BILLY BRIGHT THE FISHER-BOY VISITS LONDON--HAS A FIGHT--ENLARGES HIS
MIND, AND UNDERTAKES BUSINESS.
We must now return to the _Evening Star_ fishing-smack, but only for a
few minutes at present. Later on we shall have occasion to visit her
under stirring circumstances. We saw her last heading eastward to her
fishing-ground in the North Sea. We present her now, after a two
months' trip, sailing to the west, homeward bound.
Eight weeks at sea; nine days on shore, is the unvarying routine of the
North Sea smacksman's life, summer and winter, all the year round. Two
months of toil and exposure of the severest kind, fair-weather or foul,
and little more than one week of repose in the bosom of his family--
varied by visits more or less frequent to the tap-room of the
public-house. It is a rugged life to body and soul. Severest toil and
little rest for the one; strong temptation and little refreshment to the
other.
"Strong temptation!" you exclaim, "what! out on the heaving billows and
among the howling gales of winter on the North Sea?"
Ay, stronger temptation than you might suppose, as, in the sequel, you
shall see.
But we are homeward bound just now. One of the gales above referred to
is blowing itself out and the _Evening Star_ is threading her way among
the shoals to her brief repose in Yarmouth.
The crew are standing about the deck looking eagerly towards the land,
and little Billy is steering. [See Frontispiece.]
Yes, that ridiculous atom of humanity, with a rope, or "steering
lanyard," round the tiller to prevent its knocking him down or sweeping
him overboard, stands there guiding the plunging smack on her course
through the dangerous shoals. Of course Billy's father has an eye on
him, but he does not require to say more than an occasional word at long
intervals.
Need we observe that our little hero is no longer subject to the demon
which felled him at starting, and made his rosy face so pale? One
glance at the healthy brown cheeks will settle that question. Another
glance at his costume will suffice to explain, without words, much of
Billy's life during the past eight weeks. The sou'-wester is crushed
and soiled, the coat is limp, rent, mended, button-bereaved more or
less, and bespattered, and the boots wear the aspect of having seen
service. The little hands too, which even while ashore were not
particularly white, now bear traces of having had much to do with tar,
and grease, and fishy substances, besides being red with cold, swelled
with sundry bruises, and seamed with several scars--for Billy is
reckless by nature, and it takes time and much experience of suffering
to teach a man how to take care of his hands in the fisheries of the
North Sea!
An hour or two more sufficed to carry our smack into port, and then the
various members of the crew hurried home.
Billy swaggered beside his father and tried to look manly until he
reached his own door, where all thought of personal appearance suddenly
vanished, and he leaped with an unmanly squeal of delight into his
mother's arms. You may be sure that those arms did not spare him!
"You'll not go down to-night, David?" said Mrs Bright, when, having
half choked her son, she turned to her husband.
"No, lass,--I won't," said the skipper in a tone of decision.
Mrs Bright was much gratified by the promise, for well did she know,
from bitter experience, that if her David went down to meet his comrades
at the public-house on his arrival, his brief holidays would probably be
spent in a state of semi-intoxication. Indeed, even with this promise
she knew that much of his time, and a good deal of his hardly earned
money, would be devoted to the publican.
"We'll not have much of Billy's company this week, I fear," said Mrs
Bright, with a glance of pride at her son, who returned it with a look
of surprise.
"Why so, Nell?" asked her husband.
"Because he has got to go to London."
"To Lun'on!" exclaimed the father.
"Lun'on!" echoed the son.
"Yes; it seems that Miss Ruth--that dear young lady, Miss Ruth Dotropy--
you remember her, Billy?"
"Remember her! I should think I does," said the boy, emphatically, "if
I was to live as long as Meethusilim I'd never forget Miss Dotropy."
"Well," continued Mrs Bright, "she wrote and asked Joe Davidson's wife
to send her a fisher-boy to London for a day or two, and she'd pay his
railway fare up an' back, and all his expenses. What ever Miss Ruth
wants to do with him I don't know, nor any one else. Mrs Davidson
couldn't find a boy that was fit to send, so she said she'd wait till
you came back, Billy, and send _you_ up."
"Well, wonders ain't a-goin' to cease yet a while," exclaimed Billy,
with a look of gratified pride. "Hows'ever, I'm game for anythink--from
pitch an' toss up'ards. When am I to start, mother?"
