THE BARNEY LITERARY CLUB.
Cook Charlie was a blessing. Nature had made him that handsome present
of a happy temperament, and common sense had taught him to take good
care of the gift.
“I know my man,” said Keeper Barney when he hired him. “He’s worth a
fortin.”
I have already said that Cook Charlie was fat. He was also bald. Though
not over thirty, his appearance of age gave a certain authority to his
opinions, and a second title for him was that of “old man.” Old man or
young man, he was always good–natured. Did it blow without? Did the
wind bring a sting with every blast? Cook Charlie was calm. Did the
sky scowl on the tired surfman? Cook Charlie was sure to smile. Did
any discussion in the living–room become a disputation, ill–natured,
angry, and did the men turn uneasily in their chairs, stamping stormily
on the floor with their hard, heavy boots? “So—so, boys,” Cook Charlie
would exclaim. “Now, look here! Let me put that question.” And this
amiable manipulator of contentious souls would “put the question” so
skillfully that both sides might find themselves on the same side!
Then Cook Charlie was monarch of the kitchen stove. He knew that, and
what a center of comfort and happiness he made that stove! No sulking
fire—one big, black pout—awaited the chilled surfman when he came
from his windy beat; but a cheery heat radiated from that stove, in
whose ascending current the patrolman rubbed and bathed his hands
gratefully. Then the breakfasts, dinners, and suppers! There was not
a great variety of food, but it was sure to be hot. It was sure to be
abundant also. Then Cook Charlie would have a little “surprise” for the
men, perhaps a pudding that he would covertly slip out of the oven and
land on the table amid a series of, “Oh—Oh—Oh!” I think he realized
that he had a mission in that bleak little station, and with his cook
stove he could do marvels. He did not say it in words, but there was a
cheerful little tune forever sounding in his thoughts, and this was the
burden of the song:
“My stove is king,
My stove is king.”
“Mr. Barney,” said the district superintendent Baker, one day, “who is
your right hand man here—I mean the one you get the most help from?”
“My cook,” said the keeper promptly. “Of course he wants his wages, but
I don’t think he works just for them. I think he takes a pleasure in
seein’ how well he can do. He keeps his fire in good condition all the
time, so that the boys can warm themselves handy any hour; and then,
you know, surfmen must be well fed if you want good work of them. I
call Cook Charlie my steerin’ oar.”
It was Cook Charlie that Walter had a special talk with one morning.
The young surfman’s watch was now toward sunrise. He halted as he was
about finishing his beat, and from the doorstep of the station, looked
off upon the sea. Winter was whitening the earth, but the warm flush of
summer was on the sea and in the sky. It was a holiday sky, a long fold
of purple swathing the horizon. Then came a pink flush, and deep set in
this was the morning star. The sea was one vast sheet of silver, warm
and placid. Along the shore, it was wrinkled and broken into surf. Far
at the right, the sky was of a cold azure, and the sea beneath it was
chilled and shadowy also. Here were two vessels sailing. They seemed to
be eagerly pushing toward that summer light in the east and that sea of
silver.
“I’ll watch the sun come up,” said Walter, and this sentinel of the
Life Saving Service, his extinguished lantern in his hand, stood
sharply watching as if for an enemy that would come by water. A noise
on the land called his attention away for a few minutes. When he turned
again, no enemy was there on that still, shining sea, but away off on
the horizon’s edge was a tiny, pink boat, a boat without oar or sail,
a boat that must have come for a carnival, but had mistaken the time
of the year. The pink flamed into silver, and the little boat became a
gay turban of some royal Turk about to show his eyes and peep over the
horizon line at the earth. Was this the enemy that the young coastguard
expected? No, the turban expanded into a very big innocent–looking
frozen pudding laid by Neptune’s jolly cook on this smooth, polished
table of the sea. This confectioner’s dish soon began to rise, growing
into a lofty, bulging dome, a towering dome, rising, swelling, rounding
out—till there swung clear of the sea a globe of fire, the sun
himself! He began to assert his presence in the most unmistakable way,
sending out the sharpest, the most dazzling rays, from which Walter was
glad to turn away his eyes.
“A new day,” said Walter, “and what is to be done to–day? Breakfast,
and then I may turn in awhile, and have a nap. The newspaper will come,
and I suppose I shall read that. We shall have a drill of some kind,
and the watch from the lookout must be kept up. Then I suppose we shall
be loafing about Charlie’s stove. I believe I have about gone through
that library in the corner. I wish—yes—and I’ll ask Charlie about it
right off.”
Cook Charlie was alone with his stove, his coffee–pot, and frying–pan.
