Chapter IV: Part 4

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 like a bad penny, an’ glad to see your handsome face again, I can tell you.”

In response to this flattering remark George gurgled.