"To-morrow, by the first train."
"All right--an' what sort o' rig? I couldn't go in them 'ere slops, you
know. It wouldn't give 'em a k'rect idear o' Yarmouth boys, would it?"
"Of course not sonny, an I've got ready your old Sunday coat, it ain't
too small for you yet--an' some other things."
Accordingly, rigged out, as he expressed it, in a well-mended and
brushed pilot-cloth coat; a round blue-cloth cap; a pair of trousers to
match, and a pair of new shoes, Billy found himself speeding towards the
great city with what he styled "a stiff breakfast under hatches, four or
five shillings in the locker, an' a bu'stin' heart beneath his veskit."
In a few hours he found himself in the bewildering streets, inquiring
his way to the great square in the West End where Mrs Dotropy dwelt.
The first person of whom he made inquiry was a street boy, and, while he
was speaking, the city Arab regarded the provincial boy's innocent
face--for it was a peculiarly innocent face when in repose--with a look
of mingled curiosity and cunning.
"Now look 'ee here, young 'un," said the Arab, "I don't know nothink
about the Vest End squares, an' what's more I don't want to, but I do
know a lot about the East End streets, an' if you'll come with me,
I'll--"
"Thank 'ee, no," interrupted Billy, with unlooked-for decision, "I've
got business to look arter at the _West_ End."
"Yell, cooriously enough," returned the Arab, "I've got business at the
_East_ End. By the vay, you don't 'appen to 'ave any browns--any
coppers--about you--eh?"
"Of course I has. You don't suppose a man goes cruisin' about Lun'on
without any shot in the locker, do you?"
"To be sure not," responded the street boy; "I might 'ave know'd that a
man like you wouldn't, anyhow. Now, it so 'appens that I'm wery much in
want o' change. You couldn't give me browns for a sixpence, could you?"
The Arab said this so earnestly--at the same time producing a sixpence,
or something that looked like one, from his pockets--that the provincial
boy's rising suspicions were quite disarmed.
"Let me see," he said, plunging his hand into his trousers pocket--"one,
two, three--no, I've only got fourpence, but--"
He was cut short by the Arab making a sudden grasp at the coins, which
sent most of them spinning on the pavement.
Like lightning little Billy sprang forward and planted his right fist on
the point of the Arab's nose with such vigour that the blow caused him
to stagger backwards. Before he could recover Billy followed him up
with a left-hander on the forehead and a right-hander on the chest,
which last sent him over on his back. So sudden was the onset that the
passers-by scarcely understood what was occurring before it was all
over. A grave policeman stepped forward at the moment. The Arab rose,
glided into a whirl of wheels and horses' legs, and disappeared, while
Billy stood still with doubled fists glaring defiance.
"Now then, my boy, what's all this about?" said the man in blue, placing
a large hand gently on the small shoulder.
"He's bin and knocked my coppers about," said our little hero
indignantly, as he looked up, but the stern yet kindly smile on the
policeman's face restored him, and he condescended on a fuller
explanation as he proceeded to pick up his pence.
Having been cautioned about the danger of entering into conversation
with strangers in London--especially with street boys--Billy was
directed to a Pimlico omnibus, and deposited not far from his
destination. Inquiring his way thereafter of several policemen--who
were, as he afterwards related to admiring friends, as thick in London
as bloaters in Yarmouth--he found himself in front of the Dotropy
residence.
"Yes, my little man," said the footman who opened the door of the West
End mansion, "Miss Ruth is at 'ome, and 'as been expecting you. Come
this way."
That footman lost ground in Billy's estimation because of using the word
_little_. If he had said "my boy," it would have been all right; "my
man" would have been gratifying; but "my little man" was repulsive. A
smart servant girl who chanced to see him on his way to the library also
caused him much pain by whispering to her fellow something about a sweet
innocent-faced darling, and he put on a savage frown, as he was ushered
into the room, by way of counteracting the sweet innocence. A glass
opposite suddenly revealed to its owner the smooth rosy-brown visage,
screwed up in a compound expression. That expression changed so swiftly
to sheer surprise, that a burst of involuntary laughter was the result.
A deep flush, and silence, followed, as the urchin looked with some
confusion round the room to see if he had been observed or overheard,
and a sense of relief came as he found that he was alone. No one had
seen or heard him except some of the Dotropy ancestors who had "come
over" with the Conqueror, and who gazed sternly from the walls. For,
you see, being a family of note, the dining-room could not hold all the
ancestors, so that some of them had to be accommodated in the library.