An appetizing fragrance welcomed the hungry young surfman as he opened
the door of the station.
“Good chance now,” thought Walter, “and I’ll speak about it.”
“Charlie,” said Walter, laying down his time–detector and signal, and
hanging up his lantern, “I wanted to ask your opinion.”
“Ask away. No charge made.”
“You know time hangs a little heavy here.”
“That’s so, Walter, but what of it?”
“Well, I was thinking if we couldn’t have a little variety here. Now
there are some subjects that it would be rather interesting to know
about, it seems to me, and it would be in our line of business. I mean
such as the sea and storm, or commerce, or our Life Saving Service and
that of England. You know somebody might write on them, and we have a
little society–meeting and read our pieces. We could have a certain
afternoon for it, and then we could discuss subjects. We might call it
the ‘Mutual Improvement Society,’ or something like that, you know.”
“That’s quite an idea, Walter. The name though might frighten some of
’em out of doors.”
“Call it—call it ‘Round the Stove Society.’”
“Ha–ha, we have that all the time. That’s a sticker, the name. What
shall she be? Well, I guess we had better get our boat before we name
it. You let me speak to the Cap’n, and then if he favors it, you say a
word to Tom and Woodbury, and I’ll try the rest.”
Keeper Barney that morning was delayed by his work, and took his fried
potatoes, biscuit and coffee after the usual breakfast hour. Cook
Charlie thought, “Now is the time. We are alone, and I’ll bring up
that little matter now. Let me see; how shall I take him? The Cap’n
is a fustrate feller, but he likes to have the credit of siggestin’,
and doin’ things hisself. I must jest fix it in some way so that he’ll
mention it hisself. Let’s see.”
Fingering his bald head as if he expected to find the right idea on
the outside, if not inside, he approached the keeper, holding out
an additional plate of “fried taters” just from the pan, steaming
and savory, as an innocent magnet to bring the keeper’s heart into a
favorable attitude toward the new plan.
“Oh, Charlie, you’re real good,” exclaimed the keeper.
“You earn it, Cap’n. You have to work hard enough on somethin’ all the
time, fussin’ or worryin’. I wish the men only had somethin’ to occupy
their time.”
“‘Twould be a good idea if they would jest till up their spare
minutes,” remarked the keeper, as he drank with avidity his coffee.
“A readin’ somethin’, you know; and it wouldn’t hurt ’em to be
a–studyin’.”
“I know it. I wish our superintendent at Washington would send us two
or three—four or five nice new books every winter for our lib’ry.
Congress, of course, must give him the money.”
“Why, Cap’n, I’ve let your cup be empty! Jest let me fill it up smokin’
hot.”
“Charlie, you know jest where a man feels tender. You ought to run a
beach hotel.”
“I am a–doin’ it now, Cap’n. Ha–ha! There, take another biscuit, a hot
one. I do wish the men would be improvin’ their minds. Everybody can
do somethin’. One winter I was at Duxton, the young people there had
a little society, to write on subjects, you know. Fact is, people can
improve themselves if they want ter.”
The keeper made no reply, not even saying, “A–hem!” He continued to eat
in silence. Charlie eyed him sharply.
“Hullo! He’s got an idea! That’s the way he allers does when an idea
strikes him. He says nothin’ and eats faster and faster, as if an idea
on four legs, its mouth open, was after him. Hold on!” thought the cook.
Soon came a communication from the silent eater. He looked up, and then
slammed his hands on the table.
“Charlie, I’ve got an idea! Now what do you think of it? There’s no
sense in the men’s loafin’ round the stove forever. Let’s get up a
society, a kind of readin’, perhaps speakin’ or debatin’ society. Call
it—the—the—”
“Cap’n, you’ve hit the nail on the head. A cap’tul idee! Call it the
Barney Lit’rary Club. Hoor–rah!”
And here Cook Charlie in his enthusiasm began to swing the dish that he
held in his hand. It was half full of crisp brown potatoes, and they
too were unable to resist the excitement of the hour, and danced off in
every direction.
“Oh, Cap’n, there’s the rest of your breakfast!”
“No matter!” said the keeper, a light flashing from his eyes that made
still warmer the color of his hair, his face and his beard. “No matter!
I’ve had a good breakfast. We’ve got an idee, you know, to pay for it.”
“That’s so, Cap’n. You brought down the right bird that time.”
“You might sound the men on the subject and tell ’em what I’m
a–thinkin’ of.”
“I will, Cap’n.”
“There’s Walter. He’s handy with his pen. You tech him up.”
“I will, sure.”
“I must be off now on the beach.”
