THE CABIN OF THE SCHOONER
Jack Harvey stood at the foot of the companionway, for a moment, looking
into the cabin, before he entered. There was a lamp burning dimly,
fastened into a socket in a support that extended from the centre-board
box to the ceiling. Its light sufficed for Harvey to see but vaguely at
first, owing to a cloud of tobacco smoke that filled the stuffy cabin. It
was warm there, however, for the cook-stove in the galley threw its
comforting heat beyond the limits of that small place; and the warmth was
decidedly agreeable to one coming in from the evening air.
Harvey entered and stood, waiting for his new acquaintance to join him.
He could see objects soon more plainly. He perceived that the person who
was emitting the volumes of smoke was a short, thick-set man, who was
occupying one of the two wooden chairs that the cabin afforded. He was
huddled all up in a heap, with his head submerged below the collar of his
thick overcoat, out of which rim the smoke ascended, as though from the
crater of a tiny volcano.
He seemed to have fallen almost into sleep there; and it appeared to
Harvey that he must be very uncomfortable, bundled in his great coat,
with the cabin hot and smoky. Yet he was awake sufficiently to draw at
the stem of his pipe, and to glance up at Harvey as he entered. He even
made a jerky motion over one shoulder, with his thumb, indicating a bunk
that extended along the side of the cabin, and mumbled something that
sounded like, “Have a seat.”
Harvey, however, turned toward the companion-way, as young Mr. Jenkins
entered and rejoined him.
“Now this is what I call comfortable for a vessel,” said Mr. Jenkins,
briskly; “not much like some of those old bug-eyes, where they stuff you
into a hole and call it a cabin. We’ll have a bit more air in here, and
then we’ll sit down and have a bite with Joe. He wants us to. You’re in
no great hurry, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” responded Harvey, congratulating himself that here was a
chance at last to see life aboard a real fisherman at close quarters.
Mr. Jenkins opened one of the ports on either side, which cleared the
cabin in a measure of the dense cloud of smoke, and made it more
agreeable. Then, stooping, he lifted the leaf of a folding table, that
was hinged to the side of the centre-board box, turned the bracket that
supported it into place, and motioned to Harvey to draw up a chair. He
seated himself on a wooden box, close by.
“Joe’s got some steamed oysters ready, and a pot of coffee and some corn
bread,” he said, cheerfully. “You don’t mind taking pot luck for once, do
you, just to see how they live aboard? Here he is now. Come on, Joe,
we’re hungry. Joe, this is Mr.—let’s see, did I get your name?”
Harvey informed him, wondering at the easy familiarity of his new
acquaintance aboard the vessel, but somewhat amused over it, and his
curiosity aroused. The boy nodded to Harvey. Stepping into the galley, he
returned directly, bringing two bowls filled with steamed oysters, which
he set before Harvey and Mr. Jenkins. The corn bread and coffee arrived
duly, and young Mr. Jenkins urged Harvey to fall to and eat heartily.
Harvey needed no urging. His long walk about the city had made him
ravenously hungry. Moreover, although the coffee was not much like what
he had been accustomed to, the oysters and corn bread were certainly
delicious. Harvey and Mr. Jenkins ate by themselves, waited on by the
youth, who declared he would eat later, with “him,” pointing to the
drowsy smoker, who had not stirred from his original position, and with
Captain Scroop, if the latter should return to supper.
It was in the course of the meal that Harvey, to his surprise, discovered
that there was still another occupant of the cabin, of whose presence he
had not before been aware. In the forward, farther corner of the cabin,
what had appeared to be a tumbled heap of blankets, on one of the bunks,
suddenly gave forth a resounding snore; and the heap of blankets stirred
slightly.
“Hello,” exclaimed Harvey; “what’s that?”
Mr. Jenkins glanced sharply at the sleeper, sprang up and made a closer
inspection, and then, apparently satisfied with what he saw, resumed his
seat.
“It’s one of the mates,” he said. “He’s had a hard cold for a week; taken
something to sleep it off with, I guess.”
Harvey went on eating. He might not have had so keen a relish for his
food, however, had he known that the sleeper was not only not a mate, but
that, indeed, he had never been aboard a vessel before in all his life;
that he hadn’t known when nor how he did come aboard; that he was utterly
oblivious to where he now was; and that he had been seized of an
overpowering drowsiness shortly after taking a single glass of grog with
the same young gentleman who now sat with Jack Harvey in the schooner’s
cabin. That had taken place at a small saloon just across from the float.