That glance round had a powerful effect on the mind of the fisher-boy,
so powerful indeed that all thought of self vanished, for he found
himself for the first time, in a room the like of which he had never
seen, or heard, or dreamed of.
He knew, of course, that there were libraries in Yarmouth, and was aware
that they had something to do with books, but he had never seen a
collection on a large scale, and, up to that time, had no particular
curiosity about books.
Indeed, if truth must be told, Billy hated books, because the only point
in regard to which he and his mother had ever differed was a book! A
tattered, ragged, much-soiled book it was, with big letters at the
beginning, simple arrangements of letters in the middle, and maddening
compounds of them towards the end. Earnestly, patiently, lovingly, yet
perseveringly, had Mrs Bright tried to drill the contents of that book
into Billy's unwilling brain, but with little success, for, albeit a
willing and obliging child, there was a limit to his powers of
comprehension, and a tendency in his young mind to hold in contempt what
he did not understand.
One day a somewhat pedantic visitor told Billy that he would never be a
great man if he did not try to understand the book in question--to
thoroughly digest it.
"You hear what the gentleman says, Billy, you dirty little gurnet," said
David Bright on that occasion, "you've got to di-gest it, my lad, to
di-gest it."
"Yes, father," said Billy, with a finger in his mouth and his eyes on
the visitor.
The boy's mind was inquisitive and ingenious. He pestered his father,
after the visitor had gone, for an explanation as to what he meant by
digesting the book.
"Why, sonny," returned David, knitting his brows very hard, for the
question was somewhat of a puzzler, "he means that you've got to stow
away in your brain the knowledge that's in the book, an' work away at
it--di-gest it, d'ee see--same as you stow grub into yer stummick an'
digest that."
Billy pondered this a long time till a happy thought occurred to him.
"_I'll_ digest it," said he, slapping his thigh one day when he was left
alone in the house. "We'll all di-gest it together!"
He jumped up, took the lid off a pot of pea-soup that was boiling on the
fire, and dropped the hated book into it.
"What's this i' the soup, Nell?" said David that day at dinner, as he
fished a mass of curious substance out of the pot. "Many a queer thing
have I fished up i' the trawl from the bottom o' the North Sea, but
ne'er afore did I make such a haul as this in a pot o' pea-soup. What
is't?"
"Why, David," replied the wife, examining the substance with a puzzled
expression, "I do believe it's the primer!"
They both turned their eyes inquiringly on the boy, who sat gravely
watching them.
"All right, father," he said, "I put 'im in. We're a-goin' to di-gest
it, you know."
"Dirty boy!" exclaimed his mother, flinging the remains of the boiled
book under the grate. "You've ruined the soup."
"Never a bit, Nell," said the skipper, who was in no wise particular as
to his food, "clean paper an' print can't do no damage to the soup. An'
after all, I don't see why a man shouldn't take in knowledge as well
through the stummick as through the brain. It don't matter a roker's
tail whether you ship cargo through the main-hatch or through the
fore-hatch, so long as it gits inside somehow. Come, let's have a bowl
of it. I never was good at letters myself, an' I'll be bound to say
that Billy and I will di-gest the book better this way than the right
way."
Thus was the finishing touch put to Billy Bright's education at that
time, and we have described the incident in order that the reader may
fully understand the condition of the boy's mind as he stood gazing
round the library of the West End mansion.
"Books!" exclaimed Billy, afterwards, when questioned by a Yarmouth
friend, "I should just think there _was_ books. Oh! it's o' no manner
o' use tryin' to tell 'ee about it. There was books from the floor to
the ceilin' all round the room--books in red covers, an' blue covers,
an' green, an' yellow, an' pink, an' white--all the colours in the
rainbow, and all of 'em more or less kivered wi' gold--w'y--I don't know
what their insides was worth, but sartin sure am I that they couldn't
come up to their outsides. Mints of money must 'ave bin spent in
kiverin' of 'em. An' there was ladders to git at 'em--a short un to git
at the books below, an' a long un to go aloft for 'em in the top rows.
What people finds to write about beats me to understand; but who ever
buys and reads it all beats me wuss."
While new and puzzling thoughts were thus chasing each other through the
fisher-boy's brain Ruth Dotropy entered.
