an’ I s’pose I can whistle
if I like—I never heard no orders against it.”

“Gimme a kiss, Meg, an’ git aboard,” said the skipper, leaning on his
stick and turning his cheek to his daughter, who obediently gave him a
perfunctory kiss on the left eyebrow, and sprang lightly aboard the
barge.

“Cast off,” said she, in a business-like manner, as she seized a
boat-hook and pushed off from the jetty. “Ta ta, Dad, and go straight
home, mind; the cab’s waiting.”

“Ay, ay, my dear,” said the proud father, his eye moistening with
paternal pride as his daughter, throwing off her jacket, ran and
assisted the mate with the sail. “Lord, what a fine boy she would have
made!”

He watched the barge until she was well under way, and then, waving his
hand to his daughter, crawled slowly back to the cab; and, being to a
certain extent a believer in homeopathy, treated his complaint with a
glass of rum.

“I’m sorry your father’s so bad, miss,” said the mate, who was still
somewhat dazed by the recent proceedings, as the girl came up and took
the wheel from him. “He was complaining a goodish bit all the way up.”

“A wilful man must have his way,” said Miss Cringle, with a shake of
her head. “It’s no good me saying anything, because directly my back’s
turned he has his own way again.”

The mate shook his head despondently.

“You’d better get your bedding up and make your arrangements forward,”
said the new skipper presently. There was a look of indulgent
admiration in the mate’s eye, and she thought it necessary to check it.

“All right,” said the other, “plenty of time for that; the river’s a
little bit thick just now.”

“What do you mean?” inquired the girl hastily.

“Some o’ these things are not so careful as they might be,” said the
mate, noting the ominous sparkle of her eye, “an’ they might scrape the
paint off.”

“Look here, my lad,” said the new skipper grimly, “if you think you can
steer better than me, you’d better keep it to yourself, that’s all. Now
suppose you see about your bedding, as I said.”

The mate went, albeit he was rather surprised at himself for doing so,
and hid his annoyance and confusion beneath the mattress which he
brought up on his head. His job completed, he came aft again, and,
sitting on the hatches, lit his pipe.

“This is just the weather for a pleasant cruise,” he said amiably,
after a few whiffs. “You’ve chose a nice time for it.”

“I don’t mind the weather,” said the girl, who fancied that there was a
little latent sarcasm somewhere. “I think you’d better wash the decks
now.”

“Washed ’em last night,” said the mate, without moving.

“Ah, after dark, perhaps,” said the girl. “Well, I think I’ll have them
done again.”

The mate sat pondering rebelliously for a few minutes, then he removed
his jacket, put on in honour of the new skipper, and, fetching the
bucket and mop, silently obeyed orders.

“You seem to be very fond of sitting down,” remarked the girl, after he
had finished; “can’t you find something else to do?”

“I don’t know,” replied the mate slowly; “I thought you were looking
after that.”

The girl bit her lip, and was looking carefully round her, when they
were both disturbed by the unseemly behaviour of the master of a
passing craft.

“Jack!” he yelled in a tone of strong amazement, “Jack!”

“Halloa!” cried the mate.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” yelled the other reproachfully.

“Tell you what?” roared the mystified mate.

The master of the other craft, holding on to the stays with one hand,
jerked his thumb expressively towards Miss Cringle, and waited.

“When was it?” he screamed anxiously, as he realised that his craft was
rapidly carrying him out of earshot.

The mate smiled feebly, and glanced uneasily at the girl, who, with a
fine colour and an air of vast unconcern, was looking straight in front
of her; and it was a relief to both of them when they found themselves
hesitating and dodging in front of a schooner which was coming up.

“Do you want all the river?” demanded the exasperated master of the
latter vessel, running to the side as they passed. “Why don’t you drop
anchor if you want to spoon?”

“Perhaps you’d better let me take the wheel a bit,” said the mate, not
without a little malice in his voice.

“No; you can go an’ keep a look-out in the bows,” said the girl
serenely. “It’ll prevent misunderstandings, too. Better take the
potatoes with you and peel them for dinner.”

The mate complied, and the voyage proceeded in silence, the steering
being rendered a little nicer than usual by various nautical sparks
bringing their boats a bit closer than was necessary in order to obtain
a good view of the fair steersman.

After dinner, the tide having turned and a stiff head-wind blowing,
they brought up off Sheppey. It began to rain hard, and the crew of the
_Osprey_, having made all snug above, retired to the cabin to resume
their quarrel.

“Don’t mind me,” said Miss Cringle scathingly, as the mate lit his
pipe.

“Well, I didn’t think you minded,” replied the mate; “the old man”—

“Who?” interrupted Miss Cringle, in a tone of polite inquiry.

“Captain Cringle,” said the mate, correcting himself, “smokes a great
deal, and I’ve heard him say that you liked the smell of it.”

“There’s pipes and pipes,” said Miss Cringle oracularly.

The mate flung his on the floor and crunched it beneath his heel, then
he thrust his hands in his pockets, and, leaning back, scowled darkly
up at the rain as it crackled on the skylight.

“If you are going to show off your nasty temper,” said the girl
severely, “you’d better go forward. It’s not quite the thing after all
for you to be down here—not that I study appearances much.”

“I shouldn’t think you did,” retorted the mate, whose temper was
rapidly getting the better of him. “I can’t think what your father was
thinking of to let a pret—to let a girl like you come away like this.”

“If you were going to say pretty girl,” said Miss Cringle, with calm
self-abnegation, “don’t mind me, say it. The captain knows what he’s
about. He told me you were a milksop; he said you were a good young man
and a teetotaller.”

The mate, allowing the truth of the captain’s statement as to his
abstinence, hotly denied the charge of goodness. “I can understand your
father’s hurry to get rid of you for a spell,” he concluded, being
goaded beyond all consideration of politeness. “His gout ’ud never get
well while you were with him. More than that, I shouldn’t wonder if you
were the cause of it.”

With this parting shot he departed, before the girl could think of a
suitable reply, and went and sulked in the dingy little fo’c’sle.

In the evening, the weather having moderated somewhat, and the tide
being on the ebb, they got under way again, the girl coming on deck
fully attired in an oilskin coat and sou’-wester to resume the command.
The rain fell steadily as they ploughed along their way, guided by the
bright eye of the “Mouse” as it shone across the darkening waters. The
mate, soaked to the skin, was at the wheel.

“Why don’t you go below and put your oilskins on?” inquired the girl,
when this fact dawned upon her.

“Don’t want ’em,” said the mate.

“I suppose you know best,” said the girl, and said no more until nine
o’clock, when she paused at the companion to give her last orders for
the night.

“I’m going to turn in,” said she; “call me at two o’clock. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said the other, and the girl vanished.

Left to himself, the mate, who began to feel chilly, felt in his
pockets for a pipe, and was in all the stress of getting a light, when
he heard a thin, almost mild voice behind him, and, looking round, saw
the face of the girl at the companion.

“I say, are these your oilskins I’ve been wearing?” she demanded
awkwardly.

“You’re quite welcome,” said the mate.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” said the girl indignantly. “I wouldn’t have
worn them for anything if I had known it.”

“Well, they won’t poison you,” said the mate resentfully. “Your father
left his at Ipswich to have ’em cobbled up a bit.”

The girl passed them up on the deck, and, closing the companion with a
bang, disappeared. It is possible that the fatigues of the day had been
too much for her, for when she awoke, and consulted the little silver
watch that hung by her bunk, it was past five o’clock, and the red glow
of the sun was flooding the cabin as she arose and hastily dressed.

The deck was drying in white patches as she went above, and the mate
was sitting yawning at the wheel, his eyelids red for want of sleep.

“Didn’t I tell you to call me at two o’clock?” she demanded,
confronting him.

“It’s all right,” said the mate. “I thought when you woke would be soon
enough. You looked tired.”

“I think you’d better go when we get to Ipswich,” said the girl,
tightening her lips. “I’ll ship somebody who’ll obey orders.”

“I’ll go when we get back to London,” said the mate. “I’ll hand this
barge over to the cap’n, and nobody else.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said the girl, as she took the wheel, “_I_ think
you’ll go at Ipswich.”

For the remainder of the voyage the subject was not alluded to; the
mate, in a spirit of sulky pride, kept to the fore part of the boat,
except when he was steering, and, as far as practicable, the girl
ignored his presence. In this spirit of mutual forbearance they entered
the Orwell, and ran swiftly up to Ipswich.

It was late in the afternoon when they arrived there, and the new
skipper, waiting only until they were made fast, went ashore, leaving
the mate in charge. She had been gone about an hour when a small
telegraph boy appeared, and, after boarding the barge in the unsafest
manner possible, handed him a telegram. The mate read it and his face
flushed. With even more than the curtness customary in language at a
halfpenny a word, it contained his dismissal.

“I’ve had a telegram from your father sacking me,” he said to the girl,
as she returned soon after, laden with small parcels.

“Yes, I wired him to,” she replied calmly. “I suppose you’ll go _now?_”

“I’d rather go back to London with you,” he said slowly.

“I daresay,” said the girl. “As a matter of fact I wasn’t really
meaning for you to go, but when you said you wouldn’t I thought we’d
see who was master. I’ve shipped another mate, so you see I haven’t
lost much time.”

“Who is he,” inquired the mate.

“Man named Charlie Lee,” replied the girl; “the foreman here told me of
him.”

“He’d no business too,” said the mate, frowning; “he’s a loose fish;
take my advice now and ship somebody else. He’s not at all the sort of
chap I’d choose for you to sail with.”

“You’d choose,” said the girl scornfully; “dear me, what a pity you
didn’t tell me before.”

“He’s a public-house loafer,” said the mate, meeting her eye angrily,
“and about as bad as they make ’em; but I s’pose you’ll have your own
way.”

“He won’t frighten me,” said the girl. “I’m quite capable of taking
care of myself, thank you. Good evening.”

The mate stepped ashore with a small bundle, leaving the remainder of
his possessions to go back to London with the barge. The girl watched
his well-knit figure as it strode up the quay until it was out of
sight, and then, inwardly piqued because he had not turned round for a
parting glance, gave a little sigh, and went below to tea.

The docile and respectful behaviour of the new-comer was a pleasant
change to the autocrat of the _Osprey_, and cargoes were worked out and
in without an unpleasant word. They laid at the quay for two days, the
new mate, whose home was at Ipswich, sleeping ashore, and on the
morning of the third he turned up punctually at six o’clock, and they
started on their return voyage.

“Well, you do know how to handle a craft,” said Lee admiringly, as they
passed down the river. “The old boat seems to know it’s got a pretty
young lady in charge.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said the girl austerely.

The new mate carefully adjusted his red necktie and smiled indulgently.

“Well, you’re the prettiest cap’n I’ve ever sailed under,” he said.
“What do they call that red cap you’ve got on? Tam-o’-Shanter is it?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl shortly.

“You mean you won’t tell me,” said the other, with a look of anger in
his soft dark eyes.

“Just as you like,” said she, and Lee, whistling softly, turned on his
heel and began to busy himself with some small matter forward.

The rest of the day passed quietly, though there was a freedom in the
new mate’s manner which made the redoubtable skipper of the _Osprey_
regret her change of crew, and to treat him with more civility than her
proud spirit quite approved of. There was but little wind, and the
barge merely crawled along as the captain and mate, with surreptitious
glances, took each other’s measure.

“This is the nicest trip I’ve ever had,” said Lee, as he came up from
an unduly prolonged tea, with a strong-smelling cigar in his mouth.
“I’ve brought your jacket up.”

