Chapter IV: Part 4

“There’s something up with you, Zacky,” said Tweedie, eyeing him closely as he bit the end off a cigar; “you’ve got something on your mind.”

“I’ve been crool hurt,” said his friend in a hard, cold voice. “My word ain’t good enough for the new guv’nor; he wants what he calls a disbursement sheet.”

“Well, give him one,” said Tweedie. “You know what it is, don’t you?”

Captain Fazackerly shook his head, and pushing the glasses along the counter nodded for them to be refilled.

“You come aboard with me,” said Tweedie after they had emptied them.

Captain Fazackerly, who had a doglike faith in his friend, followed him into the street and on to his barque. In a general way he experienced a social rise when he entered the commodious cabin of that noble craft, and his face grew in importance as his host, after motioning him to a seat, placed a select array of writing materials before him.

“I s’pose I’ve got to do it,” he said slowly.

“Of course you have,” said Tweedie, rolling his cigar between his thin lips; “you’ve got orders to do so, haven’t you? We must all obey those above us. What would you do if one of your men refused to obey an order of yours?”

“Hit him in the face,” said Captain Fazackerly with simple directness.

“Just so,” said Tweedie, who was always ready to impart moral teaching. “And when your governor asks for a disbursement sheet you’ve got to give him one. Now, then, head that paper—Voyage of the _Sarah Ann_, 180 tons register, Garston Docks to Limerick.”

The captain squared his elbows, and, for a few seconds, nothing was heard but his stertorous breathing and the scratching of the pen; then a muttered execration, and Captain Fazackerly put down his pen with a woe-begone air.

“What’s the matter?” said Tweedie.

“I’ve spelt register without the ‘d.’” said the other; “that’s what comes o’ being worried.”

“It don’t matter,” said Tweedie hastily. “Now what about stores? Wait a bit though; of course ye repaired your side-lamps before starting?”

“Lor’, no!” said Captain Fazackerly, staring; “what for? They were all right.”

“Ye lie,” said Tweedie sternly, “you did! To repairs to side-lamps, ten shillings. Now then, did you paint her this trip?”

“I did,” said the other, looking at the last entry in a fascinated fashion.

“Let’s see,” said Tweedie meditatively—“we’ll say five gallons of black varnish at one shilling and threepence a gallon——”

“No, no,” said the scribe; “I used gas tar at threepence a gallon.”

“Five gallons black varnish, one shilling and threepence a gallon, six-and-threepence,” said Tweedie, raising his voice a little; “have you got that down?”

After a prolonged struggle with his feelings the other said he had.

“Twenty-eight pounds black paint at twopence a pound,” continued Tweedie.

“Nay, nay,” said the skipper; “I allus saves the soot out of the galley for that.”

The other captain took his cigar from his lips and gazed severely at his guest.

“Am I dealing with a chimney-sweep or a ship’s captain?” he inquired plaintively; “it would simplify matters a bit if I knew.”

“Go on, Captain Tweedie,” said the other, turning a fine purple colour; “how much did you say it was?”

“Twenty-eight twos equals fifty-six; that’s four-and-ninepence,” continued Tweedie, his face relaxing to receive the cigar again; “and twenty-eight pounds white lead at twenty-eight shillings a hundredweight——”

“Three penn’orth o’ whiting’s good enough for me, matey,” said Captain Fazackerly, making a stand.

“See here,” said Tweedie, “who’s making out this disbursement sheet, you or me?”

“You are,” said the other.

“Very good then,” said his friend; “now don’t you interrupt. I don’t mind telling you, you must never use rubbish o’ that sort in a disbursement sheet. It looks bad for the firm. If any other owners saw that in your old man’s sheet he’d never hear the end of it, and he’d never forgive you. That’ll be—what did I say? Seven shillings. And now we come to the voyage. Ye had a tug to give ye a pluck out to the bar.”

“No; we went out with a fair wind,” said Captain Fazackerly, toying with his pen.

“Ye lie; ye had a tug out to the bar,” repeated Tweedie wearily. “Did ye share the towing?”

“Why, no, I tell’e——”

“That’ll be three pounds then,” said Tweedie.

“If ye’d shared it it would have been two pound ten. You should always study your owner in these matters, cap’n. Now, what about bad weather? Any repairs to the sails?”

“Ay, we had a lot o’ damage,” said Fazackerly, laying down his pen; “it took us days to repair ’em. Cost us four pounds. We had to put into Holyhead for shelter.”

“Four pounds,” said Tweedie, his voice rising almost to a scream.

“Ay, all that,” said Fazackerly very solemnly.

“Look here,” said Tweedie in a choked voice. “Blown away fore lower topsail, forestaysail, and carried away lifts to staysail. To sailmaker for above, eleven pounds eighteen shillings and ten-pence. Then ye say ye put into Holyhead for shelter. Well, here in entering harbor we’ll say loss of port anchor and thirty fathoms of chain cable——”

“Man alive,” said the overwrought skipper, hitting the table heavily with his fist, “the old anchor’s there for him to see.”

“To divers recovering same, and placing on deck, two pound ten,” continued Tweedie, raising his voice. “Did you do any damage going into dock at Limerick?”

“More than we’ve done for years,” said Fazackerly, and shaking his head, entered into voluminous details; “total, seven pounds.”

“Seven pounds,” said the exasperated Tweedie. “Seven pounds for all that, and your insurance don’t begin till twenty-five pounds. Why, damme, you ain’t fit to be trusted out with a ship. I firmly b’lieve if you lost her you’d send in a bill for a suit of clothes, and call it square. Now take this down, and larn a business way o’ doing things. In entering dock, carried away starboard cathead and started starboard chain plates; held survey of damage done: decided to take off channel bends, renew through bolts, straighten plates and replace same; also to renew cathead and caulk ship’s side in wake of plate, six seams, etc., etc. There, now, that looks better. Twenty-seven pounds eighteen and sevenpence halfpenny, and I think, for all that damage, it’s a very reasonable bill. Can you remember anything else?”

