_A TOKEN AT LAST._
The ship that had picked up Colley and Jack Harrison in mid-ocean, and
saved them from the lingering death of starvation, was bound for the
islands of the South Pacific, and the captain told them that they must
be content to be absent from England till the following spring. He had
to call at several of the islands, and exchange cargo, so that even
with fair weather their return voyage could not be made under nine
months.
Poor Colley was slow to recover; indeed, he never did recover fully
from the effects of those terrible days and nights at sea. But Jack
was young and strong, and he and Toby were soon, as old Colley said,
"hale and hearty as ever they were."
Jack earned his biscuit and won favour as well; and the captain's kind
heart was touched by Colley's history of what had happened to his old
mother and his little children at home, and the fear he had that he
should never see them again.
"I am cut to the heart that I can't work as a able-bodied seaman
should," Colley would say. "But God will reward you for your goodness
to me and the boy."
The captain puffed his short pipe, and said:
"I am an old hand now; but I say, Once get a taste of shipwreck like
yours, and you are cured of your craze for the sea. Not that I am
chicken-hearted, and I'd stand to my ship as your captain did--ay, and
go down with her if needs must; but for all that it is a roughish life,
and a terrible trial for them that love you and are left ashore."
"Ay! ay!" old Colley said, "there's the pinch. The youngster's father
made off to better himself now ten years agone, and he's never been
heard of from that day to this. Dead, of course; only the poor woman,
his wife, won't believe it--so the lad says."
A day or two after this the captain called Jack, and said:
"The mate wants a word with you in private."
"What have I done to offend him, sir?" Jack said.
"Don't jump at conclusions, youngster. Did I say anything was wrong?
Be off with you."
Jack went to the mate's berth, and found him sitting cross-legged on
the edge, and looking mysterious.
"Is your name Harrison, young 'un?'
"Yes," Jack said.
"Do you hail from Yarmouth?"
"Yes," said Jack again.
"Where's your father?"
"He was lost at sea--so we think; but we never heard a word about it,
and mother thinks he may be still alive."
"Did he own several small herring boats, and have a share in a
curing-house, before he went a-whaling?"
"Yes," Jack said, growing more and more wondering and excited by these
questions.
"Look here, youngster. When I was a boy, eleven years ago, I was
working on a whaleship, and your father was aboard. His name was John
Harrison, hailing from Yarmouth."
"Oh!" Jack said. "Where is he--do you know?"
"No, my lad; let us hope his soul is gone aloft, but his body is lost.
We had dragged our boat across a field of ice for some miles, on the
look-out for our ship, which we had left, stored with provisions, in
open water. We were pretty near starving, for we had missed the track,
and the men said they would not go on another step. But your father,
boy, had a brave heart, such as I never saw before or since; and he
said, if those that were too chicken-hearted to go on, would stay where
they were for a few hours, he would go ahead and find the ship, as he
knew perfectly well we were near it, and near a village of the folk
they call Esquimaux. One youngster, just such another as you, said,
'I'm your man, captain'; and they set off with a good heart. We that
were left turned our boat bottom upwards, and a sorry set we were,
frost-bitten and starving. We huddled together to keep each other
warm--warm! why, I am cold now when I think of it; and look here, I
lost a finger and the end of a thumb that same time."
"How?" Jack asked.
"How? Frost-bitten, of course. Well, those two that left us never
came back, and never were seen again. We waited till we were so weak
we could scarce crawl, and then two of us--for three of the fellows
died--made our way back, and found a ship which took us aboard; but
never a word of your father and the young 'un from that day."
"My father!" said Jack. "Are you sure?"
"Well, I am as sure as I can be of anything. I was rummaging in my
locker t' other day, after we had picked you and old Colley up, and I
knew your name, and I found an old handkerchief that belonged to John
Harrison, and I'll proceed to produce it, lad."
