"My bloder 'Ansey is doin' to drow a big, big man. As big as dad. My
bloder 'Ansey is doin' to be a sailor in s'ips, and Babs is doin'. 'Oo
_mufn't_ [mustn't] take my bloder away from Babs. 'Oor mudder mufn't,
and noboddy mufn't."
Meanwhile her brother was nearly strangled by the vehemence of her
affection. But he gently disengaged the little arm and set her on the
moss once more. He speedily enveloped her in the shawl, and then
hoisted her on his back.
Next he hung his bag in front, and handed the fishing-rod to Bob.
"We must all go now, lady."
"Oh, yes, and we too must go. We have to thank you for a very
interesting half-hour."
Ransey wasn't used to such politeness as this little speech indicated.
What to say in reply did not readily occur to him.
"Wish," he said awkwardly and shyly, "I could talk as nice like as you
and t'other young lady."
Miss Scragley smiled. She rather liked being thought a young lady even
by a little canal boy like Ransey.
"Oh, you will some day. Can you read?"
"Ye-es. Mother taught me to read, and by-and-by I'll teach Babs like
one o'clock. I can read `Nick o' the Woods' and the `Rev'lations o'
Saint John;' but Babs likes `Jack the Giant Killer' better'n the Bible.
An' oh," he added, somewhat proudly, "I got a letter to-day, and I could
read that; and it was to say as how father was comin' home in four days.
And the postman cheeked us, and shook his head, threat'nin' like, and I
threw a big turmut and broke it."
"What! broke his head?"
"Oh, no, mum, only jest the turmut. An' Bob went after him, and down
went postie. Ye would have larfed, mum."
"I'm afraid you're a bad boy sometimes."
"Yes, I feels all over bad--sometimes."
"I like bad boys best," said Eedie boldly, "they're such fun."
"Babs," said Ransey, "you'll hang me dead if you hold so tight."
"Well, dears, I'm going to come and see you to-morrow, perhaps, or next
day, and bring Babs a pretty toy."
"Babs," said the child defiantly, "has dot a dolly-bone, all dlessed and
boo'ful." This was simply a ham-bone, on the ball of which Ransey had
scratched eyes and a mouth and a nose, and dressed it in green moss and
rags. And Babs thought nothing could beat that.
As she rode off triumphantly on Ransey's back, Babs looked back, held
one bare arm on high, and shouted, "Hullay!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"What strange children!" said Miss Scragley to her niece. "They're not
at all like our little knights of the gutter down in the village where
we visit. This opens up life to me in quite a new phase. I'm sure
Captain Weathereye would be much interested. There is good, in those
poor canal children, dear, only it wants developing. I wonder how we
could befriend them without appearing officious or obtrusive. Consult
the captain, did you say?"
"I did not speak at all, aunt."
"Didn't you? However, that _would_ be best, as you suggested."
Miss Scragley did not call at Hangman's Hall next day--it looked
showery; but about twelve o'clock, while Ransey Tansey was stewing that
leveret with potatoes and a morsel of bacon, and Babs was nursing her
dolly-bone in the bassinette, where Ransey had placed her to be out of
the way, some one knocked sharply and loudly at the door.
The Admiral, swaying aloft in the gibbet-tree, sounded his tocsin, and
Bob barked furiously.
"Down, Bob!" cried Ransey, running to the door. He half expected the
postman.
He was mistaken, however, for there stood a smart but pale-faced flunkey
in a brown coat with gilt buttons.
Now Ransey could never thoroughly appreciate "gentlemen's gentlemen" any
more than he could gamekeepers.
The flunkey had a large parcel under his arm, which he appeared to be
rather ashamed of.
"Aw!" he began haughtily, "am I right in my conjecture that this is
'Angman's 'All?"
"Your conjecture," replied Ransey, mimicking the flunkey's tone and
manner, "is about as neah wight as conjectures gener'ly aw. What may be
the naychure of your business?"
"Aw! An' may I enquiah if you are the--the--the waggamuffin who saw
Miss Scwagley in the wood yestah-day?"
"I'm the young _gentleman_" said Ransey, hitching up his suspender, "who
had the honah of 'alf an hour's convehsation with the lady. I am Ransey
Tansey, Esq., eldest and only son of Captain Tansey of the _Mewwy
Maiden_. And," he added emphatically, "this is my dog _Bob_."
Bob uttered a low, ominous growl, and walked round behind the flunkey on
a tour of inspection.