“I don’t want it, thank you,” said the girl.

“Better have it,” said Lee, holding it up for her.

“When I want my jacket I’ll put it on myself,” said the girl.

“All right, no offence,” said the other airily. “What an obstinate
little devil you are.”

“Have you got any drink down there?” inquired the girl, eyeing him
sternly.

“Just a little drop o’ whiskey, my dear, for the spasms,” said Lee
facetiously. “Will you have a drop?”

“I won’t have any drinking here,” said she sharply. “If you want to
drink, wait till you get ashore.”

“_You_ won’t have any drinking!” said the other, opening his eyes, and
with a quiet chuckle he dived below and brought up a bottle and a
glass. “Here’s wishing a better temper to you, my dear,” he said
amiably, as he tossed off a glass. “Come, you’d better have a drop.
It’ll put a little colour in your cheeks.”

“Put it away now, there’s a good fellow,” said the captain timidly, as
she looked anxiously at the nearest sail, some two miles distant.

“It’s the only friend I’ve got,” said Lee, sprawling gracefully on the
hatches, and replenishing his glass. “Look here. Are you on for a
bargain?”

“What do you mean?” inquired the girl.

“Give me a kiss, little spitfire, and I won’t take another drop
to-night,” said the new mate tenderly. “Come, I won’t tell.”

“You may drink yourself to death before I’ll do that,” said the girl,
striving to speak calmly. “Don’t talk that nonsense to me again.”

She stooped over as she spoke and made a sudden grab at the bottle, but
the new mate was too quick for her, and, snatching it up jeeringly,
dared her to come for it.

“Come on, come and fight for it,” said he; “hit me if you like, I don’t
mind; your little fist won’t hurt.”

No answer being vouchsafed to this invitation he applied himself to his
only friend again, while the girl, now thoroughly frightened, steered
in silence.

“Better get the sidelights out,” said she at length.

“Plenty o’ time,” said Lee.

“Take the helm, then, while I do it,” said the girl, biting her lips.

The fellow rose and came towards her, and, as she made way for him,
threw his arm round her waist and tried to detain her. Her heart
beating quickly, she walked forward, and, not without a hesitating
glance at the drunken figure at the wheel, descended into the fo’c’sle
for the lamps.

The next moment, with a gasping little cry, she sank down on a locker
as the dark figure of a man rose and stood by her.

“Don’t be frightened,” it said quietly.

“Jack?” said the girl.

“That’s me,” said the figure. “You didn’t expect to see me, did you? I
thought perhaps you didn’t know what was good for you, so I stowed
myself away last night, and here I am.”

“Have you heard what that fellow has been saying to me?” demanded Miss
Cringle, with a spice of the old temper leavening her voice once more.

“Every word,” said the mate cheerfully.

“Why didn’t you come up and stand by me?” inquired the girl hotly.

The mate hung his head.

“Oh,” said the girl, and her tones were those of acute disappointment,
“you’re afraid.”

“I’m not,” said the mate scornfully.

“Why didn’t you come up, then, instead of skulking down here?” inquired
the girl.

The mate scratched the back of his neck and smiled, but weakly. “Well,
I—I thought”—he began, and stopped.

“You thought”—prompted Miss Cringle coldly.

“I thought a little fright would do you good,” said the mate, speaking
quickly, “and that it would make you appreciate me a little more when I
did come.”

“Ahoy! _Maggie! Maggie!_” came the voice of the graceless varlet who
was steering.

“I’ll _Maggie_ him,” said the mate, grinding his teeth, “Why, what
the—why you’re crying.”

“I’m not,” sobbed Miss Cringle scornfully. “I’m in a temper, that’s
all.”

“I’ll knock his head off,” said the mate; “you stay down here.”

“Mag-_gie!_” came the voice again, “_Mag_—HULLO!”

“Were you calling me, my lad?” said the mate, with dangerous
politeness, as he stepped aft. “Ain’t you afraid of straining that
sweet voice o’ yours? Leave go o’ that tiller.”

The other let go, and the mate’s fist took him heavily in the face and
sent him sprawling on the deck. He rose with a scream of rage and
rushed at his opponent, but the mate’s temper, which had suffered badly
through his treatment of the last few days, was up, and he sent him
heavily down again.

“There’s a little dark dingy hole forward,” said the mate, after
waiting some time for him to rise again, “just the place for you to go
and think over your sins in. If I see you come out of it until we get
to London, I’ll hurt you. Now clear.”

The other cleared, and, carefully avoiding the girl, who was standing
close by, disappeared below.

“You’ve hurt him,” said the girl, coming up to the mate and laying her
hand on his arm. “What a horrid temper you’ve got.”

“It was him asking you to kiss him that upset me,” said the mate
apologetically.

“He put his arm round my waist,” said Miss Cringle, blushing.

“_What!_” said the mate, stuttering, “put his—put his arm—round—your
waist—like”—

His courage suddenly forsook him.

“Like what?” inquired the girl, with superb innocence.

“Like _that_,” said the mate manfully.

“That’ll do,” said Miss Cringle softly, “that’ll do. You’re as bad as
he is, only the worst of it is there is nobody here to prevent you.”




IN BORROWED PLUMES


The master of the _Sarah Jane_ had been missing for two days, and all
on board, with the exception of the boy, whom nobody troubled about,
were full of joy at the circumstance. Twice before had the skipper,
whose habits might, perhaps, be best described as irregular, missed his
ship, and word had gone forth that the third time would be the last.
His berth was a good one, and the mate wanted it in place of his own,
which was wanted by Ted Jones, A. B.

“Two hours more,” said the mate anxiously to the men, as they stood
leaning against the side, “and I take the ship out.”

“Under two hours’ll do it,” said Ted, peering over the side and
watching the water as it slowly rose over the mud. “What’s got the old
man, I wonder?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” said the mate. “You chaps stand by me
and it’ll be good for all of us. Mr. Pearson said distinct the last
time that if the skipper ever missed his ship again it would be his
last trip in her, and he told me afore the old man that I wasn’t to
wait two minutes at any time, but to bring her out right away.”

“He’s an old fool,” said Bill Loch, the other hand; “and nobody’ll miss
him but the boy, and he’s been looking reg’lar worried all the morning.
He looked so worried at dinner time that I give ’im a kick to cheer him
up a bit. Look at him now.”

The mate gave a supercilious glance in the direction of the boy, and
then turned away. The boy, who had no idea of courting observation,
stowed himself away behind the windlass; and, taking a letter from his
pocket, perused it for the fourth time.

“Dear Tommy,” it began. “I take my pen in and to inform you that I’m
stayin here and cant get away for the reason that I lorst my cloes at
cribage larst night, also my money, and everything beside. Don’t speek
to a living sole about it as the mate wants my birth, but pack up sum
cloes and bring them to me without saying nuthing to noboddy. The mates
cloths will do becos I havent got enny other soot, dont tell ’im. You
needen’t trouble about soks as I’ve got them left. My hed is so bad I
must now conclude. Your affecshunate uncle and captin Joe Bross. P.S.
Dont let the mate see you come, or else he wont let you go.”

“Two hours more,” sighed Tommy, as he put the letter back in his
pocket. “How can I get any clothes when they’re all locked up? And aunt
said I was to look after ’im and see he didn’t get into no mischief.”

He sat thinking deeply, and then, as the crew of the _Sarah Jane_
stepped ashore to take advantage of a glass offered by the mate, he
crept down to the cabin again for another desperate look round. The
only articles of clothing visible belonged to Mrs. Bross, who up to
this trip had been sailing in the schooner to look after its master. At
these he gazed hard.

“I’ll take ’em and try an’ swop ’em for some men’s clothes,” said he
suddenly, snatching the garments from the pegs. “She wouldn’t mind”;
and hastily rolling them into a parcel, together with a pair of carpet
slippers of the captain’s, he thrust the lot into an old biscuit bag.
Then he shouldered his burden, and, going cautiously on deck, gained
the shore, and set off at a trot to the address furnished in the
letter.

It was a long way, and the bag was heavy. His first attempt at barter
was alarming, for the pawnbroker, who had just been cautioned by the
police, was in such a severe and uncomfortable state of morals, that
the boy quickly snatched up his bundle again and left. Sorely troubled
he walked hastily along, until, in a small bye street, his glance fell
upon a baker of mild and benevolent aspect, standing behind the counter
of his shop.

“If you please, sir,” said Tommy, entering, and depositing his bag on
the counter, “have you got any cast-off clothes you don’t want?”

The baker turned to a shelf, and selecting a stale loaf cut it in
halves, one of which he placed before the boy.

“I don’t want bread,” said Tommy desperately; “but mother has just
died, and father wants mourning for the funeral. He’s only got a new
suit with him, and if he can change these things of mother’s for an old
suit, he’d sell his best ones to bury her with.”

He shook the articles out on the counter, and the baker’s wife, who had
just come into the shop, inspected them rather favourably.

“Poor boy, so you’ve lost your mother,” she said, turning the clothes
over. “It’s a good skirt, Bill.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tommy dolefully.

“What did she die of?” inquired the baker.

“Scarlet fever,” said Tommy, tearfully, mentioning the only disease he
knew.

“Scar—Take them things away,” yelled the baker, pushing the clothes on
to the floor, and following his wife to the other end of the shop.
“Take ’em away directly, you young villain.”

His voice was so loud, his manner so imperative, that the startled boy,
without stopping to argue, stuffed the clothes pell-mell into the bag
again and departed. A farewell glance at the clock made him look almost
as horrified as the baker.

“There’s no time to be lost,” he muttered, as he began to run; “either
the old man’ll have to come in these or else stay where he is.”

He reached the house breathless, and paused before an unshaven man in
time-worn greasy clothes, who was smoking a short clay pipe with much
enjoyment in front of the door.

“Is Cap’n Bross here?” he panted.

“He’s upstairs,” said the man, with a leer, “sitting in sackcloth and
ashes, more ashes than sackcloth. Have you got some clothes for him?”

“Look here,” said Tommy. He was down on his knees with the mouth of the
bag open again, quite in the style of the practised hawker. “Give me an
old suit of clothes for them. Hurry up. There’s a lovely frock.”

“Blimey,” said the man, staring, “I’ve only got these clothes. Wot
d’yer take me for? A dook?”

“Well, get me some somewhere,” said Tommy. “If you don’t the cap’n ’ll
have to come in these, and I’m sure he won’t like it.”

“I wonder what he’d look like,” said the man, with a grin. “Damme if I
don’t come up and see.”

“Get me some clothes,” pleaded Tommy.

“I wouldn’t get you clothes, no, not for fifty pun,” said the man
severely. “Wot d’yer mean wanting to spoil people’s pleasure in that
way? Come on, come and tell the cap’n what you’ve got for ’im, I want
to ’ear what he ses. He’s been swearing ’ard since ten o’clock this
morning, but he ought to say something special over this.”

He led the way up the bare wooden stairs, followed by the harassed boy,
and entered a small dirty room at the top, in the centre of which the
master of the _Sarah Jane_ sat to deny visitors, in a pair of socks and
last week’s paper.

“Here’s a young gent come to bring you some clothes, cap’n,” said the
man, taking the sack from the boy.

“Why didn’t you come before?” growled the captain, who was reading the
advertisements.

The man put his hand in the sack, and pulled out the clothes. “What do
you think of ’em?” he asked expectantly.

The captain strove vainly to tell him, but his tongue mercifully
forsook its office, and dried between his lips. His brain rang with
sentences of scorching iniquity, but they got no further.