The mate then dragged from the depths of the locker a torn and ragged
red handkerchief, with yellow spots, and in the corner in white letters
was marked with thread, "J. H."
"Yes, boy, there's the article, and your father gave it to me to tie up
my leg, which had a bad wound. He was uncommon loth to part with it,
but there never was a man with a kinder heart, never. He was a bit
fiery and off at a tangent, always thinking he was right and every one
else wrong; but he was a fine fellow, and you bid fair to be like him.
Here, take the handkerchief, and you can show it to your mother.
She'll know it; for John said to me, 'I'll let you have it for your
poor leg; but when I come back you must give it to me again, because my
wife tied it round my neck when I bid her good-bye, and I value it.' I
remember he said, 'She is a right good woman is my wife, and I'll see
her and the boy again, please God. I never lose heart.' Well, he may
see you again in the next world, but never in this, boy, never in this;
he is dead and gone long ago."
Jack folded the handkerchief, and put it in his pocket. He felt
strangely affected by the sailor's story, and could only say:
"If ever I see my mother again she shall have this token. She has
often prayed for a token that my father was dead, or a sign that he was
living; and now she will have it."
Then Jack returned to his post on the deck, and, throwing himself down
behind some loose crates, found himself sobbing bitterly.
The homeward voyage was prosperous, and it was on a bright August
evening that the white cliffs of old England came in sight. In another
hour Jack and his old friend found themselves dropping down with the
tide to St. Catherine's Docks.
They were penniless, and how to get back to Yarmouth was a puzzle.
Jack could walk, but Colley could only hobble with the help of a stick.
The captain was kindly-disposed, and at parting gave Jack a few
shillings, saying he had more than earned his biscuit; while the mate
said he felt quite downhearted at losing him.
"Tell 'ee what, lad," Colley said, "I know there's a place where the
shipwrecked fishermen's folk hang out. Let's enquire for it, and may
be they'll give us a helping hand."
So the two made their way through the crowded thoroughfares to the
place which has been a refuge for many in like circumstances. The
kindness of their reception greatly cheered old Colley, and they were
put up for the night, while inquiries were made about the _Galatea_,
and the truth of their story.
"The _Galatea_ had been lost, with all hands," was the answer from
Lloyd's; and the captain of the _Claudia_, the ship which had picked
the poor waifs up in mid-ocean, gave both man and boy an excellent
character.
"The old geezer was useless, but I didn't grudge him his berth. What's
the world like, if we can't hold out a helping hand to one another in
trouble?"
This was all satisfactory, and money was provided to pay the railway
journey to Yarmouth, while Jack's few shillings were expended in a pair
of second-hand boots for himself, and a new jersey--that which had
served for a flag of distress in mid-ocean being so full of holes that
he presented a very ragged appearance.
Home at last! Home! Yes, where his mother was, was Home. He would
not care about the cold looks of his aunt: he would bear even Mr.
Skinner's gibes and scoffs: he would bear everything for his mother's
sake. And then, at last he had tidings for her!
Colley was put down at a station before Yarmouth was reached, as it was
nearer the home of his old mother, who looked after his little ones.
"For I married late in life, my boy," he said to Jack, "and lost my
poor wife almost as soon as I'd got her. She just lived to be the
mother of the youngest of the three children, and then she died. The
sailor's life is a hard one, and the wives of sailors have a hard time,
boy! The men grow old, like me, before their time. Why, I'm but just
over fifty years old, and I feel a vast deal more like seventy. Take
my advice, boy, and give up the sea. You are a good scholar, and you
are the only son of your mother. Bear all your aunt's hard words, and
live ashore, and be a comfort to her. You have had your lesson. God
has given you a pretty hard one to learn, first page! But never
mind--so much the better for you. Those days and nights were about the
worst I ever went through, and I've had a taste of dangers, I can tell
you. Don't you forget them, nor the Lord's mercy to you and me in
delivering us from the dreadful death of starvation. Don't forget it."
