Chapter II: Part 2

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.