“Well, say thank you, if you can’t say nothing else,” suggested his
tormentor hopefully.

“I couldn’t bring nothing else,” said Tommy hurriedly; “all the things
was locked up. I tried to swop ’em and nearly got locked up for it. Put
these on and hurry up.”

The captain moistened his lips with his tongue.

“The mate’ll get off directly she floats,” continued Tommy. “Put these
on and spoil his little game. It’s raining a little now. Nobody’ll see
you, and as soon as you git aboard you can borrow some of the men’s
clothes.”

“That’s the ticket, cap’n,” said the man. “Lord lumme, you’ll ’ave
everybody falling in love with you.”

“Hurry up,” said Tommy, dancing with impatience. “Hurry up.”

The skipper, dazed and wild-eyed, stood still while his two assistants
hastily dressed him, bickering somewhat about details as they did so.

“He ought to be tight-laced, I tell you,” said the man.

“He can’t be tight-laced without stays,” said Tommy scornfully. “You
ought to know that.”

“Ho, can’t he,” said the other, discomfited. “You know too much for a
young-un. Well, put a bit o’ line round ’im then.”

“We can’t wait for a line,” said Tommy, who was standing on tip-toe to
tie the skipper’s bonnet on. “Now tie the scarf over his chin to hide
his beard, and put this veil on. It’s a good job he ain’t got a
moustache.”

The other complied, and then fell back a pace or two to gaze at his
handiwork. “Strewth, though I ses it as shouldn’t, you look a treat!”
he remarked complacently. “Now, young-un, take ’old of his arm. Go up
the back streets, and if you see anybody looking at you, call ’im Mar.”

The two set off, after the man, who was a born realist, had tried to
snatch a kiss from the skipper on the threshold. Fortunately for the
success of the venture, it was pelting with rain, and, though a few
people gazed curiously at the couple as they went hastily along, they
were unmolested, and gained the wharf in safety, arriving just in time
to see the schooner shoving off from the side.

At the sight the skipper held up his skirts and ran. “Ahoy!” he
shouted. “Wait a minute.”

The mate gave one look of blank astonishment at the extraordinary
figure, and then turned away; but at that moment the stern came within
jumping distance of the wharf, and uncle and nephew, moved with one
impulse, leaped for it and gained the deck in safety.

“Why didn’t you wait when I hailed you?” demanded the skipper fiercely.

“How was I to know it was you?” inquired the mate surlily, as he
realised his defeat. “I thought it was the Empress of Rooshia.”

The skipper stared at him dumbly.

“An’ if you take my advice,” said the mate, with a sneer, “you’ll keep
them things on. _I_ never see you look so well in anything afore.”

“I want to borrow some o’ your clothes, Bob,” said the skipper, eyeing
him steadily.

“Where’s your own?” asked the other.

“I don’t know,” said the skipper. “I was took with a fit last night,
Bob, and when I woke up this morning they were gone. Somebody must have
took advantage of my helpless state and taken ’em.”

“Very likely,” said the mate, turning away to shout an order to the
crew, who were busy setting sail.

“Where are they, old man?” inquired the skipper.

“How should I know?” asked the other, becoming interested in the men
again.

“I mean _your_ clothes,” said the skipper, who was fast losing his
temper.

“Oh, mine?” said the mate. “Well, as a matter o’ fact, I don’t like
lending my clothes. I’m rather pertickler. You might have a fit in
_them_.”

“You won’t lend ’em to me?” asked the skipper.

“I won’t,” said the mate, speaking loudly, and frowning significantly
at the crew, who were listening.

“Very good,” said the skipper. “Ted, come here. Where’s your other
clothes?”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Ted, shifting uneasily from one leg to the
other, and glancing at the mate for support; “but they ain’t fit for
the likes of you to wear, sir.”

“I’m the best judge of that,” said the skipper sharply. “Fetch ’em up.”

“Well, to tell the truth, sir,” said Ted, “I’m like the mate. I’m only
a poor sailor-man, but I wouldn’t lend my clothes to the Queen of
England.”

“You fetch up them clothes,” roared the skipper snatching off his
bonnet and flinging it on the deck. “Fetch ’em up at once. D’ye think
I’m going about in these petticuts?”

“They’re my clothes,” muttered Ted doggedly.

“Very well, then, I’ll have Bill’s,” said the skipper. “But mind you,
my lad, I’ll make you pay for this afore I’ve done with you. Bill’s the
only honest man aboard this ship. Gimme your hand, Bill, old man.”

“I’m with them two,” said Bill gruffly, as he turned away.

The skipper, biting his lips with fury, turned from one to the other,
and then, with a big oath, walked forward. Before he could reach the
fo’c’sle Bill and Ted dived down before him, and, by the time he had
descended, sat on their chests side by side confronting him. To threats
and appeals alike they turned a deaf ear, and the frantic skipper was
compelled at last to go on deck again, still encumbered with the hated
skirts.

“Why don’t you go an’ lay down,” said the mate, “an’ I’ll send you down
a nice cup o’ hot tea. You’ll get histericks, if you go on like that.”

“I’ll knock your ’ead off if you talk to me,” said the skipper.

“Not you,” said the mate cheerfully; “you ain’t big enough. Look at
that pore fellow over there.”

The skipper looked in the direction indicated, and, swelling with
impotent rage, shook his fist fiercely at a red-faced man with grey
whiskers, who was wafting innumerable tender kisses from the bridge of
a passing steamer.

“That’s right,” said the mate approvingly; “don’t give ’im no
encouragement. Love at first sight ain’t worth having.”

The skipper, suffering severely from suppressed emotion, went below,
and the crew, after waiting a little while to make sure that he was not
coming up again, made their way quietly to the mate.

“If we can only take him to Battlesea in this rig it’ll be all right,”
said the latter. “You chaps stand by me. His slippers and sou’-wester
is the only clothes he’s got aboard. Chuck every needle you can lay
your hands on overboard, or else he’ll git trying to make a suit out of
a piece of old sail or something. If we can only take him to Mr.
Pearson like this, it won’t be so bad after all.”

While these arrangements were in hand above, the skipper and the boy
were busy over others below. Various startling schemes propounded by
the skipper for obtaining possession of his men’s attire were rejected
by the youth as unlawful, and, what was worse, impracticable. For a
couple of hours they discussed ways and means, but only ended in
diatribes against the mean ways of the crew; and the skipper, whose
head ached still from his excesses, fell into a state of sullen despair
at length, and sat silent.

“By Jove, Tommy, I’ve got it,” he cried suddenly, starting up and
hitting the table with his fist. “Where’s your other suit?”

“That ain’t no bigger that this one,” said Tommy.

“You git it out,” said the skipper, with a knowing toss of his head.
“Ah, there we are. Now go in my state-room and take those off.”

The wondering Tommy, who thought that great grief had turned his
kinsman’s brain, complied, and emerged shortly afterwards in a blanket,
bringing his clothes under his arm.

“Now, do you know what I’m going to do?” inquired the skipper, with a
big smile.

“No.”

“Fetch me the scissors, then. Now do you know what I’m going to do?”

“Cut up the two suits and make ’em into one,” hazarded the
horror-stricken Tommy. “Here, stop it! Leave off!”

The skipper pushed him impatiently off, and, placing the clothes on the
table, took up the scissors, and, with a few slashing strokes, cut the
garments into their component parts.

“What am _I_ to wear,” said Tommy, beginning to blubber. “You didn’t
think of that?”

“What are you to wear, you selfish young pig?” said the skipper
sternly. “Always thinking about yourself. Go and git some needles and
thread, and if there’s any left over, and you’re a good boy, I’ll see
whether I can’t make something for you out of the leavings.”

“There ain’t no needles here,” whined Tommy, after a lengthened search.

“Go down the fo’c’sle and git the case of sail-makers’ needles, then,”
said the skipper, “Don’t let anyone see what you’re after, an’ some
thread.”

“Well, why couldn’t you let me go in my clothes before you cut ’em up,”
moaned Tommy. “I don’t like going up in this blanket. They’ll laugh at
me.”

“You go at once!” thundered the skipper, and, turning his back on him,
whistled softly, and began to arrange the pieces of cloth.

“Laugh away, my lads,” he said cheerfully, as an uproarious burst of
laughter greeted the appearance of Tommy on deck. “Wait a bit.”

He waited himself for nearly twenty minutes, at the end of which time
Tommy, treading on his blanket, came flying down the companion-ladder,
and rolled into the cabin.

“There ain’t a needle aboard the ship,” he said solemnly, as he picked
himself up and rubbed his head. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

“What?” roared the skipper, hastily concealing the pieces of cloth.
“Here, Ted! Ted!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” said Ted, as he came below.

“I want a sail-maker’s needle,” said the skipper glibly. “I’ve got a
rent in this skirt.”

“I broke the last one yesterday,” said Ted, with an evil grin.

“Any other needle then,” said the skipper, trying to conceal his
emotion.

“I don’t believe there’s such a thing aboard the ship,” said Ted, who
had obeyed the mate’s thoughtful injunction. “_Nor_ thread. I was only
saying so to the mate yesterday.”

The skipper sank again to the lowest depths, waved him away, and then,
getting on a corner of the locker, fell into a gloomy reverie.

“It’s a pity you do things in such a hurry,” said Tommy, sniffing
vindictively. “You might have made sure of the needle before you
spoiled my clothes. There’s two of us going about ridiculous now.”

The master of the _Sarah Jane_ allowed this insolence to pass unheeded.
It is in moments of deep distress that the mind of man, naturally
reverting to solemn things, seeks to improve the occasion by a lecture.
The skipper, chastened by suffering and disappointment, stuck his right
hand in his pocket, after a lengthened search for it, and gently
bidding the blanketed urchin in front of him to sit down, began:

“You see what comes of drink and cards,” he said mournfully. “Instead
of being at the helm of my ship, racing all the other craft down the
river, I’m skulkin’ down below here like—like”—

“Like an actress,” suggested Tommy.

The skipper eyed him all over. Tommy, unconscious of offence, met his
gaze serenely.

“If,” continued the skipper, “at any time you felt like taking too
much, and you stopped with the beer-mug half-way to your lips, and
thought of me sitting in this disgraceful state, what would you do?”

“I dunno,” replied Tommy, yawning.

“What would you do?” persisted the skipper, with great expression.

“Laugh, I s’pose,” said Tommy, after a moment’s thought.

The sound of a well-boxed ear rang through the cabin.

“You’re an unnatural, ungrateful little toad,” said the skipper
fiercely. “You don’t deserve to have a good, kind uncle to look after
you.”

“Anybody can have him for me,” sobbed the indignant Tommy, as he
tenderly felt his ear. “You look a precious sight more like an aunt
than an uncle.”

After firing this shot he vanished in a cloud of blanket, and the
skipper, reluctantly abandoning a hastily-formed resolve of first
flaying him alive and then flinging him overboard, sat down again and
lit his pipe.

Once out of the river he came on deck again, and, ignoring by a great
effort the smiles of the crew and the jibes of the mate, took command.
The only alteration he made in his dress was to substitute his
sou’-wester for the bonnet, and in this guise he did his work, while
the aggrieved Tommy hopped it in blankets. The three days at sea passed
like a horrid dream. So covetous was his gaze, that the crew
instinctively clutched their nether garments and looked to the
buttoning of their coats as they passed him. He saw coats in the
mainsail, and fashioned phantom trousers out of the flying jib, and
towards the end began to babble of blue serges and mixed tweeds.
Oblivious of fame, he had resolved to enter the harbour of Battlesea by
night; but it was not to be. Near home the wind dropped, and the sun
was well up before Battlesea came into view, a grey bank on the
starboard bow.