The only comfort the flunkey had at that moment arose from the fact that
his calves were stuffed with hay.
"Aw! Beautiful animal, to be shuah. May I ask if this is the doag that
neahly killed the postman fellah?"
"That's the doag," replied Ransey, "who _would_ have killed the postman
fellah dead out, if I had tipped him the wink."
"Aw! Well, my business is vewy bwief. Heah is a pawcel from Miss
Scwagley, of which she begs your acceptance."
"Ah, thank you. Dee--lighted. Pray walk in. Sorry my butler is out at
pwesent. But what will you dwink--sherry, port, champagne--wum? Can
highly wecommend the wum."
"Oh, thanks. Then I'll have just a spot of wum."
Ransey brought out his father's bottle--a bottle that had lain untouched
for a long time indeed--and his father's glass, and the flunkey drank
his "spot," and really seemed to enjoy it.
Ransey opened the door for him.
"Convey my best thanks to Miss Scwagley," he said, "and inform her that
we will be ree--joiced to receive her, and that Miss Tansey and myself
will not fail to return the call at a future day. Good mo'ning."
"Good mawning, I'm shuah."
And the elegant flunkey lifted his hat and bowed.
Ransey ran in, gave the leveret stew just a couple of stirs to keep it
from burning, then threw himself into his father's chair, stretched out
his legs, and laughed till the very rafters rang.
Book 1--CHAPTER FIVE.
"OH, NO! I'LL NEVER LEAVE 'ANSEY TILL WE IS BOF DEADED."
The day had looked showery, but the sun was now shining very brightly,
and so Ransey Tansey laid dinner out of doors on the grass.
As far as curiosity went, Babs was quite on an equality with her sex,
and the meal finished, and the bones eaten by Bob, she wanted to know at
once what the man with the pretty buttons had brought.
Ransey's eyes, as well as his sister's, were very large, but they grew
bigger when that big parcel was opened.
There was a note from Miss Scragley herself right on the top, and this
was worded as delicately, and with apparently as much fear of giving
offence, as if Ransey had been the son of a real captain, instead of a
canal bargee.
Why, here was a complete outfit: two suits of nice brown serge for
Ransey himself, stockings and light shoes, to say nothing of real Baltic
shirts, a neck-tie, and sailor's cap.
"She's oceans too good to live, that lady is!" exclaimed Ransey,
rapturously.
"Me see!--me see! Babs wants pletty tlothes."
"Yes, dear Babs, look! There's pretty clothes."
That crimson frock would match Babs's rosy cheeks and yellow curly hair
"all to little bits," as Ransey expressed it.
After all the things had been admired over and over again, they were
refolded and put carefully away in father's strong locker.
I think that the Admiral knew there was gladness in the children's eyes,
for he suddenly hopped high up the hill, and did a dance that would have
delighted the heart of a Pawnee Indian.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"No," said Miss Scragley that same day after dinner, as she and her
friends sat out in the great veranda, "one doesn't exactly know, Mr
Davies, how to benefit children like these."
The parson placed the tips of his fingers together meditatively, and
looked down at Miss Scragley's beautiful setter.
"Of course," he said, slowly and meditatively, "teaching is essential to
their bodily as well as to their spiritual welfare."
"Very prettily put, Mr Davies," said Miss Scragley; "don't _you_ think
so, Dr Fairincks?"
"Certainly, Miss Scragley, certainly; and I was just wondering if they
had been vaccinated. I'd get the little one into a home, and the boy
sent to a Board school. And the father--drinks rum, eh?--get him into
the house. Let him end his days there. What should you propose,
Weathereye?"
"Eh? Humph! Do what you like with the little one. Send the boy to
school--a school for a year or two where he'll be flogged twice a day.
Hardens 'em. So much for the bodily welfare, parson. As to the
spiritual, why, send him to sea. Too young, Miss Scragley?
Fiddlesticks! Look at me. Ran away to sea at ten. In at the
hawse-hole, in a manner o' speaking. Just fed the dogs and the ship's
cat at first, and emptied the cook's slush-bucket. Got buffeted about a
bit, I can tell you. When I went aft, steward's mate kicked me for'ard;
when I got for'ard, cook's mate kicked me aft. No place of quiet and
comfort for me except swinging in the foretop with the purser's monkey.
But--it made a man of me. Look at me now, Miss Scragley."
Miss Scragley looked.
"Staff-commander of the Royal Navy. Three stripes. Present arms from
the sentries, and all that sort of thing. Ahem!"