As he left the room, Cook Charlie went to the door leading upstairs
and called out, “Come here, Walter. The Cap’n’s proposed jest what we
wanted, and I engaged to speak to you. Come down! I want to ‘tech’ you
up.”
Details were all arranged, and one afternoon the “Barney Literary
Club” held its first meeting. It was a wintry day without. The wind
blew sharp and strong from the north–west, and meeting the tide that
was coming in, broke up the sea into short, fierce little waves whose
dark, angry blue was spattered with flakes of white, chilling foam.
Across the frozen land and the dark sea, the brightest of suns looked
smilingly out of a clear sky, but his smiles did not warm the land or
cheer the sea. Did not all this though, make the living–room of the
station a snugger, jollier place?
“A grain small,” thought the keeper, “is this room when we and our big
boots all try to get into it, but we have had some good times here, and
we will have to–day another.”
The keeper, as president, sat in the chair of honor, and that was an
ordinary chair placed against the wall between the boat–room door and
the outer door. At his right sat Cook Charlie, the secretary, awkwardly
fumbling a lead pencil and sheet of paper. Walter was on the left of
the president. An eager yet embarrassed look was on his face, for he
had been appointed to read a paper which he nervously clutched with
both hands. The other members of the crew were scattered about the
room, all of them permanently located except Slim Tarleton. It was his
watch, and every few minutes he would run up the stairs and from the
lookout sweep with his glass the sea, that subtle, treacherous power
which must be watched, day and night. The president made a very short
speech to the “Barney Literary Club,” and then read a paper on the
United States Life Saving Service. The facts given are embodied already
in this book.
“I will now call on Walter for a paper,” said the president.
There was a tickle that needed to be expelled from Walter’s throat, and
at the same time a warm blush spread up to the roots of his hair.
“My paper is on the Life Saving Service of other countries. Great
Britain, which has a coast almost five thousand miles long, has a
Royal National Life–boat Institution. It is supported by voluntary
offerings. Its object is to provide and maintain life–boats, and it
also rewards efforts to save the shipwrecked at points where it may
have no station. A life–boat with all necessary equipments, and that
would include carriage, will cost somewhat over three thousand dollars,
and a boathouse can be built for about seventeen hundred. The cost of
keeping up a station is about three hundred and fifty dollars for the
year, a sum that would support an American station with seven men for
only one month. In England, the above sum pays the crew for going off
to any wrecks, for exercising their boat once every three months, and
covers also the coxswain’s salary and any repairs. The life–boats are
of different sizes—six, eight, ten and twelve–oared. Some of the crews
go out but seldom. When it is rough thereabouts at the Goodwin Sands,
the life–boat men must stand watch all the time. At Ramsgate, the
service is so important that a steamer waits on the boat constantly,
its fires banked up ready for any emergency. Different cities like
Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow and others, have given life–boats to the
Institution, and contribute every year to its funds.
“England’s work though for the shipwrecked takes in something else
besides the work of the life–boats. There is the Rocket Service. The
thirtieth of June, 1881, there were two hundred and eighty–eight rocket
stations. The rocket apparatus consists of the rocket, the rocket line,
the whip, the hawser, and sling life–buoy. The rocket has a line, a
light one, fastened to it, which is shot over a wreck. Then the rest of
the apparatus is used. We use the gun or mortar instead of the rocket.
England’s rocket stations are under the control of the Board of Trade.
The men of the coastguard manage the rockets. For every life saved, the
Board of Trade pays a sum of money. It gives medals also to those who
may have shown unusual courage. The wants of sailors and others who may
be saved from shipwreck are now met by the ‘Shipwrecked Fishermen and
Mariners’ Royal Benevolent Society.’ The work, then, that we do in our
stations, in England seems to be spread out, and it is done by several
bodies, and how much the whole may cost, I can’t say. Of course, it
is not fair to compare the money expended in England with the amount
we spend, until we know all the expenses there. I think, though, our
system is better than England’s.
“There is a ‘French Society for Saving Life from Shipwreck.’ It was
started in 1865, and not only along the coast of France, but in Algeria
and other colonies, has this society carried on its work. In sixteen
years, it saved two thousand and one hundred and twenty–nine lives.
June 30th, 1881, it had sixty–two life–boat stations, and three hundred
and ninety–one mortar or other projectile stations. It is modeled after
the English system, but it prefers the gun to the rocket.