Until within a mile of the harbour, the skipper held on, and then his
grasp on the wheel relaxed somewhat, and he looked round anxiously for
the mate.

“Where’s Bob?” he shouted.

“He’s very ill, sir,” said Ted, shaking his head.

“Ill?” gasped the startled skipper. “Here, take the wheel a minute.”

He handed it over, and grasping his skirts went hastily below. The mate
was half lying, half sitting, in his bunk, groaning dismally.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the skipper.

“I’m dying,” said the mate. “I keep being tied up all in knots inside.
I can’t hold myself straight.”

The other cleared his throat. “You’d better take off your clothes and
lie down a bit,” he said kindly. “Let me help you off with them.”

“No—don’t—trouble,” panted the mate.

“It ain’t no trouble,” said the skipper, in a trembling voice.

“No, I’ll keep ’em on,” said the mate faintly. “I’ve always had an idea
I’d like to die in my clothes. It may be foolish, but I can’t help it.”

“You’ll have your wish some day, never fear, you infernal rascal,”
shouted the overwrought skipper. “You’re shamming sickness to make me
take the ship into port.”

“Why shouldn’t you take her in,” asked the mate, with an air of
innocent surprise. “It’s your duty as cap’n. You’d better get above
now. The bar is always shifting.”

The skipper, restraining himself by a mighty effort, went on deck
again, and, taking the wheel, addressed the crew. He spoke feelingly of
the obedience men owed their superior officers, and the moral
obligation they were under to lend them their trousers when they
required them. He dwelt on the awful punishments awarded for mutiny,
and proved clearly, that to allow the master of a ship to enter port in
petticoats was mutiny of the worst type. He then sent them below for
their clothing. They were gone such a long time that it was palpable to
the meanest intellect that they did not intend to bring it. Meantime
the harbour widened out before him.

There were two or three people on the quay as the _Sarah Jane_ came
within hailing distance. By the time she had passed the lantern at the
end of it there were two or three dozen, and the numbers were steadily
increasing at the rate of three persons for every five yards she made.
Kind-hearted, humane men, anxious that their friends should not lose so
great and cheap a treat, bribed small and reluctant boys with pennies
to go in search of them, and by the time the schooner reached her
berth, a large proportion of the population of the port was looking
over each other’s shoulders and shouting foolish and hilarious
inquiries to the skipper. The news reached the owner, and he came
hurrying down to the ship, just as the skipper, regardless of the
heated remonstrances of the sightseers, was preparing to go below.

Mr. Pearson was a stout man, and he came down exploding with wrath.
Then he saw the apparition, and mirth overcame him. It became necessary
for three stout fellows to act as buttresses, and the more indignant
the skipper looked the harder their work became. Finally he was
assisted, in a weak state, and laughing hysterically, to the deck of
the schooner, where he followed the skipper below, and in a voice
broken with emotion demanded an explanation.

“It’s the finest sight I ever saw in my life, Bross,” he said when the
other had finished. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I’ve been
feeling very low this last week, and it’s done me good. Don’t talk
nonsense about leaving the ship. I wouldn’t lose you for anything after
this, but if you like to ship a fresh mate and crew you can please
yourself. If you’ll only come up to the house and let Mrs. Pearson see
you—she’s been ailing—I’ll give you a couple of pounds. Now, get your
bonnet and come.”




THE BOATSWAIN’S WATCH


Captain Polson sat in his comfortable parlour smiling benignly upon his
daughter and sister. His ship, after an absence of eighteen months, was
once more berthed in the small harbour of Barborough, and the captain
was sitting in that state of good-natured affability which invariably
characterised his first appearance after a long absence.

“No news this end, I suppose,” he inquired, after a lengthy recital of
most extraordinarily uninteresting adventures.

“Not much,” said his sister Jane, looking nervously at her niece.
“Young Metcalfe has gone into partnership with his father.”

“I don’t want to hear about those sharks,” said the captain, waxing
red. “Tell me about honest men.”

“Joe Lewis has had a month’s imprisonment for stealing fowls,” said
Miss Polson meekly. “Mrs. Purton has had twins—dear little fellows they
are, fat as butter!—she has named one of them Polson, after you. The
greedy one.”

“Any deaths?” inquired the captain snappishly, as he eyed the innocent
lady suspiciously.

“Poor old Jasper Wheeler has gone,” said his sister; “he was very
resigned. He borrowed enough money to get a big doctor from London, and
when he heard that there was no hope for him he said he was just
longing to go, and he was sorry he couldn’t take all his dear ones with
him. Mary Hewson is married to Jack Draper, and young Metcalfe’s banns
go up for the third time next Sunday.”

“I hope he gets a Tartar,” said the vindictive captain. “Who’s the
girl? Some silly little fool, I know. She ought to be warned!”

“I don’t believe in interfering in marriages,” said his daughter
Chrissie, shaking her head sagely.

“Oh!” said the captain, staring, “_you_ don’t! Now you’ve put your hair
up and taken to wearing long frocks, I suppose you’re beginning to
think of it.”

“Yes; auntie wants to tell you something!” said his daughter, rising
and crossing the room.

“No, I don’t!” said Miss Polson hastily.

“You’d better do it,” said Chrissie, giving her a little push, “there’s
a dear; I’ll go upstairs and lock myself in my room.”

The face of the captain, whilst this conversation was passing, was a
study in suppressed emotions. He was a firm advocate for importing the
manners of the quarter-deck into private life, the only drawback being
that he had to leave behind him the language usual in that locality. To
this omission he usually ascribed his failures.

“Sit down, Chrissie,” he commanded; “sit down, Jane. Now, miss, what’s
all this about?”

“I don’t like to tell you,” said Chrissie, folding her hands in her
lap. “I know you’ll be cross. You’re so unreasonable.”

The captain stared—frightfully.

“I’m going to be married,” said Chrissie suddenly,—“there! To Jack
Metcalfe—there! So you’ll have to learn to love him. He’s going to try
and love you for my sake.” To his sister’s dismay the captain got up,
and brandishing his fists walked violently to and fro. By these simple
but unusual means decorum was preserved.

“If you were only a boy,” said the captain, when he had regained his
seat, “I should know what to do with you.”

“If I were a boy,” said Chrissie, who, having braced herself up for the
fray, meant to go through with it, “I shouldn’t want to marry Jack.
Don’t be silly, father!”

“Jane,” said the captain, in a voice which made the lady addressed
start in her chair, “what do you mean by it?”

“It isn’t my fault,” said Miss Polson feebly. “I told her how it would
be. And it was so gradual; he admired my geraniums at first, and, of
course, I was deceived. There are so many people admire my geraniums;
whether it is because the window has a south aspect”—

“Oh!” said the captain rudely, “that’ll do, Jane. If he wasn’t a
lawyer, I’d go round and break his neck. Chrissie is only nineteen, and
she’ll come for a year’s cruise with me. Perhaps the sea air’ll
strengthen her head. We’ll see who’s master in this family.”

“I’m sure I don’t want to be master,” said his daughter, taking a
weapon of fine cambric out of her pocket, and getting ready for action.
“I can’t help liking people. Auntie likes him too, don’t you, auntie?”

“Yes,” said Miss Polson bravely.

“Very good,” said the autocrat promptly, “I’ll take you both for a
cruise.”

“You’re making me very un—unhappy,” said Chrissie, burying her face in
her handkerchief.

“You’ll be more unhappy before I’ve done with you,” said the captain
grimly. “And while I think of it, I’ll step round and stop those
banns.” His daughter caught him by the arm as he was passing, and laid
her face on his sleeve. “You’ll make me look so foolish,” she wailed.

“That’ll make it easier for you to come to sea with me,” said her
father. “Don’t cry all over my sleeve. I’m going to see a parson. Run
upstairs and play with your dolls, and if you’re a good girl, I’ll
bring you in some sweets.” He put on his hat, and closing the front
door with a bang, went off to the new rector to knock two years off the
age which his daughter kept for purposes of matrimony. The rector,
grieved at such duplicity in one so young, met him more than half way,
and he came out from him smiling placidly, until his attention was
attracted by a young man on the other side of the road, who was
regarding him with manifest awkwardness.

“Good evening, Captain Polson,” he said, crossing the road.

“Oh,” said the captain, stopping, “I wanted to speak to you. I suppose
you wanted to marry my daughter while I was out of the way, to save
trouble. Just the manly thing I should have expected of you. I’ve
stopped the banns, and I’m going to take her for a voyage with me.
You’ll have to look elsewhere, my lad.”

“The ill feeling is all on your side, captain,” said Metcalfe,
reddening.

“Ill feeling!” snorted the captain. “You put me in the witness-box, and
made me a laughing-stock in the place with your silly attempts at
jokes, lost me five hundred pounds, and then try and marry my daughter
while I’m at sea. Ill feeling be hanged!”

“That was business,” said the other.

“It was,” said the captain, “and this is business too. Mine. I’ll look
after it, I’ll promise you. I think I know who’ll look silly this time.
I’d sooner see my girl in heaven than married to a rascal of a lawyer.”

“You’d want good glasses,” retorted Metcalfe, who was becoming ruffled.

“I don’t want to bandy words with you,” said the captain with dignity,
after a long pause, devoted to thinking of something worth bandying.
“You think you’re a clever fellow, but I know a cleverer. You’re quite
welcome to marry my daughter—if you can.”

He turned on his heel, and refusing to listen to any further remarks,
went on his way rejoicing. Arrived home, he lit his pipe, and throwing
himself into an armchair, related his exploits. Chrissie had recourse
to her handkerchief again, more for effect than use, but Miss Polson,
who was a tender soul, took hers out and wept unrestrainedly. At first
the captain took it well enough. It was a tribute to his power, but
when they took to sobbing one against the other, his temper rose, and
he sternly commanded silence.

“I shall be like—this—every day at sea,” sobbed Chrissie vindictively,
“only worse; making us all ridiculous.”

“Stop that noise directly!” vociferated the captain.

“We c-c-can’t,” sobbed Miss Polson.

“And we d-don’t want to,” said Chrissie. “It’s all we can do, and we’re
going to do it. You’d better g-go out and stop something else. You
can’t stop us.”

The captain took the advice and went, and in the billiard-room of the
“George” heard some news which set him thinking, and which brought him
back somewhat earlier than he had at first intended. A small group at
his gate broke up into its elements at his approach, and the captain,
following his sister and daughter into the room, sat down and eyed them
severely.

“So you’re going to run off to London to get married, are you, miss?”
he said ferociously. “Well, we’ll see. You don’t go out of my sight
until we sail, and if I catch that pettifogging lawyer round at my gate
again, I’ll break every bone in his body, mind that.”

For the next three days the captain kept his daughter under
observation, and never allowed her to stir abroad except in his
company. The evening of the third day, to his own great surprise, he
spent at a Dorcas. The company was not congenial, several of the ladies
putting their work away, and glaring frigidly at the intruder; and
though they could see clearly that he was suffering greatly, made no
attempt to put him at his ease. He was very thoughtful all the way
home, and the next day took a partner into the concern, in the shape of
his boatswain.

“You understand, Tucker,” he concluded, as the hapless seaman stood in
a cringing attitude before Chrissie, “that you never let my daughter
out of your sight. When she goes out you go with her.”