And the bold mariner helped himself to another glass of Miss Scragley's
port.
"But you won't go to the wars again, Captain Weathereye?" ventured Miss
Scragley.
The Captain rounded on her at once--put his helm hard up, so to speak,
till he was bows on to his charming hostess.
His face was like a full moon rising red over the city's haze.
"How do _you_ know, madam? Not so very old, am I? War, indeed!
Humph!--I'll be sorry when that's done," he added.
"What! the war, Captain Weathereye?" said the lady.
"Fiddlesticks! No, madam, the _port_--if you will have it."
"As for the father of these children," he continued, after looking down
a little, "if he's been a sailor, as you say, the house won't hold him.
As well expect an eagle to live with the hens. Rum? Bah! I've drunk
as much myself as would float the _Majestic_."
"But I say, you know," he presently remarked as he took Eedie on his
knee; "Little Sweetheart here and I will run over to see the children
to-morrow forenoon, and we'll take the setter with us. Anything for a
little excitement, when one can't hunt or shoot. And we'll take you as
well, madam."
Miss Scragley said she would be delighted; at the same time she could
not help thinking the gallant captain's sentences might have been better
worded. He might have put _her_ before the setter, to say the least.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Next morning was a very busy one at Hangman's Hall.
Ransey Tansey was up betimes, but he allowed Babs to sleep on until he
had lit the fire, hung on the kettle, and run for the milk.
Ransey was only a boy, and boys will be boys, so he could not help
telling kind Mrs Farrow, the farmer's wife, of his luck, and how he
expected real society people to visit himself and Babs that day, so he
must run quickly home to dress.
"Certainly, dear," said Mrs Farrow; "and here are some lovely new-laid
eggs. You brought me fish, you know; and really I have so many eggs I
don't know what to do with them all. Good-bye, Ransey. Of course
you'll run across and tell me all about it to-night, and bring Babs on
your back."
Babs was a "dooder dirl" than usual that morning, if that were possible.
Ransey was so glad that the sun was shining; he was sure now that the
visit would be paid. But he had Babs to wash and dress, and himself as
well. When he had washed Babs and combed her hair, he set her high up
on the bank to dry, as he phrased it, and gave her the new doll to play
with. Very pretty she looked, too, in that red frock of hers.
Well, away went Ransey to the stream, carrying his bundle. Bob was left
to mind Babs.
Ransey was gone quite a long time, and the child grew weary and sighed.
"Bob!" said Babs.
"Yes, Babs," said Bob, or seemed to say.
"Tiss my new dolly."
Bob licked the doll's face. Then he licked Babs's hand. "Master'll
soon be back," he tried to tell her.
She was quiet for a time, singing low to her doll.
"Bob!" she said, solemnly now; "does 'oo fink [think] 'Ansey 'as fallen
in and dlowned hisself?"
"Oh, look, look, Bob," she cried the next moment, "a stlange man toming
here!"
Bob started up and barked most savagely. He was quite prepared to lay
down his life for his little charge. But as he rushed forward he
quickly changed his tune.
It was Ransey Tansey right enough, but so transformed that it was no
wonder that Babs and Bob took him for a stranger.
Even the Admiral must fly down from the gibbet-tree and dance wildly
round him. Murrams, the great tom-cat, came out and purred aloud; and
Babs clapped her tiny hands and screamed with delight.
"'Oo's a zentleman now," she cried; "and I'se a lady. Hullay!"
Ransey didn't feel quite comfortable after all, especially with shoes
on. To go racing through the woods in such a rig as this would be quite
out of the question. The only occupation that suggested itself at
present was culling wild flowers, and stringing them to put round Bob's
neck.
But even gathering wild flowers grew irksome at last, so Ransey got his
New Testament, and turning to Revelation, read lots of nice sensational
bits therefrom.
Babs was not so well pleased as she might and ought to have been; but
when her brother pulled out "Jack the Giant Killer," she set herself to
listen at once, and there were many parts she made Ransey read over and
over again, frequently interrupting with such questions as,--
"So Jack killed the big ziant, did he? 'Oo's _twite_ sure o' zat?"
"And ze axe was all tovered wi' blood and ziant's hair? My! how nice!"
"Six 'oung ladies, all stlung up by ze hair o' zer heads? Boo'ful!
'Oo's _twite_ sure zer was six?"
"An' the big ziant was doin' to kill zem all? My! how nice!"