“You’ve got a better memory than I have,” said his admiring friend. “Wait a bit though; yes, I had my poor old dog washed overboard.”

“Dog!” said the deep-sea man; “we can’t put dogs in a disbursement sheet. ’Tain’t business.”

“My old master would have given me another one, though,” grumbled Fazackerly. “I wouldn’t ha’ parted with that dog for anything. He knew as much as you or me, that dog did. I never knew him to bite an officer, but I don’t think there was ever a man came on the ship but what he’d have a bit out of, sooner or later.”

“Them sort of dogs do get washed overboard,” said Tweedie impatiently.

“Boys he couldn’t abear,” pursued the other, in tones of tender reminiscence; “the mere sight of a boarding-school of ’em out for a walk would give him hydrophoby almost.”

“Just so,” said Tweedie. “Ah! there’s cork fenders; ye may pick them up floating down the river, or they may come aboard in the night from a craft alongside; they’re changeable sort o’ things, but in the disbursement sheet they must go, and best quality too, four-and-sixpence each. Any thing else?”

“There’s the dog,” said Fazackerly persistently.

“Copper nails, tenpence,” said Tweedie the dictator.

“Haven’t bought any for months,” said the other, but slowly entering it.

“Well, it ain’t exactly right,” said Tweedie, shrugging his shoulders, “but you’re so set on him going in.”

“Him? Who?” asked Captain Fazackerly, staring.

“The dog,” said Tweedie; “if he goes in as copper nails, he won’t be noticed.”

“If he goes in as tenpence, I’m a Dutchman,” said the bereaved owner, scoring out the copper nails. “You never knew that dog properly, Tweedie.”

“Well, never mind about the dog,” said Tweedie; “let’s cast the sheet. What do you think it comes to?”

“‘Bout thirty pun’,” hazarded the other.

“Thirty fiddlesticks,” retorted Tweedie; “there you are in black and white—sixty-three pounds eighteen shillings and tenpence ha’penny.”

“And is that what Mas’r Edward wants?” inquired Captain Fazackerly gasping.

“Yes; that’s a properly drawn up disbursement sheet,” said Tweedie in satisfied tones. “You see how it simplifies matters. The governor can see at a glance how things stand, while, if you trusted to your memory, you might forget something, or else claim something you didn’t have.”

“I ought to have had them things afore,” said Captain Fazackerly, shaking his head solemnly. “I’d ha’ been riding in my carriage by now.”

“Never ye dream of having another vy’ge without one,” said Tweedie. “I doubt whether it’s lawful to render an account without one.”

He folded the paper, and handed it to his friend, who, after inspecting it with considerable pride, tucked it carefully away in his breast pocket.

“Take it up in the morning,” said Tweedie. “We’ll have a bit o’ tea down here, and then we’ll go round a bit afterwards.”

Captain Fazackerly having no objection, they had tea first, and then, accompanied by the first mate, went out to christen the disbursement sheet. The ceremony, which was of great length, was solemnly impressive towards the finish. Captain Tweedie, who possessed a very sensitive, highly-strung nature, finding it necessary to put a licensed victualler out of his own house before it could be completed to his satisfaction.

The one thing which Captain Fazackerly remembered clearly the next morning when he awoke was the disbursement sheet. He propped It against the coffee-pot during breakfast, and read selections to his admiring mate, and after a refreshing toilet, proceeded to the office. Simmons was already there, and before the skipper could get to the purpose of his visit, the head of the firm arrived.

“I’ve just brought the disbursement sheet you asked for, sir,” said the skipper, drawing it from his pocket.

“Ah! you’ve got it then,” said the new governor, with a gracious smile; “you see it wasn’t so much trouble after all.”

“I don’t mind the trouble, sir,” interrupted Captain Fazackerly.

“You see it puts things on a better footing,” said the other. “I can see at a glance now how things stand, and Simmons can enter the items straight away into the books of the firm. It’s more satisfactory to both of us. Sit down, cap’n.”

The captain sat down, his face glowing with this satisfactory recognition of his work.

“I met Cap’n Hargreaves as I was a-coming up,” he said; “and I explained to him your ideas on the subject, an’ he went straight back, as straight as he could go, to make out _his_ disbursement sheet.”

“Ah! we shall soon have things on a better footing now,” said the governor, unfolding the paper, while the skipper gazed abstractedly through the small, dirty panes of the office window at the bustle on the quay below.

For a short space there was silence in the office, broken only by the half-audible interjections of the reader. Then he spoke.

“Simmons!” he said sharply.

The old clerk slipped from his stool, and obeying the motions of his employer, inspected, in great astonishment, the first disbursement sheet which had ever entered the office. He read through every item in an astonished whisper, and, having finished, followed the governor’s example and gazed at the heavy figure by the window.

“Captain Fazackerly,” said his employer, at length, breaking a painful silence.

“Sir,” said the captain, turning his head a little.

“I’ve been talking with Simmons about these disbursement sheets,” said the owner, somewhat awkwardly; “Simmons is afraid they’ll give him a lot of extra trouble.”

The captain turned his head a little more, and gazed stolidly at the astonished Simmons.

“A man oughtn’t to mind a little extra trouble if the firm wishes it,” he said, somewhat severely.

“He’s afraid it would throw his books out a bit,” continued the owner, deftly avoiding the gaze of the injured clerk. “You see, Simmons’ bookkeeping is of the old-fashioned kind, cap’n, starfishes and all that kind of thing,” he continued, incoherently, as the gaze of Simmons, refusing to be longer avoided, broke the thread of his discourse. “So I think we’ll put the paper on the fire, cap’n, and do business in the old way. Have you got the money with you?”

“I have, sir,” said Fazackerly, feeling in his pocket, as he mournfully watched his last night’s work blazing up the chimney.

“Fire away, then,” said the owner, almost cordially.