“Yessir,” said Tucker; “and suppose she tells me to go home, what am I
to do then?”

“You’re a fool,” said the captain sharply. “It doesn’t matter what she
says or does; unless you are in the same room, you are never to be more
than three yards from her.”

“Make it four, cap’n,” said the boatswain, in a broken voice.

“Three,” said the captain; “and mind, she’s artful. All girls are, and
she’ll try and give you the slip. I’ve had information given me as to
what’s going on. Whatever happens, you are not to leave her.”

“I wish you’d get somebody else, sir,” said Tucker, very respectfully.
“There’s a lot of chaps aboard that’d like the job.”

“You’re the only man I can trust,” said the captain shortly. “When I
give you orders I know they’ll be obeyed; it’s your watch now.”

He went out humming. Chrissie took up a book and sat down, utterly
ignoring the woebegone figure which stood the regulation three yards
from her, twisting its cap in its hands.

“I hope, miss,” said the boatswain, after standing patiently for
three-quarters of an hour, “as ’ow you won’t think I sought arter this
’ere little job.”

“No,” said Chrissie, without looking up.

“I’m just obeying orders,” continued the boatswain. “I always git let
in for these ’ere little jobs, somehow. The monkeys I’ve had to look
arter aboard ship would frighten you. There never was a monkey on the
_Monarch_ but what I was in charge of. That’s what a man gets through
being trustworthy.”

“Just so,” said Chrissie, putting down her book. “Well, I’m going into
the kitchen now; come along, nursie.”

“’Ere, I say, miss!” remonstrated Tucker, flushing.

“I don’t know how Susan will like you going in her kitchen,” said
Chrissie thoughtfully; “however, that’s your business.”

The unfortunate seaman followed his fair charge into the kitchen, and,
leaning against the door-post, doubled up like a limp rag before the
terrible glance of its mistress.

“Ho!” said Susan, who took the state of affairs as an insult to the sex
in general; “and what might you be wanting?”

“Cap’n’s orders,” murmured Tucker feebly.

“I’m captain here,” said Susan, confronting him with her bare arms
akimbo.

“And credit it does you,” said the boatswain, looking round admiringly.

“Is it your wish, Miss Chrissie, that this image comes and stalks into
my kitchen as if the place belongs to him?” demanded the irate Susan.

“I didn’t mean to come in in that way,” said the astonished Tucker. “I
can’t help being big.”

“I don’t want him here,” said her mistress; “what do you think I want
him for?”

“You hear that?” said Susan, pointing to the door; “now go. I don’t
want people to say that you come into this kitchen after me.”

“I’m here by the cap’n’s orders,” said Tucker faintly. “I don’t want to
be here—far from it. As for people saying that I come here after you,
them as knows me would laugh at the idea.”

“If I had my way,” said Susan, in a hard rasping voice, “I’d box your
ears for you. That’s what I’d do to you, and you can go and tell the
cap’n I said so. Spy!”

This was the first verse of the first watch, and there were many
verses. To add to his discomfort he was confined to the house, as his
charge manifested no desire to go outside, and as neither she nor her
aunt cared about the trouble of bringing him to a fit and proper state
of subjection, the task became a labour of love for the energetic
Susan. In spite of everything, however, he stuck to his guns, and the
indignant Chrissie, who was in almost hourly communication with
Metcalfe through the medium of her faithful handmaiden, was rapidly
becoming desperate.

On the fourth day, time getting short, Chrissie went on a new tack with
her keeper, and Susan, sorely against her will, had to follow suit.
Chrissie smiled at him, Susan called him Mr. Tucker, and Miss Polson
gave him a glass of her best wine. From the position of an outcast, he
jumped in one bound to that of confidential adviser. Miss Polson told
him many items of family interest, and later on in the afternoon
actually consulted him as to a bad cold which Chrissie had developed.

He prescribed half-a-pint of linseed oil hot, but Miss Polson favoured
chlorodyne. The conversation then turned on the deadly qualities of
that drug when taken in excess, of the fatal sleep in which it lulled
its victims. So disastrous were the incidents cited, that half an hour
later, when, her aunt and Susan being out, Chrissie took a small bottle
of chlorodyne from the mantel-piece, the boatswain implored her to try
his nastier but safer remedy instead.

“Nonsense!” said Chrissie, “I’m only going to take twenty
drops—one—two—three—”

The drug suddenly poured out in a little stream.

“I should think that’s about it,” said Chrissie, holding the tumbler up
to the light.

“It’s about five hundred!” said the horrified Tucker. “Don’t take that,
miss, whatever you do; let me measure it for you.”

The girl waved him away, and, before he could interfere, drank off the
contents of the glass and resumed her seat. The boatswain watched her
uneasily, and taking up the phial carefully read through the
directions. After that he was not at all surprised to see the book fall
from his charge’s hand on to the floor, and her eyes close.

“I knowed it,” said Tucker, in a profuse perspiration, “I knowed it.
Them blamed gals are all alike. Always knows what’s best. Miss Polson!
Miss Polson!”

He shook her roughly, but to no purpose, and then running to the door,
shouted eagerly for Susan. No reply forthcoming he ran to the window,
but there was nobody in sight, and he came back and stood in front of
the girl, wringing his huge hands helplessly. It was a great question
for a poor sailor-man. If he went for the doctor he deserted his post;
if he didn’t go his charge might die. He made one more attempt to
awaken her, and, seizing a flower-glass, splashed her freely with cold
water. She did not even wince.

“It’s no use fooling with it,” murmured Tucker; “I must get the doctor,
that’s all.”

He quitted the room, and, dashing hastily downstairs, had already
opened the hall door when a thought struck him, and he came back again.
Chrissie was still asleep in the chair, and, with a smile at the clever
way in which he had solved a difficulty, he stooped down, and, raising
her in his strong arms, bore her from the room and downstairs. Then a
hitch occurred. The triumphant progress was marred by the behaviour of
the hall door, which, despite his efforts, refused to be opened, and,
encumbered by his fair burden, he could not for some time ascertain the
reason. Then, full of shame that so much deceit could exist in so fair
and frail a habitation, he discovered that Miss Polson’s foot was
pressing firmly against it. Her eyes were still closed and her head
heavy, but the fact remained that one foot was acting in a manner that
was full of intelligence and guile, and when he took it away from the
door the other one took its place. By a sudden manœuvre the wily Tucker
turned his back on the door, and opened it, and, at the same moment, a
hand came to life again and dealt him a stinging slap on the face.

“Idiot!” said the indignant Chrissie, slipping from his arms and
confronting him. “How dare you take such a liberty?”

The astonished boatswain felt his face, and regarded her open-mouthed.

“Don’t you ever dare to speak to me again,” said the offended maiden,
drawing herself up with irreproachable dignity. “I am disgusted with
your conduct. Most unbearable!”

“I was carrying you off to the doctor,” said the boatswain. “How was I
to know you was only shamming?”

“_Shamming?_” said Chrissie, in tones of incredulous horror. “I was
asleep. I often go to sleep in the afternoon.”

The boatswain made no reply, except to grin with great intelligence as
he followed his charge upstairs again. He grinned at intervals until
the return of Susan and Miss Polson, who, trying to look unconcerned,
came in later on, both apparently suffering from temper, Susan
especially. Amid the sympathetic interruptions of these listeners
Chrissie recounted her experiences, while the boatswain, despite his
better sense, felt like the greatest scoundrel unhung, a feeling which
was fostered by the remarks of Susan and the chilling regards of Miss
Poison.

“I shall inform the captain,” said Miss Polson, bridling. “It’s my
duty.”

“Oh, I shall tell him,” said Chrissie. “I shall tell him the moment he
comes in at the door.”

“So shall I,” said Susan; “the idea of taking such liberties!”

Having fired this broadside, the trio watched the enemy narrowly and
anxiously.

“If I’ve done anything wrong, ladies,” said the unhappy boatswain, “I
am sorry for it. I can’t say anything fairer than that, and I’ll tell
the cap’n myself exactly how I came to do it when he comes in.”

“Pah! tell-tale!” said Susan.

“Of course, if you are here to fetch and carry,” said Miss Polson, with
withering emphasis.

“The idea of a grown man telling tales,” said Chrissie scornfully.
“Baby!”

“Why, just now you were all going to tell him yourselves,” said the
bewildered boatswain.

The two elder women rose and regarded him with looks of pitying
disdain. Miss Polson’s glance said “Fool!” plainly; Susan, a simple
child of nature, given to expressing her mind freely, said “Blockhead!”
with conviction.

“I see ’ow it is,” said the boatswain, after ruminating deeply. “Well,
I won’t split, ladies. I can see now you was all in it, and it was a
little job to get me out of the house.”

“What a head he has got,” said the irritated Susan; “isn’t it wonderful
how he thinks of it all! Nobody would think he was so clever to look at
him.”

“Still waters run deep,” said the boatswain, who was beginning to have
a high opinion of himself.

“And pride goes before a fall,” said Chrissie; “remember that, Mr.
Tucker.”

Mr. Tucker grinned, but, remembering the fable of the pitcher and the
well, pressed his superior officer that evening to relieve him from his
duties. He stated that the strain was slowly undermining a constitution
which was not so strong as appearances would warrant, and that his
knowledge of female nature was lamentably deficient on many important
points. “You’re doing very well,” said the captain, who had no
intention of attending any more Dorcases, “very well indeed; I am proud
of you.”

“It isn’t a man’s work,” objected the boatswain. “Besides, if anything
happens you’ll blame me for it.”

“Nothing can happen,” declared the captain confidently. “We shall make
a start in about four days now. You’re the only man I can trust with
such a difficult job, Tucker, and I shan’t forget you.”

“Very good,” said the other dejectedly. “I obey orders, then.”

The next day passed quietly, the members of the household making a
great fuss of Tucker, and thereby filling him with forebodings of the
worst possible nature. On the day after, when the captain, having
business at a neighbouring town, left him in sole charge, his
uneasiness could not be concealed.

“I’m going for a walk,” said Chrissie, as he sat by himself, working
out dangerous moves and the best means of checking them; “would you
care to come with me, Tucker?”

“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way, miss,” said the boatswain, as he
reached for his hat.

“I want exercise,” said Chrissie; “I’ve been cooped up long enough.”

She set off at a good pace up the High Street, attended by her faithful
follower, and passing through the small suburbs, struck out into the
country beyond. After four miles the boatswain, who was no walker,
reminded her that they had got to go back.

“Plenty of time,” said Chrissie, “we have got the day before us. Isn’t
it glorious? Do you see that milestone, Tucker? I’ll race you to it;
come along.”

She was off on the instant, with the boatswain, who suspected
treachery, after her.

“You CAN run,” she panted, thoughtfully, as she came in second; “we’ll
have another one presently. You don’t know how good it is for you,
Tucker.”

The boatswain grinned sourly and looked at her from the corner of his
eye. The next three miles passed like a horrible nightmare; his charge
making a race for every milestone, in which the labouring boatswain,
despite his want of practice, came in the winner. The fourth ended
disastrously, Chrissie limping the last ten yards, and seating herself
with a very woebegone face on the stone itself.

“You did very well, miss,” said the boatswain, who thought he could
afford to be generous. “You needn’t be offended about it.”

“It’s my ankle,” said Chrissie with a little whimper. “Oh! I twisted it
right round.”

The boatswain stood regarding her in silent consternation.

“It’s no use looking like that,” said Chrissie sharply, “you great
clumsy thing. If you hadn’t have run so hard it wouldn’t have happened.
It’s all your fault.”