"What! Billy Bright," she exclaimed in a tone of great satisfaction,
hurrying forward and holding out her hand. "I'm so glad they have sent
_you_. I would have asked them to send you, when I wrote, but thought
you were at sea."
"Yes, Miss, but I've got back again," said Billy, grasping the offered
hand timidly, fearing to soil it.
For the same reason he sat down carefully on the edge of a chair, when
Ruth said heartily, "Come, sit down and let's have a talk together,"
for, you see, he had become so accustomed to fishy clothes and tarred
hands that he had a tendency to forget that he was now "clean" and "in a
split-new rig."
Ruth's manner and reception put the poor boy at once at his ease. For
some time she plied him with questions about the fisher-folk of Yarmouth
and Gorleston, in whom she had taken great interest during a summer
spent at the former town,--at which time she had made the acquaintance
of little Billy. Then she began to talk of the sea and the fishery, and
the smacks with their crews. Of course the boy was in his element on
these subjects, and not only answered his fair questioner fully, but
volunteered a number of anecdotes, and a vast amount of interesting
information about fishing, which quite charmed Ruth, inducing her to
encourage him to go on.
"Oh! yes, Miss," he said, "it's quite true what you've bin told.
There's hundreds and hundreds of smacks a-fishin' out there on the North
Sea all the year round, summer an' winter. In course I can't say
whether there's a popilation, as you calls it, of over twelve thousand,
always afloat, never havin' counted 'em myself, but I know there must be
a-many thousand men an' boys there."
"Billy was right. There is really a population of over 12,000 men and
boys afloat all the year round on the North Sea, engaged in the arduous
work of daily supplying the London and other markets with fresh fish."
"And what port do they run for when a storm comes on?" asked Ruth.
"What port, Miss? why, they don't run for no port at all, cos why?
there's no port near enough to run for."
"Do you mean to say, that they remain at sea during all the storms--even
the worst?"
"That's just what we does, Miss. Blow high, blow low, it's all the
same; we must weather it the best way we can. An' you should see how it
blows in winter! That's the time we catches it wust. It's so cold too!
I've not bin out in winter yet myself, but father says it's cold enough
to freeze the nose off your face, an' it blows 'ard enough a'most to
blow you inside out. You wouldn't like to face that sort o' thing--
would you, Miss?"
With a light laugh Ruth admitted that she disliked the idea of such
North Sea experiences.
"Oh! you've no idea, Miss, how it do blow sometimes," continued Billy,
who was a naturally communicative boy, and felt that he had got hold of
a sympathetic ear. "Have you ever heard of the gale that blew so 'ard
that they had to station two men an' a boy to hold on to the captain's
hair for fear it should be blowed right off his 'ead?"
"Yes," answered Ruth, with a silvery laugh. "I've heard of that gale."
"Have you, Miss?" said Billy with a slightly surprised look. "That's
queer, now. I thought nobody know'd o' that gale 'cept us o' the North
Sea, an', p'raps, some o' the people o' Yarmouth an' Gorleston."
"I rather think that I must have read of it somewhere," said Ruth.
Billy glanced reproachfully at the surrounding books, under the
impression that it must have been one of these which had taken the wind
out of his sails.
"Well, Miss," he continued, "I don't mean for to say I ever was in a
gale that obliged us to be careful of the skipper's hair, but I do say
that father's seed somethink like it, for many a time our smack has bin
blowed over on her beam-ends--that means laid a'most flat, Miss, with
'er sails on the sea. One night father's smack was sailin' along
close-hauled when a heavy sea struck 'er abaft the channels, and filled
the bag o' the mains'l. She was just risin' to clear herself when
another sea follared, filled the mains'l again, an' sent 'er on 'er
beam-ends. The sea was makin' a clean breach over 'er from stem to
stern, an' cleared the deck o' the boat an' gear an' everythink. Down
went all hands below an' shut the companion, to prevent 'er being
swamped. Meanwhile the weight o' water bu'st the mains'l, so that the
vessel partly righted, an' let the hands come on deck agin. Then, after
the gale had eased a bit, two or three o' their comrades bore down on
'em and towed 'em round, so as the wind got under 'er an' lifted 'er a
bit, but the ballast had bin shot from the bilge into the side, so they
couldn't right her altogether, but had to tow 'er into port that way--
over two hundred miles--the snow an' hail blowin', too, like one
o'clock!"