Captain Fazackerly advanced to the table, and clearing his throat, fixed his eyes in a reflective stare on the opposite wall, and commenced:—

“Blown away fore lower topsail, fore-staysail, and carried away lifts to staysail. To sailmaker for above, eleven pounds eighteen shillings and tenpence,” he said, with relish. “Tug out to the bar, three pounds. To twenty-eight pounds black soot, I mean paint——”

RULE OF THREE

The long summer day had gone and twilight was just merging into night. A ray of light from the lantern at the end of the quay went trembling across the sea, and in the little harbour the dusky shapes of a few small craft lay motionless on the dark water.

The master of the schooner _Harebell_ came slowly towards the harbour, accompanied by his mate. Both men had provided ashore for a voyage which included no intoxicants, and the dignity of the skipper, always a salient feature, had developed tremendously under the influence of brown stout. He stepped aboard his schooner importantly, and then, turning to the mate, who was about to follow, suddenly held up his hand for silence.

“What did I tell you?” he inquired severely as the mate got quietly aboard.

“About knocking down the two policemen?” guessed the mate, somewhat puzzled.

“No,” said the other shortly. “Listen.”

The mate listened. From the fo’c’s’le came the low, gruff voices of men, broken by the silvery ripple of women’s laughter.

“Well, I’m a Dutchman,” said the mate with the air of one who felt he was expected to say something.

“After all I said to ’em,” said the skipper with weary dignity. “You ’eard what I said to ’em, Jack?”

“Nobody could ha’ swore louder,” testified the mate.

“An’ here they are,” said the skipper in amaze, “defying of me. After all I said to ’em. After all the threats I—I employed.”

“Employed,” repeated the mate with relish.

“They’ve been and gone and asked them females down the fo’c’s’le again. You know what I said I’d do, Jack, if they did.”

“Said you’d eat ’em without salt,” quoted the other helpfully.

“I’ll do worse than that, Jack,” said the skipper after a moment’s discomfiture. “What’s to hinder us casting off quietly and taking them along with us?”

“If you ask me,” said the mate, “I should say you couldn’t please the crew better.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said the other, nodding sagely; “don’t make no noise, Jack.”

He set an example of silence himself, and aided by the mate, cast off the warps which held his unconscious visitors to their native town, and the wind being off the shore, the little schooner drifted silently away from the quay. The skipper went to the wheel, and the noise of the mate hauling on the jib brought a rough head out of the fo’c’s’le, the owner of which, after a cry to his mates below, sprang up on deck and looked round in bewilderment.

“Stand by, there!” cried the skipper as the others came rushing on deck, “Shake ’em out.”

“Beggin’ your pardin’, sir,” said one of them with more politeness in his tones than he had ever used before, “but———”

“Stand by!” said the skipper.

“Now then!” shouted the mate sharply, “lively there! Lively with it!”

The men looked at each other helplessly and went to their posts as a scream of dismay arose from the fair beings below who, having just begun to realise their position, were coming on deck to try and improve it.

“What!” roared the skipper in pretended astonishment, “what! gells aboard after all I said, It can’t be; I must be dreaming!”

“Take us back!” wailed the damsels, ignoring the sarcasm, “take us back, captain.”

“No, I can’t go back,” said the skipper. “You see what comes o’ disobedience, my gells. Lively there on that mains’l, d’ye hear?”

“We won’t do it again,” cried the girls, as the schooner came to the mouth of the harbour and they smelt the dark sea beyond. “Take us back.”

“It can’t be done,” said the skipper cheerfully.

“It’s agin the lor, sir,” said Ephraim Biddle solemnly.

“What! Taking my own ship out?” said the skipper in affected surprise. “How was I to know they were there? I’m not going back; ’tain’t likely. As they’ve made their beds so they must lay on ’em.”

“They ain’t got no beds,” said George Scott hastily. “It ain’t fair to punish the gals for us, sir.”

“Hold your tongue,” said the skipper sharply.

“It’s agin the lor, sir,” said Biddle again. “If so be they’re passengers, this ship ain’t licensed to carry passengers. If so be as they’re took out agin their will, it’s abduction—I see the other day a chap had seven years for abducting one gal, three sevens—three sevens is—three sevens is, well, it’s more years than you’d like to be in prison, sir.”

“Bosh,” said the skipper, “they’re stowaways, an’ I shall put ’em ashore at the first port we touch at—Plymouth.”

A heartrending series of screams from the stow-aways rounded his sentence, screams which gave way to sustained sobbing, as the schooner, catching the wind, began to move through the water.

“You’d better get below, my gals,” said Biddle, who was the eldest member of the crew, consolingly.

“Why don’t you make him take us back?” said Jenny Evans, the biggest of the three girls, indignantly.

“’Cos we can’t, my dear,” said Biddle reluctantly; “it’s agin the lor. You don’t want to see us put into prison, do you?”

“I don’t mind,” said Miss Evans tearfully, “so long as we get back. George, take us back.”

“I can’t,” said Scott sullenly.

“Well, you can look for somebody else, then,” said Miss Evans with temper. “You won’t marry me. How much would you get if you did make the skipper put back?”

“Very likely six months,” said Biddle solemnly.

“Six months would soon pass away,” said Miss Evans briskly, as she wiped her eye.

“It would be a rest,” said Miss Williams coaxingly.

The men not seeing things in quite the same light, they announced their intention of having nothing more to do with them, and crowding together in the bows beneath two or three blankets, condoled tearfully with each other on their misfortunes. For some time the men stood by offering clumsy consolations, but tired at last of repeated rebuffs and insults went below and turned in, leaving the satisfied skipper at the wheel.

The night was clear and the wind light. As the effects of his libations wore off the skipper had some misgivings as to the wisdom of his action, but it was too late to return, and he resolved to carry on.

Looking at all the circumstances of the case he thought it best to keep the wheel in his own hands for a time, and the dawn came in the early hours and found him still at his post.