Perhaps the suggestion was a timely one for Mr. Jenkins; perhaps he did
not need it. At all events, he said guardedly, “Scroop sometimes opens
that bottle for visitors; do you want to warm up a bit against the night
air?”
He pointed, as he spoke, to a half opened locker, in which some glassware
of a certain kind was visible.
“No, thanks,” replied Harvey, “never.”
“Nor I, either,” rejoined Mr. Jenkins, emphatically. “A man’s a fool that
does, in my opinion. But it’s hospitality along here to offer it, so no
offence.”
One might, however, have noted a look of disappointment in his
countenance; and he seemed to be thinking, hard.
“Joe’s a good sort,” he remarked, presently. “I don’t know why I should
tell you, but it’s odd how I come to know him. The fact is, when my folks
had money—plenty of it, too—Joe lived in a little house that belonged to
our estate, and I used to run away and play with him. What’s more, now
I’m grown up, I’m going to run away with him again, eh, Joe?”
The boy nodded.
Harvey looked at Mr. Jenkins, inquiringly. The latter leaned nearer to
Harvey and assumed a more confidential air.
“Why, the fact is,” he said in a low tone, “you might not think it,
perhaps, but I’m a college man—Johns Hopkins—you’ve heard of that, eh?”
Harvey recalled the name, though the mere fact that such an institution
existed was the extent of his information regarding it, and he nodded.
“Well,” continued Mr. Jenkins, “I’m working my way through, and my folks
are so proud they don’t want it known. So I’m going a trip or two with
Joe and Captain Scroop, just as soon as they have a berth for me, because
it’s out of the way, where no one will know me, it’s easy work, and the
pay is high. Isn’t that so, Joe?”
One might have caught the suggestion of a fleeting desire to grin, on the
features of the boy addressed; but he lowered his gaze and nodded.
“Why, how many more men do you have begging for chances to ship, every
voyage, than you have need of?” inquired young Mr. Jenkins, looking
sharply at the boy.
“Dunno,” answered Joe, doggedly. “Mebbe five or six; mebbe more.”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Mr. Jenkins, “And the wages are twenty-five
dollars a month, and all the good food a fellow can eat, eh?”
“More’n he can eat, mostly,” responded the boy. “They gets too much to
eat.”
“And when are you going to find that place for me to go a voyage—and
berth aft here with you and the captain and mate, like a gentleman, and
get my twenty-five a month at easy work?”
“We’ve got it now,” said Joe.
Young Mr. Jenkins sprang from his chair, with an exclamation of delight.
He stepped up to the boy and seized him by an arm.
“Say!” he cried; “you’re in earnest now—none of your tricks—do you mean
it, really?”
The boy nodded.
“We’ve got two chances,” he said.
Young Mr. Jenkins gave a whistle of amazement.
“Two chances open on the same voyage!” he exclaimed. “I never knew of
that before, and just before sailing. How do you account for it—somebody
taken sick?”
“That’s it,” said the boy.
Young Mr. Jenkins walked slowly back to his seat, looked sharply at
Harvey from the comers of his eyes, and spoke earnestly.
“Say, Mr. Harvey,” he said, “I’m not sure, but I believe I could get that
chance for you. You played in great luck when I saw you throw that
heaving line to the vessel there, this afternoon. I’ll swear to Captain
Scroop that you’re all right, and I know you could make good. Do you know
I’ve taken a sort of liking to you; and I tell you what, you and I’ll
ship for one month and I’ll see you through. Why, they’re all like
brothers here, the captain and his men. We’ll have a gorgeous time, see
how the fishing is done, come back in a month and have twenty-five
dollars apiece to show for it. And then you’ll have had a real sea
experience—something to talk about when you get home. It’s the chance of
a life-time.”
Taken all by surprise by the offer, and withal against his better
judgment, Jack Harvey found a strange allurement in the suggestion. At no
time in all his life could it have been held forth so opportunely. He
thought of his father and mother, on the ocean, to be gone for six
months. He knew, too, what his father would say, when he should tell him
of it later; how the bluff, careless, elder Harvey would throw back his
head, and laugh, and vow he was the same sort when he was a youth.
How strangely, too, events that had taken place in Benton coincided
favourably with his already half-formed intention to take the chance. He
recalled, in a flash, the hour of leaving there, with his father and
mother, for Baltimore; how Henry Burns’s aunt, with whom he had been
boarding, had asked when he would return; how Harvey’s mother had
answered that she hoped yet to persuade the boy to accompany them to
Europe; and how Miss Matilda Burns had said, then, she should expect him
when he arrived—no sooner—and had remarked, smiling, that if he didn’t
come back at all she should know he had gone to Europe.