"Forget it!" Jack said. "Why, I dream of it most nights, and see
little Peter's dying eyes. I----"
Jack's voice was choked with tears, and old Colley wrung his hand,
while Toby wriggled up to him, and licked his face with silent sympathy.
Colley stumbled out of the carriage with Toby in his arms when the
station was reached, and so they parted.
In a few minutes more Jack found himself in Yarmouth, and was making
his way towards the row. His only thought was of his mother and little
Miss Joy. He looked up the familiar row, and then darted through it
till he came to the little milliner's shop. The widow's caps still
showed in the window, and there was a straw bonnet trimmed, and some
artificial flowers, lying on a very dusty bit of black velvet. The
window that used to be so bright looked dim, and the brass ledge before
it dull and stained. Altogether there was a dejected appearance about
the place. The door was open, and Jack entered cautiously.
His aunt was sitting behind the counter waiting for customers, who were
slow to come; for the business had very much declined since Mr. Skinner
had taken the command and Mrs. Harrison had left the house.
Mrs. Skinner looked very different from the Miss Pinckney of scarcely a
year ago. She had a dirty, faded look, and her face was pinched and
miserable. When she saw a sailor boy standing by the counter, she rose
and said--
"What for you? Have you brought a message from any one?"
"No, Aunt Pinckney. Don't you know me? Where's my mother?"
Mrs. Skinner was for a moment speechless. Then she raised her shrill
voice--
"Joe! Joe! come here; the young thief is come back."
Mr. Skinner, who was apparently smoking in the back parlour and taking
life easily, now appeared.
"What are you making such a row about? screeching like a poll-parrot!"
Days of courtship and days of matrimony are apt to differ, in cases
like that of Mr. and Mrs. Skinner!
Then, having delivered himself of this polite question, Mr. Skinner
caught sight of Jack.
"You! oh! it's you, is it? Well, the police have been looking for you,
and I'll just give you in charge."
Jack, utterly bewildered, was for the moment speechless. Then he said--
"Hands off! What do you mean? Where's my mother?"
"She is not here; so you needn't think any of her crying and fuss will
avail. I'll give you in charge unless you confess."
"Confess what?" said Jack, wriggling away from Mr. Skinner's grip.
"Hands off, I say! I am not going to run away. What am I to confess?"
"Take him into the back parlour, Joe. You'll have the neighbours
coming in: take him out of the shop."
"Hold your tongue!" was the rejoinder. "I shall do as I choose."
"Let me go and call Mr. Boyd," Jack said. "He will tell me where my
mother is. Let him be a witness of what you say, and what charge you
have against me."
Jack now looked across the row for the first time, and saw a young man
standing at the door of the little stuffy shop, which, unlike its
opposite neighbour, had grown smarter, and had a lot of ships' lanterns
hanging over the door, and showy aneroids and compasses in the window.
"Where's Mr. Boyd? Where's little Joy's Uncle Bobo?"
"Gone! He has sold the business; he is gone right away."
"Gone! And where's Joy--little Miss Joy? I tell you I will know. And
where is my mother?"
"Look here, youngster! This matter must be cleared up. You'll not be
let off so easy; but if you confess, well--we shan't be hard on you."
"Confess _what_?" Jack shouted now. He was getting very angry, and
repeated, "Confess _what_?"
"Oh, that's all very fine! Perhaps you've forgotten you ran away and
broke your poor mother's heart, and took my little cash-box with you
with four pounds odd money in it," said his aunt.
"It's convenient to forget. You'd better not try to fool _me_," said
Mr. Skinner. "Your aunt's key of that drawer was in her little
key-basket. You slily took it out, and when the house was quiet,
opened the drawer and put the box in your pocket I see!"
Jack's face grew crimson. He felt very much inclined to fly at Mr.
Skinner's throat, and pummel him well with his strong young fist. But
the vision of his mother and little Miss Joy rose before him, and with
a desperate effort he controlled himself.