Objects began to stand out clearly in the grow-ing light, and three dispirited girls put their heads out from the blankets and sniffed disdainfully at the sharp morning air. Then after an animated discussion they arose, and casting their blankets aside, walked up to the skipper and eyed him thoughtfully.

“As easy as easy,” said Jenny Evans confidently, as she drew herself up to her full height, and looked down at the indignant man.

“Why, he isn’t any bigger than a boy,” said Miss Williams savagely.

“Pity we didn’t think of it before,” said Miss Davies. “I s’pose the crew won’t help him?”

“Not they,” said Miss Evans scornfully. “If they do, we’ll serve them the same.”

They went off, leaving the skipper a prey to gathering uneasiness, watching their movements with wrinkled brow. From the forecastle and the galley they produced two mops and a broom, and he caught his breath sharply as Miss Evans came on deck with a pot of white paint in one hand and a pot of tar in the other.

“Now, girls,” said Miss Evans.

“Put those things down,” said the skipper in a peremptory voice.

“Sha’n’t,” said Miss Evans bluntly. “You haven’t got enough on yours,” she said, turning to Miss Davies. “Don’t spoil the skipper for a ha’porth of tar.”

At this new version of an old saw they laughed joyously, and with mops dripping tar and paint on the deck, marched in military style up to the skipper, and halted in front of him, smiling wickedly.

Then the heart of the skipper waxed sore faint within him, and, with a wild yell, he summoned the trusty crew to his side.

The crew came on deck slowly, and casting furtive glances at the scene, pushed Ephraim Biddle to the front.

“Take those mops away from ’em,” said the skipper haughtily.

“Don’t you interfere,” said Miss Evans, looking at them over her shoulder.

“Else we’ll give you some,” said Miss Williams bloodthirstily.

“Take those mops away from ’em!” bawled the skipper, instinctively drawing back as Miss Evans made a pass at him.

“I don’t see as ’ow we can interfere, sir,” said Biddle with deep respect.

“_What!_” said the astonished skipper.

“It would be agin the lor for us to interfere with people,” said Biddle, turning to his mates, “dead agin the lor.”

“Don’t you talk rubbish,” said the skipper anxiously. “Take ’em away from ’em. It’s my tar and my paint, and——”

“You shall have it,” said Miss Evans reassuringly.

“If we touched ’em,” said Biddle impressively, “it’d be an assault at lor. ’Sides which, they’d probably muss us up with ’em All we can do, sir, is to stand by and see fair play.”

“Fair play!” cried the skipper dancing with rage, and turning hastily to the mate, who had just come on the scene. “Take those things away from ’em, Jack.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you,” said the mate, “I’d rather not be drawn into it.”

“But I’d rather you were,” said the skipper sharply. “Take ’em away.”

“How?” inquired the mate pertinently.

“I order you to take ’em away,” said the skipper. “How, is your affair.”

“I’m not goin’ to raise my hand against a woman for anybody,” said the mate with decision. “It’s no part o’ my work to get messed up with tar and paint from lady passengers.”

“It’s part of your work to obey me, though,” said the skipper, raising his voice; “all of you. There’s five of you, with the mate, and only three gells. What are you afraid of?”

“Are you going to take us back?” demanded Jenny Evans.

“Run away,” said the skipper with dignity. “Run away.”

“I shall ask you three times,” said Miss Evans sternly. “One—are you going back? Two—are you going back? Three———”

In the midst of a breathless silence she drew within striking distance, while her allies taking up a position on either flank of the enemy, listened attentively to the instructions of their leader.

“Be careful he doesn’t catch hold of the mops,” said Miss Evans, “but if he does the others are to hit him over the head with the handles. Never mind about hurting him.”

“Take this wheel a minnit, Jack,” said the skipper, pale but determined.

The mate came forward and took it unwillingly, and the skipper, trying hard to conceal his trepidation, walked towards Miss Evans and tried to quell her with his eye. The power of the human eye is notorious, and Miss Evans showed her sense of the danger she ran by making an energetic attempt to close the skipper’s with her mop, causing him to duck with amazing nimbleness. At the same moment another mop loaded with white paint was pushed into the back of his neck. He turned with a cry of rage, and then realising the odds against him flung his dignity to the winds and dodged with the agility of a schoolboy. Through the galley and round the masts with the avenging mops in mad pursuit, until breathless and exhausted he suddenly sprang on to the side and climbed frantically into the rigging.

“Coward!” said Miss Evans, shaking her weapon at him.

“Come down,” cried Miss Williams. “Come down like a man.”

“It’s no good wasting time over _him_,” said Miss Evans, after another vain appeal to the skipper’s manhood. “He’s escaped. Get some more stuff on your mops.”

The mate, who had been laughing boisterously, checked himself suddenly, and assumed a gravity of demeanour more in accordance with his position. The mops were dipped in solemn silence, and Miss Evans approaching regarded him significantly.

“Now, my dears,” said the mate, waving his hand with a deprecating gesture, “don’t be silly.”

“Don’t be _what?_” inquired the sensitive Miss Evans raising her mop.

“You know what I mean,” said the mate hastily. “I can’t help myself.”

“Well, we’re going to help you,” said Miss Evans. “Turn the ship round.”

“You obey orders, Jack,” cried the skipper from aloft.

“It’s all very well for you sitting up there in peace and comfort,” said the mate indignantly. “I’m not going to be tarred to please you. Come down and take charge of your ship.”

“Do your duty, Jack,” said the skipper, who was polishing his face with a handkerchief. “They won’t touch you. They daren’t. They’re afraid to.”

“You’re egging ’em on,” cried the mate wrath-fully. “I won’t steer; come and take it yourself.”

He darted behind the wheel as Miss Evans, who was getting impatient, made a thrust at him, and then, springing out, gained the side and rushed up the rigging after his captain. Biddle, who was standing close by, gazed earnestly at them and took the wheel.

“You won’t hurt old Biddle, I know,” he said, trying to speak confidently.