“It’s only for a month, you know,” suggested young Mr. Jenkins, almost as
though he had been reading Harvey’s thoughts.
Harvey sat for a moment, thinking hard.
“Isn’t it pretty cold down there in the bay this time of year?” he asked.
“Why, bless you, no,” replied Mr. Jenkins, laughing at the suggestion.
“Don’t you know you’re in the South, now, my boy? This is the coldest
day, right now, that we’ll have till January. And if we have a touch of
winter—which isn’t likely—why, there’s a good, comfortable cabin to warm
up in.”
“Are we sure to get back in a month?”
“Joe, when are you due back here?” called Mr. Jenkins.
“Middle of December,” came the reply.
“I’m most inclined to try it,” said Harvey, hesitatingly.
Mr. Jenkins slapped him on the back, then shook his hand warmly.
“You’re the right sort,” he said. “We’ll have a lark.”
And Harvey knew from that moment that, for better or worse, be it a
foolish venture or not, he was in for it.
“What do I need to get for the trip?” he asked. “Guess I’d better step up
into the town and buy some boots and oil-skins.”
A look of determination came into the face of Mr. Jenkins. It was as if
he had made up his mind that Harvey should have no opportunity now of
backing out.
“No, you don’t need to,” he said. “The captain’s got all that stuff, and
he buys at wholesale, and you can get it cheaper of him. Wait till
to-morrow, anyway, and if he can’t fit you, we’ll go ashore.”
Harvey gave a start of surprise. He hadn’t counted on spending this night
aboard the schooner.
“Do you mean to stay here to-night?” he asked.
“Why, sure,” responded young Mr. Jenkins. “Good chance to try it on and
see how you like it. We’ll just roll up here, and you’ll swear you were
never more comfortable in all your life.”
“Well,” answered Harvey, “I’ll try it. You’re sure the captain will ship
us, though?”
“Oh, you can take what that boy Joe says for gospel,” answered young Mr.
Jenkins. “He knows.”
“Then I’ll step out on deck and bring down that little hand-bag of mine,”
said Harvey. “I left it forward by the rail when I came aboard. It’s got
a comb and brush and a tooth-brush and a change of underwear in it.”
Harvey ascended the ladder and walked out on deck. It was a glorious
night, the sky studded with thousands of stars. The air was chilly, but
Harvey was warmly dressed, and the crisp air was invigorating after his
stay in the cabin. He went forward, wondering, in his somewhat confused
state of mind, what his chums in Benton would think of it if they could
know where he was, and what he contemplated doing.
“I only wish Henry Burns was going along,” he thought. “Well, I’ll have
something to tell him next time I see him.”
He little thought under what strange circumstances they would next meet.
Hardly had Harvey left the cabin, when young Mr. Jenkins sprang into the
galley, leering at the boy Joe, and digging that stolid youngster
facetiously in the ribs.
“Oh, that’s rich!” he chuckled. “What do you say, Joey—a pretty
hair-brush and comb and a tooth-brush aboard an oyster dredger? You’ll
have to tell old Haley to get a mirror—a French-plate, gold-leaf
mirror—for Mr. Harvey. Oh, he’d do it, all right. He’ll—ah, ha, ha—oh
jimminy Christmas! Isn’t that rich?”
The boy, Joe, turned toward Mr. Jenkins, somewhat angrily.
“You think you’re smart,” he muttered. “You’ll get come up with, one of
these days. What did you get him for? He ain’t the right sort. He’s got
folks as will make trouble. I’ll bet the old man won’t stand for him.”
“Look here, you,” exclaimed Mr. Jenkins, seizing the boy, roughly, “you
shut up! Who asked you to tell me what to do? Don’t I know my business?
Don’t I know old Scroop, too, as much as you do? Of course he’ll stand
for him—when I tell him a few things. You leave that to me, and don’t you
go interfering, or I’ll hand you something you’ll feel for a week.”
The boy shrank back, and relapsed into stolid silence.
“Where’s that pen and ink?” inquired Jenkins.
The boy pointed to a locker.
Taking a faded wallet from his pocket, Mr. Jenkins produced therefrom a
paper which he unfolded and spread upon the table. It seemed to be a
form, of some sort or other, partly type-written. He got the rusty pen
and a small bottle of ink, laid them beside it, and waited for Harvey’s
return. Harvey soon reappeared.