"Prove what you say, and don't call me a thief till you have proved me
one."
"Well, it's my duty--my painful duty," said Mr. Skinner, "to lock you
up till I have fetched a policeman, and communicated with your mother."
"You needn't _lock_ me up," said Jack proudly. "If I say I'll stay
here, I'll stay. Indeed, I will stay till you have made it all clear.
Your little cash-box! Aunt Pinckney----"
"No, no, not Aunt Pinckney; I am Mrs. Skinner now."
The tone was so sad that Jack's boyish heart was touched.
"Do you think I could steal a penny of yours, aunt, when you had kept
me and mother all those years? Will you send for her? and I will stay
till she comes."
But Mr. Skinner pushed Jack into the kitchen behind the parlour.
He had just turned the key in the lock, when a voice was heard in the
shop--Bet's voice.
"I have brought you some fresh eggs, and half a pound of butter, Aunt
Skinner," she said. "Aunt Maggie sent them with her love. What is
amiss, Aunt?"
"Child," Mrs. Skinner said, "Jack is come home. Your uncle has locked
him up in the kitchen. Hush! here he is."
"Well, what are you prying about here for?" Mr. Skinner said. "Oh,
eggs! My dear, poach me a couple for supper; I'm fond of poached eggs."
But Bet stood on one foot speechless by the counter, where she had put
the basket.
"What do you say Jack stole?"
"My little cash-box, the night he ran away; but I don't want to be hard
on the boy--my only sister's child. I'll forgive him if he'll confess."
Bet stood pondering for another moment, and then she said--
"I've got another errand to do. I'll come back for the basket."
And Bet was off, as if on the wings of the wind--off to the Denes and
the little lonely red-brick house, which was shut up and had a board on
a pole in the front garden, with "To Let. Inquire for the key at Mr.
Skinner's, Market Row," painted in white letters on it.
Bet looked right and left; there was no one in sight, and she went
round to the back, and found, to her great joy, an old trowel with half
the handle broken, which she seized eagerly. She went down on her
hands and knees, and dug and burrowed with her fingers in the soft,
sandy soil. Her heart beat wildly with hope and fear; her hat fell
back, and her tawny hair fell over her shoulders. The light of the
April evening was waning; she had not a moment to lose.
"It was here--it was here--it must have been just here," she cried.
Some people passing on the raised path where Uncle Bobo had sat on the
evening of little Miss Joy's accident turned to look at her once, and
wondered what she was doing, digging there on hands and knees.
At last Bet stopped, and, raising her head and clasping her hands,
said--
"Little Miss Joy would tell me to pray to God to help me to find it.
He would hear _her_. Will He hear me, I wonder?"
Then poor Bet uttered a few words, calling on God, who saw everything,
to show her where what she sought lay hid.
She redoubled her efforts, and moving a little further from the house,
she dug another hole till she came to some bricks. She lifted them,
and there was the little cash-box--empty now, but, oh! of what
priceless value!
Bet gathered up her stray tools, and putting on her hat, ran off again
along the sand by the sea-shore, now left hard by the retreating tide,
on and on to the farther end of that part of Yarmouth where a road,
then lately made, led towards Gorlestone. Breathless and panting she
reached the first of two pretty houses standing together, with a strip
of garden in front, bright now with wallflowers and hardy hepaticas and
celandines.
Under the porch of the first, smoking his pipe, sat Uncle Bobo; and
warmly covered with a rug, in a reclining chair by his side, was little
Miss Joy.
Maggie Chanter was sowing some seeds in the window-box of the next
house, and Mrs. Harrison was standing by the porch, waiting and
watching. She had her knitting in her hand, but her eyes were on the
sea, with the same wistful longing in them as of old.
"Jack is come home. Jack!" gasped Bet. "They say he stole the
cash-box, but--but--I've found it. Quick! take it to Uncle Joe, and
say I found it in the ground at the back of grannie's old home."