“Of course not,” said Miss Evans emphatically.

“Tar don’t hurt,” explained Miss Williams.

“It’s good for you,” said the third lady positively. “One—two———”

“It’s no good,” said the mate as Ephraim came suddenly into the rigging; “you’ll have to give in.

“I’m—— if I will,” said the infuriated skipper.

Then an idea occurred to him, and puckering his face shrewdly he began to descend.

“All right,” he said shortly, as Miss Evans advanced to receive him. “I’ll go back.”

He took the wheel; the schooner came round before the wind, and the willing crew, letting the sheets go, hauled them in again on the port side.

“And now, my lads,” said the skipper with a benevolent smile, “just clear that mess up off the decks, and you may as well pitch them mops overboard. They’ll never be any good again.”

He spoke carelessly, albeit his voice trembled a little, but his heart sank within him as Miss Evans, with a horrible contortion of her pretty face, intended for a wink, waved them back.

“You stay where you are,” she said imperiously, “we’ll throw them overboard—when we’ve done with them. What did you say, Captain?”

The skipper was about to repeat it with great readiness when Miss Evans raised her trusty mop. The words died away on his lips, and after a hopeless glance from his mate to the crew and from the crew to the rigging, he accepted his defeat, and in grim silence took them home again.

PICKLED HERRING

There was a sudden uproar on deck, and angry shouts accompanied by an incessant barking; the master of the brig _Arethusa_ stopped with his knife midway to his mouth, and exchanging glances with the mate, put it down and rose to his feet.

“They’re chevying that poor animal again,” he said hotly. “It’s scandalous.”

“Rupert can take care of himself,” said the mate calmly, continuing his meal. “I expect, if the truth’s known, it’s him’s been doin’ the chevying.”

“You’re as bad as the rest of ’em,” said the skipper angrily, as a large brown retriever came bounding into the cabin. “Poor old Rube! what have they been doin’ to you?”

The dog, with a satisfied air, sat down panting by his chair, listening quietly to the subdued hub-bub which sounded from the companion.

“Well, what is it?” roared the skipper, patting his favourite’s head.

“It’s that blasted dawg, sir,” cried an angry voice from above. “Go down and show ’im your leg, Joe.”

“An ’ave another lump took out of it, I s’pose,” said another voice sourly. “Not me.”

“I don’t want to look at no legs while I’m at dinner,” cried the skipper. “O’ course the dog’ll bite you if you’ve been teasing him.”

“There’s nobody been teasing ’im,” said the angry voice again. “That’s the second one ’e’s bit, and now Joe’s goin’ to have ’im killed—ain’t you, Joe?”

Joe’s reply was not audible, although the infuriated skipper was straining his ears to catch it.

“Who’s going to have the dog killed?” he demanded, going up on deck, while Rupert, who evidently thought he had an interest in the proceedings, followed unobtrusively behind.

“I am, sir,” said Joe Bates, who was sitting on the hatch while the cook bathed an ugly wound in his leg. “A dog’s only allowed one bite, and he’s ’ad two this week.”

“He bit me on Monday,” said the seaman who had spoken before. “Now he’s done for hisself.”

“Hold your tongue!” said the skipper angrily. “You think you know a lot about the law, Sam Clark; let me tell you a dog’s entitled to have as many bites as ever he likes, so as he don’t bite the same person twice.”

“That ain’t the way I’ve ’eard it put afore,” said Clark, somewhat taken back.

“He’s the cutest dog breathing,” said the skipper fondly, “and he knows all about it. He won’t bite either of you again.”

“And wot about them as ’asn’t been bit yet, sir?” inquired the cook.

“Don’t halloo before you’re hurt,” advised the skipper. “If you don’t tease him he won’t bite you.”

He went down to his dinner, followed by the sagacious Rupert, leaving the hands to go forward again, and to mutinously discuss a situation which was becoming unbearable.

“It can’t go on no longer, Joe,” said Clark firmly; “this settles it.”

“Where is the stuff?” inquired the cook in a whisper.

“In my chest,” said Clark softly. “I bought It the night he bit me.”

“It’s a risky thing to do,” said Bates.

“’Ow risky?” asked Sam scornfully. “The dog eats the stuff and dies. Who’s going to say what he died of? As for suspicions, let the old man suspect as much as he likes. It ain’t proof.”

The stronger mind had its way, as usual, and the next day the skipper, coming quietly on deck, was just in time to see Joe Bates throw down a fine fat bloater in front of the now amiable Rupert. He covered the distance between himself and the dog in three bounds, and seizing it by the neck, tore the fish from its eager jaws and held it aloft.

“I just caught ’im in the act!” he cried, as the mate came on deck. “What did you give that to my dog for?” he inquired of the conscience stricken Bates.

“I wanted to make friends with him,” stammered the other.

“It’s poisoned, you rascal, and you know it,” said the skipper vehemently.

“Wish I may die, sir,” began Joe.

“That’ll do,” said the skipper harshly. “You’ve tried to poison my dog.”

“I ain’t,” said Joe firmly.

“You ain’t been trying to kill ’im with a poisoned bloater?” demanded the skipper.

“Certainly not, sir,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t do such a thing. I couldn’t if I tried.”

“Very good then,” said the skipper; “if it’s all right you eat it, and I’ll beg your pardon.”

“I ain’t goin’ to eat after a dog,” said Joe, shuffling.

“The dog’s as clean as you are,” said the skipper. “I’d sooner eat after him than you.”

“Well, you eat it then, sir,” said Bates desperately. “If it’s poisoned you’ll die, and I’ll be hung for it. I can’t say no fairer than that, can I?”

There was a slight murmur from the men, who stood by watching the skipper with an air of unholy expectancy.

“Well, the boy shall eat it then,” said the skipper, “Eat that bloater, boy, and I’ll give you sixpence.”

The boy came forward slowly, and looking from the men to the skipper, and from the skipper back to the men, began to whimper.