“We’ll just sign this agreement,” remarked Mr. Jenkins carelessly.
“Scroop had some aboard here. They don’t mean much, with a good captain
like him, for he does better than he’s bound to, anyway. I’ll just run it
over, so you can get an idea of it.”
Talking glibly, Mr. Jenkins ran his finger along the lines, whereby
Harvey, by the dim light, got a somewhat hazy idea of them: to the effect
that he, Jack Harvey, twenty-one years of age, was bound to serve for one
month aboard the fisherman, Z. B. Brandt, whereof the master was Hamilton
Haley, on a dredging trip in Chesapeake bay and its tributaries.
Together, with divers conditions and provisions which Mr. Jenkins
dismissed briefly, as of no account.
“But I’m not twenty-one years old,” said Harvey. “That’s wrong.”
“Oh, that don’t amount to anything,” responded Mr. Jenkins. “I knew you
weren’t quite that, but it’s near enough. It’s all right. No one ever
looks at it. We’ll sign, and it’s all over. Then we’ll turn in, and see
the captain in the morning. He’s going to be late, by the looks.”
“But I thought you said the captain’s name was Scroop,” suggested Harvey,
puzzled.
“So it is,” replied Mr. Jenkins. “This is an old contract, but it’s just
as good. Haley used to be captain, and they use the old forms. It don’t
matter what the captain’s name is, so long as he’s all right, and he’s
got a good boat.”
Harvey, following the example of his companion, put his name to the
paper.
It might have been different had he had opportunity to take note, on
coming aboard, that the schooner, in the cabin of which he now sat, bore
no such name on bow and stern as the “Z. B. Brandt.” It might have been
different had he seen, in his mind’s eye, the real Z. B. Brandt, pitching
and tossing in the waters of Chesapeake Bay, seventy odd miles below
where the schooner lay in her snug berth. But he knew naught of that, nor
that the schooner in which he was about to take up his quarters for the
night was no more like the Z. B. Brandt than a Pullman is like a
cattle-car.
It was with his mind filled with a picture of the voyage soon over and
done, and a proud return to Henry Burns and his cronies, that Harvey
turned in shortly, on one of the bunks, wrapped himself snugly in a good
warm blanket, and went off to sleep. The creaking of rigging, as some
craft moved with the current, the noise of some new arrival coming in
late to join the fleet at moorings, the tramp of an occasional sailor on
the deck of a neighbouring craft, and the swinging of the schooner, did
not disturb his sound slumbers. Wearied with the doings of a busy day, he
did not move, once his eyes had closed in sleep.
Some time after eleven o’clock, Mr. Jenkins arose softly and stepped
cautiously over to where Harvey lay. There was no mistaking the soundness
of Harvey’s slumbers. Mr. Jenkins slipped out of the cabin, upon deck. A
row-boat soon attracted his attention, coming toward the schooner from
somewhere below. There were three figures in it. As the boat came
alongside, Mr. Jenkins stepped to the rail and spoke to the man in the
stern.
“Hello, Scroop,” he said. “I’ve got another for you. He wouldn’t drink,
but he’s a sound sleeper.”
The captain nodded. With the assistance of his companion in the boat,
whom Mr. Jenkins called mate, and of Mr. Jenkins, himself, another man
was lifted from the small craft to the deck of the schooner. He seemed
half asleep, and walked between them like one that had been drugged. They
did not take him aft, but assisted him down into the forecastle, and
returned presently, without him.
“All right, captain?” queried Mr. Jenkins.
“Yes, cast us off.”
Mr. Jenkins sprang over the rail, to the deck of the craft alongside. He
cast off the lines, forward and aft, that had moored the schooner to the
other vessel. The captain and mate ran up one of the jibs. Mr. Jenkins
pushed vigorously, and the bow of the schooner slowly swung clear. The
current aided. The light night breeze caught the jib. The schooner
drifted away, with Captain Scroop at the wheel.
Mr. Jenkins, standing on the deck of the vessel to which the schooner had
been moored, watched the latter glide away. After a little time the
foresail was run up. The schooner was leaving the harbour of Baltimore.
Mr. Jenkins did a little shuffle, thrust his hands into his pockets, and
walked briskly across the decks to shore.
“That’s ten dollars easy money for me and Scroop,” he muttered. Then he
stopped once and chuckled. “A comb and brush and a tooth-brush aboard old
Haley’s bug-eye!” he said. “Oh, my! That’s a good one.”