Fred Temple was a tall, handsome young fellow of about five-and-twenty.
He had a romantic spirit, a quiet gentlemanly manner, a pleasant smile,
and a passionate desire for violent exercise. To look at him you would
have supposed that he was rather a lazy man, for all his motions were
slow and deliberate. He was never in a hurry, and looked as if it would
take a great deal to excite him. But those who knew Fred Temple well
used to say that there was a great deal more in him than appeared at
first sight. Sometimes a sudden flush of the brow, or a gleam of his
eyes, told of hidden fires within.
Fred, when a small boy, was extremely fond of daring and dangerous
expeditions. He had risked his life hundreds of times on tree-tops and
precipices for birds' nests, and had fought more hand-to-hand battles
than any of the old Greek or Roman heroes. After he became a man, he
risked his life more than once in saving the lives of others, and it was
a notable fact that many of the antagonists of his boyhood became, at
last, his most intimate friends.
Fred Temple was fair and ruddy. At about the age of nineteen certain
parts of his good-looking face became covered with a substance
resembling floss-silk. At twenty-five this substance had changed into a
pair of light whiskers and a lighter moustache. By means of that
barbarous custom called shaving he kept his chin smooth.
Fred's father was a wealthy Liverpool merchant. At the period when our
tale opens Fred himself had become chief manager of the business.
People began, about this time, to say that the business could not get on
without him. There were a great number of hands, both men and women,
employed by Temple and Son, and there was not one on the establishment,
male or female, who did not say and believe that Mr Frederick was the
best master, not only in Liverpool, but in the whole world. He did not
by any means overdose the people with attentions; but he had a hearty
offhand way of addressing them that was very attractive. He was a firm
ruler. No skulker had a chance of escape from his sharp eye, but, on
the other hand, no hard-working servant was overlooked.
One day it was rumoured in the works that Mr Frederick was going to
take a long holiday. Since his appointment to the chief charge, Fred
had taken few holidays, and had worked so hard that he began to have a
careworn aspect, so the people said they were "glad to hear it; no one
in the works deserved a long holiday better than he." But the people
were not a little puzzled when Bob Bowie, the office porter, told them
that their young master was going away for three months to chase the
sun!
"Chase the sun, Bob! what d'ye mean?" said one. "I don't know wot I
mean; I can only tell ye wot I say," answered Bowie bluntly.
Bob Bowie was an old salt--a retired seaman--who had sailed long as
steward of one of the ships belonging to the House of Temple and Son,
and, in consequence of gallantry in saving the life of a comrade, had
been pensioned off, and placed in an easy post about the office, with
good pay. He was called Old Bob because he looked old, and was
weather-worn, but he was stout and hale, and still fit for active
service.
"Come, Bowie," cried another, "how d'ye know he's goin' to chase the
sun?"
"Cause I heerd him say so," replied Bob.
"Was he in earnest?" inquired a third.
"In coorse he wos," said Bob.
"Then it's my opinion," replied the other, "that old Mr Temple'll have
to chase _his_ son, and clap him in a strait-jacket w'en he catches
him--if he talks such stuff."
The porter could not understand a joke, and did not like one, so he
turned on his heel, and, leaving his friends to laugh at their comrade's
jest, proceeded to the counting-room.
There were two counting-rooms--a small outer and a large inner one. In
the outer room sat a tall middle-aged man, lanky and worn in appearance
and with a red nose. Opposite to him, at the same desk, sat a small fat
boy with a round red face, and no chin to speak of. The man was writing
busily--the boy was drawing a caricature of the man, also busily.
Passing these, Bob Bowie entered the inner office, where a dozen clerks
were all busily employed, or pretending to be so. Going straight onward
like a homeward-bound ship, keeping his eyes right ahead, Bob was
stranded at last in front of a green door, at which he knocked, and was
answered with a hearty "Come in."
The porter went in and found Fred Temple seated at a table which was
covered with books and papers.
"Oh! I sent for you, Bowie, to say that I want you to go with me to
Norway to-morrow morning."
"To Norway, sir!" said Bowie in surprise.
"Ay, surely you're not growing timid in your old age, Bob! It is but a
short voyage of two or three days. My little schooner is a good
sea-boat, and a first-rate sailor."
"Why, as for bein' _timid_," said the porter, rubbing the end of his
nose, which was copper-coloured and knotty, "I don't think I ever knowed
that there feelin', but it does take a feller aback to be told all of a
suddent, after he's reg'larly laid up in port, to get ready to trip
anchor in twelve hours and bear away over the North Sea--not that I
cares a brass fardin' for that fish-pond, blow high, blow low, but it's
raither suddent, d'ye see, and my rig ain't just seaworthy."
Bowie glanced uneasily at his garments, which were a cross between those
of a railway-guard and a policeman.
"Never mind the rig, Bob," cried Fred, laughing. "Do you get ready to
start, with all the underclothing you have, by six to-morrow morning.
We shall go to Hull by rail, and I will see to it that your top-sails
are made all right."
"Wery good, sir."
"You've not forgotten how to make lobscouse or plum-duff, I dare say?"