“If you don’t mind leaning on me a bit,” said Tucker, “we might get
along.”

Chrissie took his arm petulantly, and they started on their return
journey, at the rate of about four hours a mile, with little cries and
gasps at every other yard.

“It’s no use,” said Chrissie as she relinquished his arm, and, limping
to the side of the road, sat down. The boatswain pricked up his ears
hopefully at the sound of approaching wheels.

“What’s the matter with the young lady?” inquired a groom who was
driving a little trap, as he pulled up and regarded with interest a
grimace of extraordinary intensity on the young lady’s face.

“Broke her ankle, I think,” said the boatswain glibly. “Which way are
you going?”

“Well, I’m going to Barborough,” said the groom; “but my guvnor’s
rather pertickler.”

“I’ll make it all right with you,” said the boatswain.

The groom hesitated a minute, and then made way for Chrissie as the
boatswain assisted her to get up beside him; then Tucker, with a grin
of satisfaction at getting a seat once more, clambered up behind, and
they started.

“Have a rug, mate,” said the groom, handing the reins to Chrissie and
passing it over; “put it round your knees and tuck the ends under you.”

“Ay, ay, mate,” said the boatswain as he obeyed the instructions.

“Are you sure you are quite comfortable?” said the groom
affectionately.

“Quite,” said the other.

The groom said no more, but in a quiet business-like fashion placed his
hands on the seaman’s broad back, and shot him out into the road. Then
he snatched up the reins and drove off at a gallop.

Without the faintest hope of winning, Mr. Tucker, who realised clearly,
appearances notwithstanding, that he had fallen into a trap, rose after
a hurried rest and started on his fifth race that morning. The prize
was only a second-rate groom with plated buttons, who was waving cheery
farewells to him with a dingy top hat; but the boatswain would have
sooner had it than a silver tea-service.

He ran as he had never ran before in his life, but all to no purpose,
the trap stopping calmly a little further on to take up another
passenger, in whose favour the groom retired to the back seat; then,
with a final wave of the hand to him, they took a road to the left and
drove rapidly out of sight. The boatswain’s watch was over.




LOW WATER


It was a calm, clear evening in late summer as the _Elizabeth Ann_, of
Pembray, scorning the expensive aid of a tug, threaded her way down the
London river under canvas. The crew were busy forward, and the master
and part-owner—a fussy little man, deeply imbued with a sense of his
own importance and cleverness—was at the wheel chatting with the mate.
While waiting for a portion of his cargo, he had passed the previous
week pleasantly enough with some relatives in Exeter, and was now in a
masterful fashion receiving a report from the mate.

“There’s one other thing,” said the mate. “I dessay you’ve noticed how
sober old Dick is to-night.”

“I kept him short o’ purpose,” said the skipper, with a satisfied air.

“Tain’t that,” said the mate. “You’ll be pleased to hear that ’im an’
Sam has been talked over by the other two, and that all your crew now,
’cept the cook, who’s still Roman Catholic, has j’ined the Salvation
Army.”

“Salvation Army!” repeated the skipper in dazed tones. “I don’t want
none o’ your gammon, Bob.”

“It’s quite right,” said the other. “You can take it from me. How it
was done I don’t know, but what I do know is, none of ’em has touched
licker for five days. They’ve all got red jerseys, an’ I hear as old
Dick preaches a hexcellent sermon. He’s red-hot on it, and t’others
follow ’im like sheep.”

“The drink’s got to his brain,” said the skipper sagely, after due
reflection. “Well, I don’t mind, so long as they behave theirselves.”

He kept silence until Woolwich was passed, and they were running along
with all sails set, and then, his curiosity being somewhat excited, he
called old Dick to him, with the amiable intention of a little banter.

“What’s this I hear about you j’ining the Salvation Army?” he asked.

“It’s quite true, sir,” said Dick. “I feel so happy, you can’t think—we
all do.”

“Glory!” said one of the other men, with enthusiastic corroboration.

“Seems like the measles,” said the skipper facetiously. “Four of you
down with it at one time!”

“It _is_ like the measles, sir,” said the old man impressively, “an’ I
only hope as you’ll catch it yourself, bad.”

“Hallelujah!” bawled the other man suddenly. “He’ll catch it.”

“Hold that noise, you, Joe!” shouted the skipper sternly. “How dare you
make that noise aboard ship?”

“He’s excited, sir,” said Dick. “It’s love for you in ’is ’eart as does
it.”

“Let him keep his love to hisself,” said the skipper churlishly.

“Ah! that’s just what we can’t do,” said Dick in high-pitched tones,
which the skipper rightly concluded to be his preaching voice. “We
can’t do it—an’ why can’t we do it? Becos we feel good, an’ we want you
to feel good too. We want to share it with you. Oh, dear friend—”

“That’s enough,” said the master of the _Elizabeth Ann_, sharply.
“Don’t you go ‘dear friending’ me. Go for’ard! Go for’ard at once!”

With a melancholy shake of his head the old man complied, and the
startled skipper turned to the mate, who was at the wheel, and
expressed his firm intention of at once stopping such behaviour on his
ship.

“You can’t do it,” said the mate firmly.

“Can’t do it?” queried the skipper.

“Not a bit of it,” said the other. “They’ve all got it bad, an’ the
more you get at ’em the wuss they’ll be. Mark my words, best let ’em
alone.”

“I’ll hold my hand a bit and watch ’em,” was the reply; “but I’ve
always been cap’n on my own ship, and I always will.”

For the next twenty-four hours he retained his sovereignty undisputed,
but on Sunday morning, after breakfast, when he was at the wheel, and
the crew below, the mate, who had been forward, came aft with a strange
grin struggling for development at the corners of his mouth.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the skipper, regarding him with some
disfavour.

“They’re all down below with their red jerseys on,” replied the mate,
still struggling, “and they’re holding a sort o’ consultation about the
lost lamb, an’ the best way o’ reaching ’is ’ard ’eart.”

“Lost lamb!” repeated the skipper unconcernedly, but carefully avoiding
the other’s eye.

“You’re the lost lamb,” said the mate, who always went straight to the
point.

“I won’t have it,” said the skipper excitably. “How dare they go on in
this way? Go and send ’em up directly.”

The mate, whistling cheerily, complied, and the four men, neatly
attired in scarlet, came on deck.

“Now, what’s all this nonsense about?” demanded the incensed man. “What
do you want?”

“We want your pore sinful soul,” said Dick with ecstasy.

“Ay, an’ we’ll have it,” said Joe, with deep conviction.

“So we will,” said the other two, closing their eyes and smiling
rapturously; “so we will.”

The skipper, alarmed, despite himself, at their confidence, turned a
startled face to the mate.

“If you could see it now,” continued Dick impressively, “you’d be
frightened at it. If you could—”

“Get to your own end of the ship,” spluttered the indignant skipper.
“Get, before I kick you there!”

“Better let Sam have a try,” said one of the other men, calmly ignoring
the fury of the master; “his efforts have been wonderfully blessed.
Come here, Sam.”

“There’s a time for everything” said Sam cautiously. “Let’s go for’ard
and do what we can for him among ourselves.”

They moved off reluctantly, Dick throwing such affectionate glances at
the skipper over his shoulders that he nearly choked with rage.

“I won’t have it!” he said fiercely; “I’ll knock it out of ’em.”

“You can’t,” said the mate. “You can’t knock sailor men about nowadays.
The only thing you can do is to get rid of ’em.”

“I don’t want to do that,” was the growling reply. “They’ve been with
me a long time, and they’re all good men. Why don’t they have a go at
you, I wonder?”

“_Me?_” said the mate, in indignant surprise. “Why, I’m a Seventh Day
Baptist! They don’t want to waste their time over me. I’m all right.”

“You’re a pretty Seventh Day Baptist, you are!” replied the skipper.
“Fust I’ve heard of it.”

“You don’t understand about such things,” said the mate.

“It must be a very easy religion,” continued the skipper.

“I don’t make a show of it, if that’s what you mean,” rejoined the
other warmly. “I’m one o’ them as believe in ’iding my light under a
bushel.”

“A pint pot ’ud do easy,” sneered the skipper. “It’s more in your line,
too.”

“Anyway, the men reckernise it,” said the mate loftily. “They don’t go
an’ sit in their red jerseys an’ hold mothers’ meetings over me.”

“I’ll knock their blessed heads off!” growled the skipper. “I’ll learn
’em to insult me!”

“It’s all for your own good,” said the other. “They mean it kindly.
Well, I wish ’em luck.”

With these hardy words he retired, leaving a seething volcano to pace
the deck, and think over ways and means of once more reducing his crew
to what he considered a fit and proper state of obedience and respect.

The climax was reached at tea-time, when an anonymous hand was thrust
beneath the skylight, and a full-bodied tract fluttered wildly down and
upset his tea.

“That’s the last straw!” he roared, fishing out the tract and throwing
it on the floor. “I’ll read them chaps a lesson they won’t forget in a
hurry, and put a little money in my pocket at the same time. I’ve got a
little plan in my ’ed as come to me quite sudden this afternoon. Come
on deck, Bob.”

Bob obeyed, grinning, and the skipper, taking the wheel from Sam, sent
him for the others.

“Did you ever know me break my word, Dick?” he inquired abruptly, as
they shuffled up.

“Never,” said Dick.

“Cap’n Bowers’ word is better than another man’s oath,” asseverated
Joe.

“Well,” said Captain Bowers, with a wink at the mate, “I’m going to
give you chaps a little self-denial week all to yourselves. If you all
live on biscuit and water till we get to port, and don’t touch nothing
else, I’ll jine you and become a Salvationist.”

“Biscuit and water,” said Dick doubtfully, scratching a beard strong
enough to scratch back.

“It wouldn’t be right to play with our constitooshuns in that way,
sir,” objected Joe, shaking his head.

“There you are,” said Bowers, turning to the mate with a wave of his
hand. “They’re precious anxious about me so long as it’s confined to
jawing, and dropping tracts into my tea, but when it comes to a little
hardship on their part, see how they back out of it.”

“We ain’t backing out of it,” said Dick cautiously; “but s’pose we do,
how are we to be certain as you’ll jine us?”

“You’ve got my word for it,” said the other, “an’ the mate an’ cook
witness it.”

“O’ course, you jine the Army for good, sir,” said Dick, still
doubtfully.

“O’ course.”

“Then it’s a bargain, sir,” said Dick, beaming; “ain’t it, chaps?”

“Ay, ay,” said the others, but not beaming quite so much. “Oh, what a
joyful day this is!” said the old man. “A Salvation crew an’ a
Salvation cap’n! We’ll have the cook next, bad as he is.”

“You’ll have biskit an’ water,” said the cook icily, as they moved off,
“an’ nothing else, I’ll take care.”

“They must be uncommon fond o’ me,” said the skipper meditatively.

“Uncommon fond o’ having their own way,” growled the mate. “Nice thing
you’ve let yourself in for.”

“I know what I’m about,” was the confident reply.

“You ain’t going to let them idiots fast for a week an’ then break your
word?” said the mate in surprise.

“Certainly not,” said the other wrathfully; “I’d sooner jine three
armies than do that, and you know it.”

“They’ll keep to the grub, don’t you fear,” said the mate. “I can’t
understand how you are going to manage it.”

“That’s where the brains come in,” retorted the skipper, somewhat
arrogantly.

“Fust time I’ve heard of ’em,” murmured the mate softly; “but I s’pose
you’ve been using pint pots too.”