“There is the ‘German Association for the Rescue of Life from
Shipwreck,’ founded in 1865. It is supported by donations. The last
report I saw, gave it seventy–four life–boat stations, twenty of these
having the mortar or rocket apparatus. There must be a larger number
now. In 1880–81, it saved two ships and a hundred and twenty–two lives;
and from May, 1880, to May, 1881, its members subscribed over a quarter
of a million of dollars. Germany has flat sandy beaches, and it cannot
so well use England’s heavy boats. It is said that in Russia, Italy and
Spain, life saving societies patterned more or less after England’s
‘National Life–boat Institution,’ have been organized. England must
have a magnificent navy of life–boats and a fine rocket service; but
I guess Uncle Sam with his hands in his deep pockets, paying out more
and more every year, has organized a service that can’t be matched
elsewhere. That is my opinion, and I would like to ask the company’s.”
This patriotic appeal to the company was exceedingly popular. Boots
went down heavily, hands came together sharply, and enthusiastic cries
of “Good!” “Good!” were heard all over the room. Then the secretary
read a humorous paper on “The Surfman—his first Stormy Patrol,”
giving experiences he had gleaned from the crew, and so faithfully
reported that they were readily recognized, winning him a round of
hand–claps.
“Woodbury!” “Woodbury!” was now heard from several quarters. “That
Sea–Sarpent! Let us have it!” “Don’t be bashful!”
Woodbury Elliott was nervously twisting in his chair, the color
deepening in his fair complexion, saying, “No! No! I couldn’t!” But
the Literary Club had all attended school with him, save Walter and
Joe Cardridge (a bad specimen of imported humanity) and they knew what
Woodbury could do at “speakin’ pieces.”
That famous character, the sea–serpent, he had made still more famous
by his successful delivery, at school, of a comical criticism upon the
animal, and in after days, it would often be called for, and was always
sure of an admiring audience.
“Well, here goes!” said the surfman, and Woodbury Elliott rose to give
once more this marine gem. The laughter following it was hearty as
ever, but it had not wholly died away when an unexpected orator, Joe
Cardridge, volunteered to entertain the Literary Club.
“Boys, you did not know I was a speaker. Well, I was some, once,” he
asserted in his conceited way, “and if you’d like, I’ll give you the
‘Auctioneer.’”
Without waiting for an answer from the club, he called out to Cook
Charlie, “Where is that butter firkin I saw round here? I want it to
stand on.”
“A leetle ticklish, Joe. I wouldn’t resk it.”
“Oh, it’s good enough. An auctioneer must be up ’bove his crowd, you
know. Fun for ye now, boys, I tell ye. I was always great on it, and I
guess I’m good for it now. Where’s that firkin?”
The firkin was brought, turned upside down, and Joe mounted it. He
had forgotten a part of his speech, but it made no difference in his
enjoyment of his fancied brilliant success. He gesticulated, jumped
up and down, endeavored to work up into buying mood his audience with
frequent threats like this, “Goin’, goin’, genlummum!” The bottom of a
butter firkin can stand what is reasonable, but what self–respecting
firkin will submit to everything? Joe’s would not. In the midst of
several infuriated shrieks. “Goin’, goin’, genlummum,” his audience
looking on with a silent but manifest sneer, several heard a suspicious
“cr—cr—ack!” Joe in his intense admiration of the performer did
not hear it. He gave another jump, the word “gone” issuing from his
throat, when the firkin emphasized this threat by suddenly withdrawing
its bottom, and “gone” it was for the auctioneer! Down he came,
partly in the firkin and partly outside of it, falling in a very
mixed condition. The club roared. Any merriment was now sincere. The
president forgot all his dignity and joined in the laugh. The secretary
was always ready for any fun. As for Joe, he was mad. He declared that
he had been insulted. “Fool!” he shouted at Walter. “What you larfin’
at?” Leering at the company in his rage and mortification, he rushed
out of doors.
“Guess he’ll cool off there,” observed the president. “We will have the
next exercise.”
This was the “Opening of the Drawer.” Any one was at liberty to drop
into an imaginary drawer any question about the papers. He could ask it
orally, or write it on a slip of paper. The club would then attempt to
answer the question.
After a session of two hours, this company of literati broke up. It
resolved itself into a station–crew again. Distinguished orators and
able writers changed into hungry surfmen around a supper table where
huge cups of coffee sent up little clouds of fragrant steam. There
was a further change into patrolmen in thick Scotch caps, and Guernsey
jackets and heavy, stamping boots, into watchers for the night coming
and going. At last the unemployed members of the Literary Club were
all soundly snoring under thick army blankets, the little kitchen was
deserted, save by the keeper, and the stove made but a faint little
murmur by the side of that great black ocean thundering on the rocks
and roaring all through the cold, black night.