"Really, they must have had a terrible time of it," returned Ruth,
"though I don't know exactly how dreadful `one o'clock' may be. But
tell me, Billy, do the fishermen like the worsted mitts and helmets and
comforters that were sent to them from this house last year?"
"Oh! don't they, just! I've heard them blessin' the ladies as sent 'em,
many a time. You see, Miss, the oil-skins chafe our wrists most awful
when we're workin' of the gear--"
"What is the gear, Billy?"
"The nets, Miss, an' all the tackle as belongs to 'em. An' then the
salt water makes the sores wuss--it used to be quite awful, but the
cuffs keeps us all right. An' the books an' tracts, too, Miss--the
hands are wery fond o' them, an'--"
"We will talk about the books and tracts another time," said Ruth,
interrupting, "but just now we must proceed to business. Of course you
understand that I must have some object in view in sending for a
fisher-boy from Yarmouth."
"Well, Miss, it did occur to me that I wasn't axed to come here for
nuffin'."
"Just so, my boy. Now I want your help, so I will explain. We are to
have what is called a drawing-room meeting here in a few days, in behalf
of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and one of your fisher captains is
to be present to give an account of the work carried on among the men of
the fleet by the mission vessels. So I want you to be there as one of
the boys--"
"Not to speak to 'em, Miss, I hope?" said Billy, with a look of affected
modesty.
"No, not to speak," replied Ruth, laughing, "only to represent the boys
of the fleet. But that's not the main thing I want you for. It is
this, and remember, Billy, that I am now taking you into my confidence,
so you must not tell what I shall speak to you about to any living
soul."
"Not even to mother?" asked the boy.
"No, not even--well, you _may_ tell it to your mother, for boys ought to
have no secrets from their mothers; besides, _your_ mother is a discreet
woman, and lives a long way off from London. You must know, then,
Billy, that I have two very dear friends--two ladies--who are in deep
poverty, and I want to give them money--"
"Well, why don't you give it 'em, Miss?" said Billy, seeing that Ruth
hesitated. "You must have lots of it to give away," he added, looking
contemplatively round.
"Yes, thank God, who gave it to me, I have, as you say, lots of it, but
I cannot give it to the dear ladies I speak of because--because--"
"They're too proud to take it, p'raps," suggested Billy.
"No; they are not proud--very far from it; but they are sensitive."
"What's that, Miss?"
Ruth was puzzled for a reply.
"It--it means," she said, "that they have delicate feelings, which
cannot bear the idea of accepting money without working for it, when
there are so many millions of poor people without money who _cannot_
work for it. They once said to me, indeed, that if they were to accept
money in charity they would feel as if they were robbing the really
poor."
"Why don't they work, then?" asked Billy in some surprise. "Why don't
they go to sea as stooardesses or somethink o' that sort?"
"Because they have never been trained to such work, or, indeed, to any
particular work," returned Ruth; "moreover, they are in rather delicate
health, and are not young. Their father was rich, and meant to leave
them plenty to live on, but he failed, and left them in broken health
without a penny. Wasn't it sad?"
"Indeed it was, Miss," replied the boy, whose ready sympathy was easily
enlisted.
"Well, now, Billy, I want you to go to see these ladies. Tell them that
you are a fisher-boy belonging to the North sea trawling fleet, and that
you have called from a house which wants a job undertaken. You will
then explain about the fishery, and how the wrists of the men are
chafed, and break out into painful sores, and how worsted mitts serve
the purpose at once of prevention and cure. Say that the house by which
you have been sent has many hands at work--and so I have, Billy, for
many ladies send the cuffs and things made by them for the fleet to _me_
to be forwarded, only they work gratuitously, and I want the work done
by my two friends to be paid for, you understand? Tell them that still
more hands are wanted, and ask them if they are open to an engagement.
You must be very matter-of-fact, grave, and businesslike, you know. Ask
them how many pairs they think they will be able to make in a week, and
say that the price to be paid will be fixed on receipt of the first
sample. But, remember, on no account are you to mention the name of the
house that sent you; you will also leave with them this bag of worsted.
Now, do you fully understand?"
Billy replied by a decided wink, coupled with an intelligent nod.
After a good deal of further advice and explanation, Ruth gave Billy the
name and address of her friends, and sent him forth on his mission.