The skipper glared at him scornfully, but, being unprovided with a
retort, forbore to reply, and going below again mixed himself a stiff
glass of grog, and drank success to his scheme.

Three days passed, and the men stood firm, and, realising that they
were slowly undermining the skipper’s convictions, made no effort to
carry him by direct assault. The mate made no attempt to conceal his
opinion of his superior’s peril, and in gloomy terms strove to put the
full horror of his position before him.

“What your missis’ll say the first time she sees you prancing up an’
down the road tapping a tambourine, I can’t think,” said he.

“I shan’t have no tambourine,” said Captain Bowers cheerfully.

“It’ll also be your painful dooty to stand outside your father-in-law’s
pub and try and persuade customers not to go in,” continued Bob. “Nice
thing that for a quiet family!”

The skipper smiled knowingly, and, rolling a cigar in his mouth, leaned
back in his seat and cocked his eye at the skylight.

“Don’t you worry, my lad,” said he; “don’t you worry. I’m in this job,
an’ I’m coming out on top. When men forget what’s due to their betters,
and preach to ’em, they’ve got to be taught what’s what. If the wind
keeps fair we ought to be home by Sunday night or Monday morning.”

The other nodded.

“Now, you keep your eyes open,” said the skipper; and, going to his
state-room, he returned with three bottles of rum and a corkscrew, all
of which, with an air of great mystery, he placed on the table, and
then smiled at the mate. The mate smiled too.

“What’s this?” inquired the skipper, drawing the cork, and holding a
bottle under the other’s nose.

“It smells like rum,” said the mate, glancing round, possibly for a
glass.

“It’s for the men,” said the skipper, “but you may take a drop.”

The mate, taking down a glass, helped himself liberally, and, having
made sure of it, sympathetically, but politely, expressed his firm
opinion that the men would not touch it under any conditions whatever.

“You don’t quite understand how firm they are,” said he; “you think
it’s just a new fad with ’em, but it ain’t.”

“They’ll drink it,” said the skipper, taking up two of the bottles.
“Bring the other on deck for me.”

The mate complied, wonderingly, and, laden with prime old Jamaica,
ascended the steps.

“What’s this?” inquired the skipper, crossing over to Dick, and holding
out a bottle.

“Pison, sir,” said Dick promptly.

“Have a drop,” said the skipper jovially.

“Not for twenty pounds,” said the old man, with a look of horror.

“Not for two million pounds,” said Sam, with financial precision.

“Will anybody have a drop?” asked the owner, waving the bottle to and
fro.

As he spoke a grimy paw shot out from behind him, and, before he quite
realised the situation, the cook had accepted the invitation, and was
hurriedly making the most of it.

“Not you,” growled the skipper, snatching the bottle from him; “I
didn’t mean you. Well, my lads, if you won’t have it neat you shall
have it watered.”

Before anybody could guess his intention he walked to the water-cask,
and, removing the cover, poured in the rum. In the midst of a profound
silence he emptied the three bottles, and then, with a triumphant
smile, turned and confronted his astonished crew.

“What’s in that cask, Dick?” he asked quietly.

“Rum and water,” groaned Dick; “but that ain’t fair play, sir. We’ve
kep’ to our part o’ the agreement, sir, an’ you ought to ha’ kep’ to
yours.”

“So I have,” was the quick reply; “so I have, an’ I still keep to it.
Don’t you see this, my lads; when you start playing antics with me
you’re playing a fool’s game, an’ you’re bound to come a cropper. Some
men would ha’ waited longer afore they spiled their game, but I think
you’ve suffered enough. Now there’s a lump of beef and some taters on,
an’ you’d better go and make a good square meal, an’ next time you want
to alter the religion of people as knows better than you do, think
twice.”

“We don’t want no beef, sir; biskit’ll do for us,” said Dick firmly.

“All right, please yourselves,” said the skipper; “but mind, no
hanky-panky, no coming for drink when my back’s turned; this cask’ll be
watched; but if you do alter your mind about the beef you can tell the
cook to get it for you any time you like.”

He threw the bottles overboard, and, ignoring the groaning and
head-shaking of the men, walked away, listening with avidity to the
respectful tributes to his genius tendered by the mate and
cook—flattery so delicate and so genuine withal that he opened another
bottle.

“There’s just one thing,” said the mate presently; “won’t the rum
affect the cooking a good deal?”

“I never thought o’ that,” admitted the skipper; “still, we musn’t
expect to have everything our own way.”

“No, no,” said the mate blankly, admiring the other’s choice of
pronouns.

Up to Friday afternoon the skipper went about with a smile of kindly
satisfaction on his face; but in the evening it weakened somewhat, and
by Saturday morning it had vanished altogether, and was replaced by an
expression of blank amazement and anxiety, for the crew shunned the
water cask as though it were poison, without appearing to suffer the
slightest inconvenience. A visible air of proprietorship appeared on
their faces whenever they looked at the skipper, and the now frightened
man inveighed fiercely to the mate against the improper methods of
conversion patronised by some religious bodies, and the aggravating
obstinacy of some of their followers.

“It’s wonderful what enthusiasm’ll do for a man,” said Bob
reflectively; “I knew a man once—”

“I don’t want none o’ your lies,” interposed the other rudely.

“An’ I don’t want your blamed rum and water, if it comes to that,” said
the mate, firing up. “When a man’s tea is made with rum, an’ his beef
is biled in it, he begins to wonder whether he’s shipped with a seaman
or a—a—”

“A what?” shouted the skipper. “Say it!”

“I can’t think o’ nothing foolish enough,” was the frank reply. “It’s
all right for you, becos it’s the last licker as you’ll be allowed to
taste, but it’s rough on me and the cook.”

“Damn you an’ the cook,” said the skipper, and went on deck to see
whether the men’s tongues were hanging out.

By Sunday morning he was frantic; the men were hale and well enough,
though, perhaps, a trifle thin, and he began to believe with the cook
that the age of miracles had not yet passed.

It was a broiling hot day, and, to add to his discomfort, the mate, who
was consumed by a raging thirst, lay panting in the shade of the
mainsail, exchanging condolences of a most offensive nature with the
cook every time he looked his way.

All the morning he grumbled incessantly, until at length, warned by an
offensive smell of rum that dinner was on the table, he got up and went
below.

At the foot of the ladder he paused abruptly, for the skipper was
leaning back in his seat, gazing in a fascinated manner at some object
on the table.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the mate in alarm.

The other, who did not appear to hear the question, made no answer, but
continued to stare in a most extraordinary fashion at a bottle which
graced the centre of the table.

“What is it?” inquired the mate, not venturing to trust his eyes.
“_Water?_ Where did it come from?”

“Cook!” roared the skipper, turning a bloodshot eye on that worthy, as
his pallid face showed behind the mate, “what’s this? If you say it’s
water I’ll kill you.”

“I don’t know what it is, sir,” said the cook cautiously; “but Dick
sent it to you with his best respects, and I was to say as there’s
plenty more where that came from. He’s a nasty, under’anded, deceitful
old man, is Dick, sir, an’ it seems he laid in a stock o’ water in
bottles an’ the like afore you doctored the cask, an’ the men have had
it locked up in their chests ever since.”

“Dick’s a very clever old man,” remarked the mate, pouring himself out
a glass, and drinking it with infinite relish, “ain’t he, cap’n? It’ll
be a privilege to jine anything that man’s connected with, won’t it?”

He paused for a reply, but none came, for the cap’n, with dim eyes, was
staring blankly into a future so lonely and uncongenial that he had
lost the power of speech—even of that which, at other crises, had never
failed to afford him relief. The mate gazed at him curiously for a
moment, and then, imitating the example of the cook, quitted the cabin.




IN MID-ATLANTIC


No, sir,” said the night-watchman, as he took a seat on a post at the
end of the jetty, and stowed a huge piece of tobacco in his cheek. “No,
man an’ boy, I was at sea forty years afore I took on this job, but I
can’t say as ever I saw a real, downright ghost.”

This was disappointing, and I said so. Previous experience of the power
of Bill’s vision had led me to expect something very different.

“Not but what I’ve known some queer things happen,” said Bill, fixing
his eyes on the Surrey side, and going off into a kind of trance.
“Queer things.”

I waited patiently; Bill’s eyes, after resting for some time on Surrey,
began to slowly cross the river, paused midway in reasonable hopes of a
collision between a tug with its flotilla of barges and a penny
steamer, and then came back to me.

“You heard that yarn old Cap’n Harris was telling the other day about
the skipper he knew having a warning one night to alter his course, an’
doing so, picked up five live men and three dead skeletons in a open
boat?” he inquired.

I nodded.

“The yarn in various forms is an old one,” said I.

“It’s all founded on something I told him once,” said Bill. “I don’t
wish to accuse Cap’n Harris of taking another man’s true story an’
spoiling it; he’s got a bad memory, that’s all. Fust of all, he forgets
he ever heard the yarn; secondly, he goes and spoils it.”

I gave a sympathetic murmur. Harris was as truthful an old man as ever
breathed, but his tales were terribly restricted by this circumstance,
whereas Bill’s were limited by nothing but his own imagination.

“It was about fifteen years ago now,” began Bill, getting the quid into
a bye-way of his cheek, where it would not impede his utterance. “I was
A. B. on the _Swallow_, a barque, trading wherever we could pick up
stuff. On this v’y’ge we was bound from London to Jamaica with a
general cargo.

“The start of that v’y’ge was excellent. We was towed out of the St.
Katherine’s Docks here, to the Nore, an’ the tug left us to a stiff
breeze, which fairly raced us down Channel and out into the Atlantic.
Everybody was saying what a fine v’y’ge we was having, an’ what quick
time we should make, an’ the fust mate was in such a lovely temper that
you might do anything with him a’most.

“We was about ten days out, an’ still slipping along in this spanking
way, when all of a sudden things changed. I was at the wheel with the
second mate one night, when the skipper, whose name was Brown, came up
from below in a uneasy sort o’ fashion, and stood looking at us for
some time without speaking. Then at last he sort o’ makes up his mind,
and ses he—

“‘Mr. McMillan, I’ve just had a most remarkable experience, an’ I don’t
know what to do about it.’

“‘Yes, sir?’ ses Mr. McMillan.

“‘Three times I’ve been woke up this night by something shouting in my
ear, “Steer nor’-nor’-west!”’ ses the cap’n very solemnly, ‘“Steer
nor’-nor’-west!”’ that’s all it says. The first time I thought it was
somebody got into my cabin skylarking, and I laid for ’em with a stick
but I’ve heard it three times, an’ there’s nothing there.’

“‘It’s a supernatural warning,’ ses the second mate, who had a great
uncle once who had the second sight, and was the most unpopular man of
his family, because he always knew what to expect, and laid his plans
according.

“‘That’s what I think,’ ses the cap’n. ‘There’s some poor shipwrecked
fellow creatures in distress.”

“‘It’s a verra grave responsebeelity,’ ses Mr. McMillan. ‘I should just
ca’ up the fairst mate.’

“‘Bill,’ ses the cap’n, ‘just go down below, and tell Mr. Salmon I’d
like a few words with him partikler.’

“Well, I went down below, and called up the first mate, and as soon as
I’d explained to him what he was wanted for, he went right off into a
fit of outrageous bad language, an’ hit me. He came right up on deck in
his pants an’ socks. A most disrespekful way to come to the cap’n, but
he was that hot and excited he didn’t care what he did.