“If you think it’s poisoned,” interrupted the mate, “you oughtn’t to make the boy eat it. I don’t like boys, but you must draw the line somewhere.”

“It’s poisoned,” said the skipper, shaking it at Bates, “and they know it. Well, I’ll keep it till we get to port, and then I’ll have it analysed. And it’ll be a sorry day for you, Bates, when I hear it’s poisoned. A month’s hard labour is what you’ll get.”

He turned away and went below with as much dignity as could be expected of a man carrying a mangled herring, and placing it on a clean plate, solemnly locked it up in his state-room.

For two days the crew heard no more about it, though the skipper’s eyes gleamed dangerously each time that they fell upon the shrinking Bates. The weather was almost tropical, with not an air stirring, and the _Arethusa_, bearing its dread secret still locked in its state-room, rose and fell upon a sea of glassy smoothness without making any progress worth recording.

“I wish you’d keep that thing in your berth, George,” said the skipper, as they sat at tea the second evening; “it puts me in a passion every time I look at it.”

“I couldn’t think of it, cap’n,” replied the mate firmly; “it makes me angry enough as it is. Every time I think of ’em trying to poison that poor dumb creature I sort o’ choke. I try to forget it.”

The skipper, eyeing him furtively, helped himself to another cup of tea.

“You haven’t got a tin box with a lid to it, I s’pose?” he remarked somewhat shamefacedly.

The mate shook his head. “I looked for one this morning,” he said. “There ain’t so much as a bottle aboard we could shove it into, and it wants shoving into something—bad, it does.”

“I don’t like to be beat,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “All them grinning monkeys for’ard ’ud think it a rare good joke. I’d throw it overboard if it wasn’t for that. We can’t keep it this weather.”

“Well, look ’ere; ’ere’s a way out of it,” said the mate. “Call Joe down, and make him keep it in the fo’c’s’le and take care of it.”

“Why, you idiot, he’d lose it!” rapped out the other impatiently.

“O’ course he would,” said the mate; “but that’s the most dignerified way out of it for you. You can call ’im all sorts of things, and abuse ’im for the rest of his life. They’ll prove themselves guilty by chucking it away, won’t they?”

It really seemed the only thing to be done. The skipper finished his tea in silence, and then going on deck called the crew aft and apprised them of his intentions, threatening them with all sorts of pains and penalties if the treasure about to be confided to their keeping should be lost. The cook was sent below for it, and, at the skipper’s bidding, handed it to the grinning Joe.

“And mind,” said the skipper as he turned away, “I leave it in your keepin’, and if it’s missing I shall understand that you’ve made away with it, and I shall take it as a sign of guilt, and act according.”

The end came sooner even than he expected. They were at breakfast next morning when Joe, looking somewhat pale, came down to the cabin, followed by Clark, bearing before him an empty plate.

“Well?” said the skipper fiercely.

“It’s about the ’erring, sir,” said Joe, twisting his cap between his hands.

“Well?” roared the skipper again.

“It’s gone, sir,” said Joe, in bereaved accents.

“You mean you’ve thrown it away, you infernal rascal!” bellowed the skipper.

“No, sir,” said Joe.

“Ah! I s’pose it walked up on deck and jumped overboard,” said the mate.

“No, sir,” said Joe softly. “The dog ate it, sir.”

The skipper swung round in his seat and regarded him open-mouthed.

“The—dog—ate—it?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir; Clark saw ’im do it—didn’t you, Clark?”

“I did,” said Clark promptly. He had made his position doubly sure by throwing it overboard himself.

“It comes to the same thing, sir,” said Joe sanctimoniously; “my innercence is proved just the same. You’ll find the dog won’t take no ’urt through it, sir. You watch ’im.”

The skipper breathed hard, but made no reply.

“If you don’t believe me, sir, p’r’aps you’d like to see the plate where ’e licked it?” said Joe. “Give me the plate, Sam.”

He turned to take it, but in place of handing it to him that useful witness dropped it and made hurriedly for the companion-ladder, and by strenuous efforts reached the deck before Joe, although that veracious gentleman, assisted from below by strong and willing arms, made a good second.

TWO OF A TRADE

“’E’s a nero, that’s wot ’e is, sir,” said the cook, as he emptied a boiler of dirty water overboard.

“A what?” said the skipper.

“A nero,” said the cook, speaking very slowly and distinctly. “A nero in real life, a chap wot, speaking for all for’ard, we’re proud to have aboard along with us.”

“I didn’t know he was much of a swimmer,” said the skipper, glancing curiously at a clumsily built man of middle age, who sat on the hatch glancing despondently at the side.

“No more ’e ain’t,” said the cook, “an’ that’s what makes ’im more ’eroish still in my own opinion.”

“Did he take his clothes off?” inquired the mate.

“Not a bit of it,” said the delighted cook; “not a pair of trowsis, nor even ’is ’at, which was sunk.”

“You’re a liar, cook,” said the hero, looking up for a moment.

“You didn’t take your trowsis off, George?” said the cook anxiously.

“I chucked my ’at on the pavement,” growled George, without looking up.

“Well, anyway, you went over the embankment after that pore girl like a Briton, didn’t you?” said the other.

There was no reply.

“Didn’t you?” said the cook appealingly.

“Did you expect me to go over like a Dutchman, or wot?” demanded George fiercely.

“That’s ’is modesty,” said the cook, turning to the others with the air of a showman. “’E can’t bear us to talk about it. Nearly drownded ’e was. All but, and a barge came along and shoved a boat-hook right through the seat of his trowsis an’ saved ’im. Stand up an’ show ’em your trowsis, George.”

“If I do stand up,” said George, in a voice broken with rage, “it’ll be a bad day for you, my lad.”

“_Ain’t_ he modest?” said the cook. “Don’t it do you good to ’ear ’im. He was just like that when they got him ashore and the crowd started patting him.”

“Didn’t like it?” queried the mate.