Ransey was just describing a tragedy more ghastly than any he had yet
read, when from the foot of the slope came a stentorian hail:--
"Hangman's Hall, ahoy! Turn out the guard!" The guard would have
turned out in deadly earnest--Bob, to wit--if Ransey hadn't ordered him
to lie down. Then, picking up Babs, he ran down the hill, heels first,
lest he should fall, to welcome his visitors.
Miss Scragley was charmed at the change in the lad's personal
appearance, and Eedie frankly declared him to be the prettiest boy she
had ever seen.
Captain Weathereye hoisted Babs and called her a beautiful little rogue.
Then all sat down on the side of the hill to talk, Babs being perfectly
content, for the time being, to sit on the captain's knee and play with
his watch and chain.
"And now, my lad," said bold Weathereye, "stand up and let us have a
look at you. Attention! That's right. So, what would you like to be?
Because the lady here has a heart just brimful of goodness, and if you
were made of the right stuff she would help you to get on. A sailor?
That's right. The sea would make a man of you, lad. And if you were in
a heavy sea-way, with your masts gone by the board, bothered if old Jack
Weathereye wouldn't pay out a hawser and give you a helping hand
himself. For I like the looks of you. Glad you paid the postman out.
Just what I'd have done myself. Ahem!"
Ransey felt rather shy, though, to be thus displayed as it were. It was
all owing to the new clothes, I think, and especially to the shoes.
"Now, would you like to go to school?"
"What! and leave Babs? No, capting, no. I'd hate school anyhow; I'd
fight the small boys, and bite the big uns, and they'd soon turn me
adrift."
"Bravo, boy! I never could endure school myself.--What I say is this,
Miss Scragley, teach a youngster to read and write, with a trifle of
'rithmetick, and as he gets older he'll choose all the knowledge
himself, and tackle on to it too, that's needed to guide his barque
across the great ocean of life. There's no good in schools, Miss
Scragley, that I know of, except that the flogging hardens them.--Well,
lad, you won't go to school? There! And if you'll get your father to
allow you to come up to the Grange, just close by the village and
rectory, I'll give you a lesson myself, three times a week."
"Oh, thank you, sir! I'm sure father'll be pleased to let me come when
I'm at home and not at sea."
"Eh? at sea? Oh, yes, I know; you mean on the barge, ha, ha, ha! Well,
you'll live to face stormier seas yet."
"An' father's comin' to-morrow, sir, and then we're goin' on."
"Going on?"
"He means along the canal," said Miss Scragley.
"To be sure, to be sure. What an old fool I am! And now, lad, let me
think what I was going to say. Oh, yes. Don't those shoes pinch a
bit?"
"Never wears shoes and stockin's 'cept in winter, sir. I keeps 'em in
dad's locker till snow time."
"Now, in you go to your house or hut and take them off."
"Ha!" said Weathereye, when Ransey returned with bare feet and ankles,
"that's ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Now, lad, listen. If Miss
Scragley here asks you to come and see her--and I'm sure she will, for
she's an elderly lady, and likes to be amused,"--Miss Scragley winced a
little, but Weathereye held on--"when you're invited to the ancestral
home of the Scragleys, then you can wear them togs and your shoes; but
when you come to the Grange, it'll be in canvas bags, bare feet, a straw
hat, and a blue sweater--and my own village tailor shall rig you out.
Ahem!"
Captain Weathereye glanced at Miss Scragley as if he owed her a grudge.
The look might have been interpreted thus: "There are other people who
can afford to be as generous as you, and have a far better notion of a
boy's requirements."
"And now, Babs," he continued, kissing the child's little brown hand,
"I've got very fond of you all at once. Will you come and live with
me?"
"Tome wiz 'oo and live! Oh, no," she replied, shaking her yellow curls,
"I'll never leave 'Ansey till we is bof deaded. Never!"
And she slid off the captain's knee and flew to Ransey with outstretched
arms.
The boy knelt on one knee that she might reach his neck. Then he lifted
her up, and she looked defiantly back at the captain, with her cheek
pressed close to Ransey's.
Weathereye glanced towards Miss Scragley once again, and his voice was a
trifle husky when he spoke.
"Miss Scragley," he said, "old people like _you_ and me are apt to be
faddy. We will both do something for these poor children, but, bless
them, there's a bond of union betwixt their little hearts that we dare
not sever. The bairns must not be parted."
Book 1--CHAPTER SIX.