“‘Mr. Salmon,’ ses the cap’n gravely, ‘I’ve just had a most solemn
warning, and I want to—’

“‘I know,’ says the mate gruffly.

“‘What! have you heard it too?’ ses the cap’n, in surprise. ‘Three
times?’ “I heard it from him,’ ses the mate, pointing to me.
‘Nightmare, sir, nightmare.’

“‘It was not nightmare, sir,’ ses the cap’n, very huffy, ‘an if I hear
it again, I’m going to alter this ship’s course.’

“Well, the fust mate was in a hole. He wanted to call the skipper
something which he knew wasn’t discipline. I knew what it was, an’ I
knew if the mate didn’t do something he’d be ill, he was that sort of
man, everything flew to his head. He walked away, and put his head over
the side for a bit, an’ at last, when he came back, he was,
comparatively speaking, calm.

“‘You mustn’t hear them words again, sir,’ ses he; ‘don’t go to sleep
again to-night. Stay up, an’ we’ll have a hand o’ cards, and in the
morning you take a good stiff dose o’ rhoobarb. Don’t spoil one o’ the
best trips we’ve ever had for the sake of a pennyworth of rhoobarb,’
ses he, pleading-like.

“‘Mr. Salmon,’ ses the cap’n, very angry, ‘I shall not fly in the face
o’ Providence in any such way. I shall sleep as usual, an’ as for your
rhoobarb,’ ses the cap’n, working hisself up into a passion—’damme,
sir, I’ll—I’ll dose the whole crew with it, from first mate to
cabin-boy, if I have any impertinence.’

“Well, Mr. Salmon, who was getting very mad, stalks down below,
followed by the cap’n, an’ Mr. McMillan was that excited that he even
started talking to me about it. Half-an-hour arterwards the cap’n comes
running up on deck again.

“‘Mr. McMillan,’ ses he excitedly, ‘steer nor’-nor’-west until further
orders. I’ve heard it again, an’ this time it nearly split the drum of
my ear.’

“The ship’s course was altered, an’ after the old man was satisfied he
went back to bed again, an’ almost directly arter eight bells went, an’
I was relieved. I wasn’t on deck when the fust mate come up, but those
that were said he took it very calm. He didn’t say a word. He just sat
down on the poop, and blew his cheeks out.

“As soon as ever it was daylight the skipper was on deck with his
glasses. He sent men up to the masthead to keep a good look-out, an’ he
was dancing about like a cat on hot bricks all the morning.

“‘How long are we to go on this course, sir?’ asks Mr. Salmon, about
ten o’clock in the morning.

“‘I’ve not made up my mind, sir,’ ses the cap’n, very stately; but I
could see he was looking a trifle foolish.

“At twelve o’clock in the day, the fust mate got a cough, and every
time he coughed it seemed to act upon the skipper, and make him madder
and madder. Now that it was broad daylight, Mr. McMillan didn’t seem to
be so creepy as the night before, an’ I could see the cap’n was only
waiting for the slightest excuse to get into our proper course again.

“‘That’s a nasty, bad cough o’ yours, Mr. Salmon,’ ses he, eyeing the
mate very hard.

“‘Yes, a nasty, irritating sort o’ cough, sir,’ ses the other; ‘it
worries me a great deal. It’s this going up nor’ards what’s sticking in
my throat,’ ses he.

“The cap’n give a gulp, and walked off, but he comes back in a minute,
and ses he—

“‘Mr. Salmon, I should think it a great pity to lose a valuable officer
like yourself, even to do good to others. There’s a hard ring about
that cough I don’t like, an’ if you really think it’s going up this bit
north, why, I don’t mind putting the ship in her course again.’

“Well, the mate thanked him kindly, and he was just about to give the
orders when one o’ the men who was at the masthead suddenly shouts out—

“‘Ahoy! Small boat on the port bow!’

“The cap’n started as if he’d been shot, and ran up the rigging with
his glasses. He came down again almost direckly, and his face was all
in a glow with pleasure and excitement.

“‘Mr. Salmon,’ ses he, ‘here’s a small boat with a lug sail in the
middle o’ the Atlantic, with one pore man lying in the bottom of her.
What do you think o’ my warning now?’

“The mate didn’t say anything at first, but he took the glasses and had
a look, an’ when he came back anyone could see his opinion of the
skipper had gone up miles and miles.

“‘It’s a wonderful thing, sir,’ ses he, ‘and one I’ll remember all my
life. It’s evident that you’ve been picked out as a instrument to do
this good work.’

“I’d never heard the fust mate talk like that afore, ’cept once when he
fell overboard, when he was full, and stuck in the Thames mud. He said
it was Providence; though, as it was low water, according to the
tide-table, I couldn’t see what Providence had to do with it myself. He
was as excited as anybody, and took the wheel himself, and put the
ship’s head for the boat, and as she came closer, our boat was slung
out, and me and the second mate and three other men dropped into her,
an’ pulled so as to meet the other.

“‘Never mind the boat; we don’t want to be bothered with her,’ shouts
out the cap’n as we pulled away—‘Save the man!’

“I’ll say this for Mr. McMillan, he steered that boat beautifully, and
we ran alongside o’ the other as clever as possible. Two of us shipped
our oars, and gripped her tight, and then we saw that she was just an
ordinary boat, partly decked in, with the head and shoulders of a man
showing in the opening, fast asleep, and snoring like thunder.

“‘Puir chap,’ ses Mr. McMillan, standing up. ‘Look how wasted he is.’

“He laid hold o’ the man by the neck of his coat an’ his belt, an’,
being a very powerful man, dragged him up and swung him into our boat,
which was bobbing up and down, and grating against the side of the
other. We let go then, an’ the man we’d rescued opened his eyes as Mr.
McMillan tumbled over one of the thwarts with him, and, letting off a
roar like a bull, tried to jump back into his boat.

“‘Hold him!’ shouted the second mate. ‘Hold him tight! He’s mad, puir
feller.’

“By the way that man fought and yelled, we thought the mate was right,
too. He was a short, stiff chap, hard as iron, and he bit and kicked
and swore for all he was worth, until at last we tripped him up and
tumbled him into the bottom of the boat, and held him there with his
head hanging back over a thwart.

“‘It’s all right, my puir feller,’ ses the second mate; ‘ye’re in good
hands—ye’re saved.’

“‘Damme!’ ses the man; ‘what’s your little game? Where’s my boat—eh?
Where’s my boat?’

“He wriggled a bit, and got his head up, and, when he saw it bowling
along two or three hundred yards away, his temper got the better of
him, and he swore that if Mr. McMillan didn’t row after it he’d knife
him.

“‘We can’t bother about the boat,’ ses the mate; ‘we’ve had enough
bother to rescue you.’

“‘Who the devil wanted you to rescue me?’ bellowed the man. ‘I’ll make
you pay for this, you miserable swabs. If there’s any law in Amurrica,
you shall have it!’

“By this time we had got to the ship, which had shortened sail, and the
cap’n was standing by the side, looking down upon the stranger with a
big, kind smile which nearly sent him crazy.

“‘Welcome aboard, my pore feller,’ ses he, holding out his hand as the
chap got up the side.

“‘Are you the author of this outrage?’ ses the man fiercely. “‘I don’t
understand you,’ ses the cap’n, very dignified, and drawing himself up.

“‘Did you send your chaps to sneak me out o’ my boat while I was having
forty winks?’ roars the other. ‘Damme! that’s English, ain’t it?’

“‘Surely,’ ses the cap’n, ‘surely you didn’t wish to be left to perish
in that little craft. I had a supernatural warning to steer this course
on purpose to pick you up, and this is your gratitude.’

“‘Look here!’ ses the other. ‘My name’s Cap’n Naskett, and I’m doing a
record trip from New York to Liverpool in the smallest boat that has
ever crossed the Atlantic, an’ you go an’ bust everything with your
cussed officiousness. If you think I’m going to be kidnapped just to
fulfil your beastly warnings, you’ve made a mistake. I’ll have the law
on you, that’s what I’ll do. Kidnapping’s a punishable offence.’

“‘What did you come here for, then?’ ses the cap’n.

“‘Come!’ howls Cap’n Naskett. ‘Come! A feller sneaks up alongside o’ me
with a boat-load of street-sweepings dressed as sailors, and snaps me
up while I’m asleep, and you ask me what I come for. Look here. You
clap on all sail and catch that boat o’ mine, and put me back, and I’ll
call it quits. If you don’t, I’ll bring a law-suit agin you, and make
you the laughing-stock of two continents into the bargain.’

“Well, to make the best of a bad bargain, the cap’n sailed after the
cussed little boat, and Mr. Salmon, who thought more than enough time
had been lost already, fell foul o’ Cap’n Naskett. They was both pretty
talkers, and the way they went on was a education for every sailorman
afloat. Every man aboard got as near as they durst to listen to them;
but I must say Cap’n Naskett had the best of it. He was a sarkastik
man, and pretended to think the ship was fitted out just to pick up
shipwrecked people, an’ he also pretended to think we was castaways
what had been saved by it. He said o’ course anybody could see at a
glance we wasn’t sailormen, an’ he supposed Mr. Salmon was a butcher
what had been carried out to sea while paddling at Margate to
strengthen his ankles. He said a lot more of this sort of thing, and
all this time we was chasing his miserable little boat, an’ he was
admiring the way she sailed, while the fust mate was answering his
reflexshuns, an’ I’m sure that not even our skipper was more pleased
than Mr. Salmon when we caught it at last, and shoved him back. He was
ungrateful up to the last, an’, just before leaving the ship, actually
went up to Cap’n Brown, and advised him to shut his eyes an’ turn round
three times and catch what he could.

“I never saw the skipper so upset afore, but I heard him tell Mr.
McMillan that night that if he ever went out of his way again after a
craft, it would only be to run it down. Most people keep pretty quiet
about supernatural things that happen to them, but he was about the
quietest I ever heard of, an’, what’s more, he made everyone else keep
quiet about it, too. Even when he had to steer nor’-nor’-west arter
that in the way o’ business he didn’t like it, an’ he was about the
most cruelly disappointed man you ever saw when he heard afterwards
that Cap’n Naskett got safe to Liverpool.”




AFTER THE INQUEST


It was a still fair evening in late summer in the parish of Wapping.
The hands had long since left, and the night watchman having abandoned
his trust in favour of a neighbouring bar, the wharf was deserted.

An elderly seaman came to the gate and paused irresolute, then, seeing
all was quiet, stole cautiously on to the jetty, and stood for some
time gazing curiously down on to the deck of the billy-boy _Psyche_
lying alongside.

With the exception of the mate, who, since the lamented disappearance
of its late master and owner, was acting as captain, the deck was as
deserted as the wharf. He was smoking an evening pipe in all the pride
of a first command, his eye roving fondly from the blunt bows and
untidy deck of his craft to her clumsy stern, when a slight cough from
the man above attracted his attention.

“How do, George?” said the man on the jetty, somewhat sheepishly, as
the other looked up.

The mate opened his mouth, and his pipe fell from it and smashed to
pieces unnoticed.

“Got much stuff in her this trip?” continued the man, with an obvious
attempt to appear at ease.

“The mate, still looking up, backed slowly to the other side of the
deck, but made no reply.

“What’s the matter, man?” said the other testily. “You don’t seem
overpleased to see me.”

He leaned over as he spoke, and, laying hold of the rigging, descended
to the deck, while the mate took his breath in short, exhilarating
gasps.

“Here I am, George,” said the intruder, “turned up l

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