“Well, they overdid it a little, p’r’aps,” admitted the cook; “one old chap wot couldn’t get near patted ’is ’ead with ’is stick, but it was all meant in the way of kindness.”

“I’m proud of you, George,” said the skipper heartily.

“We all are,” said the mate.

George grunted.

“I’ll write for the medal for him,” said the skipper. “Were there any witnesses, cook?”

“Heaps of ’em,” said the other; “but I gave ’em ’is name and address. ‘Schooner _John Henry_, of Limehouse, is ’is home,’ I ses, and George Cooper ’is name’.”

“You talked a damned sight too much,” said the hero, “you lean, lop-sided son of a tinker.”

“Theres ’is modesty ag’in,” said the cook, with a knowing smile. “’E’s busting with modesty, is George. You should ha’ seen ’im when a chap took ’is fortygraph.”

“Took his what?” said the skipper, becoming Interested.

“His fortygraph,” said the cook. “’E was a young chap what was taking views for a noose-paper. ’E took George drippin’ wet just as ’e come out of the water, ’e took him arter ’e ’ad ’is face wiped, an’ ’e took ’im when ’e was sitting up swearing at a man wot asked ’im whether ’e was very wet.”

“An’ you told ’im where I lived, and what I was,” said George, turning on him and shaking his fist. “You did.”

“I did,” said the cook simply. “You’ll live to thank me for it, George.”

The other gave a dreadful howl, and rising from the deck, walked forward and went below, giving a brother seaman who patted his shoulder as he passed a blow in the ribs, which nearly broke them. Those on deck exchanged glances.

“Well, I don’t know,” said the mate, shrugging his shoulders; “seems to me if I’d saved a fellow-critter’s life I shouldn’t mind hearing about it.”

“That’s what you think,” said the skipper, drawing himself up a little. “If ever you do do anything of the kind perhaps you’ll feel different about it.”

“Well, I don’t see how you should know any more than me,” said the other.

The skipper cleared his throat.

“There have been one or two little things in my life which I’m not exactly ashamed of,” he said modestly.

“That ain’t much to boast of,” said the mate, wilfully misunderstanding him.

“I mean,” said the skipper sharply, “one or two things which some people might have been proud of. But I’m proud to say that there isn’t a living soul knows of ’em.”

“I can quite believe that,” assented the mate, and walked off with an irritating smile.

The skipper was about to follow him, to complain of the needless ambiguity of his remarks, when he was arrested by a disturbance from the fo’c’sle. In response to the cordial invitation of the cook, the mate and one of the hands from the brig _Endeavour_, moored alongside, had come aboard and gone below to look at George. The manner in which they were received was a slur upon the hospitality of the _John Henry_; and they came up hurriedly, declaring that they never wanted to see him again as long as they lived, and shouting offensive remarks behind them as they got over the side of their own vessel.

The skipper walked slowly to the fo’c’sle and put his head down.

“George,” he shouted.

“Sir,” said the hero gruffly.

“Come down into the cabin,” said the other, turning away. “I want to have a little talk with you.”

George rose, and, first uttering some terrible threats against the cook, who bore them with noble fortitude, went on deck and followed the skipper to the cabin.

At his superior’s request he took a seat on the locker, awkwardly enough, but smiled faintly as the skipper produced a bottle and a couple of glasses.

“Your health, George,” said the skipper, as he pushed a glass towards him and raised his own.

“My bes’ respec’s, sir,” said George, allowing the liquor to roll slowly round his mouth before swallowing it. He sighed heavily, and, putting his empty glass on the table, allowed his huge head to roll on his chest.

“Saving life don’t seem to agree with you, George,” said the skipper. “I like modesty, but you seem to me to carry it a trifle too far.”

“It ain’t modesty, sir,” said George; “it’s that fortygraph. When I think o’ that I go ’ot all over.”

“I shouldn’t let that worry me if I was you, George,” said the other kindly. “Looks ain’t everything.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” said George very sourly. “My looks is good enough for me. In fact, it is a partly owing to my looks, so to speak, that I’m in a mess.”

“A little more rum, George?” said the skipper, whose curiosity was roused. “I don’t want to know your business, far from it. But in my position as cap’n, if any of my crew gets in a mess I consider it’s my duty to lend them a hand out of it, if I can.”

“The world ’ud be a better place if there was more like you,” said George, waxing sentimental as he sniffed delicately at the fragrant beverage. “If that noosepaper, with them pictures, gets into a certain party’s ’ands, I’m ruined.”

“Not if I can help it, George,” said the skipper with great firmness. “How do you mean ruined?”

The seaman set his glass down on the little table, and, leaning over, formed a word with his lips, and then drew back slowly and watched the effect.

“What?” said the skipper.

The other repeated the performance, but beyond seeing that some word of three syllables was indicated the skipper obtained no information.

“You can speak a little louder,” he said, somewhat crustily.

“Bigamy!” said George, breathing the word solemnly.

“You?” said the skipper.

George nodded. “And if my first only gets hold of that paper, and sees my phiz and reads my name, I’m done for. There’s my reward for saving a fellow-critter’s life. Seven years.”

“I’m surprised at you, George,” said the skipper sternly. “Such a good wife as you’ve got too.”

“I ain’t saying nothing agin number two,” grumbled George. “It’s number one that didn’t suit, I left her eight years ago. She was a bad ’un I took a v’y’ge to Australia furst, just to put her out o’ my mind a bit, an’ I never seed her since. Where am I if she sees all about me in the paper!”

“Is she what you’d call a vindictive woman?” inquired the other. “Nasty-tempered, I mean.”

“Nasty-tempered,” echoed the husband of two. “If that woman could only have me put in jail she’d stand on ’er ’ead for joy.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can for you if the worst comes to the worst,” said the skipper. “You’d better not say anything about this to anybody else.”

“Not me,” said George fervently, as he rose, “an’ o’ course you———”

“You can rely on me,” said the skipper in his most stately fashion.

He thought of the seaman’s confidence several times during the evening, and, being somewhat uncertain of the law as to bigamy, sought information from the master of the _Endeavour_ as they sat in the latter’s cabin at a quiet game of cribbage. By virtue of several appearances in the law courts with regard to collisions and spoilt cargoes this gentleman had obtained a knowledge of law which made him a recognized authority from London Bridge to the Nore.

It was a delicate matter for the master of the _John Henry_ to broach, and, with the laudable desire of keeping the hero’s secret, he approached it by a most circuitous route. He began with a burglary, followed with an attempted murder, and finally got on the subject of bigamy, _via_ the “Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill.”

“What sort o’ bigamy?” inquired the master of the brig.

“Oh, two wives,” said Captain Thomsett.

“Yes, yes,” said the other, “but are there any mitigating circumstances in the case, so that you could throw yourself on the mercy o’ the court, I mean?”

“_My_ case!” said Thomsett, glaring. “It ain’t for me.”

“Oh, no, o’ course not,” said Captain Stubbs.

“What do you mean by ‘o’ course not’?” demanded the indignant master of the _John Henry_.

“Your deal,” said Captain Stubbs, pushing the cards over to him.

“You haven’t answered my question,” said Captain Thomsett, regarding him offensively.

“There’s some questions,” said Stubbs slowly, “as is best left unanswered. When you’ve seen as much law as I have, my lad, you’ll know that one of the first principles of English law is, that nobody is bound to commit themselves.”

“Do you mean to say you think it _is_ me?” bellowed Captain Thomsett.

“I mean to say nothing,” said Captain Stubbs, putting his huge hands on the table. “But when a man comes into my cabin and begins to hum an’ haw an’ hint at things, and then begins to ask my advice about bigamy, I can’t help thinking. This is a free country, and there’s no law ag’in thinking. Make a clean breast of it, cap’n, an I’ll do what I can for you.”

“You’re a blanked fool,” said Captain Thomsett wrathfully.

Captain Stubbs shook his head gently, and smiled with infinite patience. “P’r’aps so,” he said modestly. “P’r’aps so; but there’s one thing I can do, and that is, I can read people.”

“You can read me, I s’pose?” said Thomsett sneeringly.

“Easy, my lad,” said the other, still preserving, though by an obvious effort, his appearance of judicial calm. “I’ve seen your sort before. One in pertikler I call to mind. He’s doing fourteen years now, pore chap. But you needn’t be alarmed, cap’n. Your secret is safe enough with me.”

Captain Thomsett got up and pranced up and down the cabin, but Captain Stubbs remained calm. He had seen _that_ sort before. It was interesting to the student of human nature, and he regarded his visitor with an air of compassionate interest. Then Captain Thomsett resumed his seat, and, to preserve his own fair fame, betrayed that of George.

“I knew it was either you, or somebody your kind ’art was interested in,” said the discomfited Stubbs, as they resumed the interrupted game. “You can’t help your face, cap’n. When you was thinking about that pore chap’s danger it was working with emotion. It misled me, I own it, but it ain’t often I meet such a feeling ’art as yours.”

Captain Thomsett, his eyes glowing affectionately, gripped his friend’s hand, and in the course of the game listened to an exposition of the law relating to bigamy of a most masterly and complicated nature, seasoned with anecdotes calculated to make the hardiest of men pause on the brink of matrimony and think seriously of their position.

“Suppose this woman comes aboard after pore George,” said Thomsett. “What’s the best thing to be done?”

“The first thing,” said Captain Stubbs, “is to gain time. Put her off.”

“Off the ship, d’ye mean?” inquired the other.

“No, no,” said the jurist. “Pretend he’s ill and can’t see anybody. By gum, I’ve got it.”

He slapped the table with his open hand, and regarded the other triumphantly.

“Let him turn into his bunk and pretend to be dead,” he continued, in a voice trembling with pride at his strategy. “It’s pretty dark down your fo’c’sle, I know. Don’t have no light down there, and tell him to keep quiet.”

Captain Thomsett’s eyes shone, but with a qualified admiration.

“Ain’t it somewhat sudden?” he demurred.

Captain Stubbs regarded him with a look of supreme artfulness, and slowly closed one eye.

“He got a chill going in the water,” he said quietly.

“Well, you’re a masterpiece,” said Thomsett ungrudgingly. “I will say this of you, you’re a masterpiece. Mind this is all to be kept quite secret.”

“Make your mind easy,” said the eminent jurist.

“If I told all I know there’s a good many men in this river as ’ud be doing time at the present moment.”

Captain Thomsett expressed his pleasure at this information, and, having tried in vain to obtain a few of their names, even going so far as to suggest some, looked at the clock, and, shaking hands, departed to his own ship. Captain Stubbs, left to himself, finished his pipe and retired to rest; and his mate, who had been lying in the adjoining bunk during the consultation, vainly trying to get to sleep, scratched his head, and tried to think of a little strategy himself. He had glimmerings of it before he fell asleep, but when he awoke next morning it flashed before him in all the fulness of its matured beauty.

He went on deck smiling, and, leaning his arms on the side, gazed contemplatively at George, who was sitting on the deck listening darkly to the cook as that worthy read aloud from a newspaper.

“Anything interesting, cook?” demanded the mate.

“About George, sir,” said the cook, stopping in his reading. “There’s pictures of ’im too.”

He crossed to the side, and, handing the paper to the mate, listened smilingly to the little ejaculations of surprise and delight of that deceitful man as he gazed upon the likenesses. “Wonderful,” he said emphatically. “Wonderful. I never saw such a good likeness in my life, George. That’ll be copied in every newspaper in London, and here’s the name in full too—‘George Cooper, schooner _John Henry_, now lying off Limehouse.’”

He handed the paper back to the cook and turned away grinning as George, unable to control himself any longer, got up with an oath and went below to nurse his wrath in silence. A little later the mate of the brig, after a very confidential chat with his own crew, lit his pipe and, with a jaunty air, went ashore.