One fine afternoon, not long after the visit to the _coper_, Bob
Lumsden, _alias_ Lumpy, was called from his culinary labours to assist
in hauling in the net.
Now it is extremely interesting to note what a wonderful effect the
power of loving sympathy can have on a human being. Lumpy was a human
being--though some of his mates insisted that he must have been
descended from a cod-fish, because his mouth was so large. No doubt it
was, and when the boy laughed heartily he was, indeed, apt to remind one
of that fish; nevertheless it was a good, well-shaped mouth, though
large, with a kindly expression about it, and a set of splendid white
teeth inside of it. But, whether human or fishy in his nature, Bob
Lumsden had been overwhelmed by a flood of sympathy ever since that
memorable day when he had first caught a glimpse of the sweet, pale face
of the little invalid Eve Mooney. It was but a brief glimpse, yet it
had opened a new sluice in Lumpy's heart, through which the waters of
tenderness gushed in a wild torrent.
One of the curious results of this flood was that Bob was always more
prompt to the summons to haul up the trawl than he had ever been before,
more energetic in clawing the net inboard, and more eager to see and
examine the contents of the cod-end. The explanation is simple. He had
overheard his skipper say how fond Eve was of shells--especially of
those which came from the bottom of the North Sea, and of all sorts of
pretty and curious things, wherever they came from.
From that hour Bob Lumpy became a diligent collector of marine
curiosities, and the very small particular corner of the vessel which he
called his own became ere long quite a museum. They say that sympathy
is apt to grow stronger between persons of opposite constitutions. If
this be so, perhaps it was his nature--his bold, hearty, gushing,
skylarking spirit, his strong rugged frame, his robust health, his
carroty hair, his appley cheeks, his eagle nose, his flashing eyes--that
drew him so powerfully to the helpless, tender little invalid, with her
delicate frame and pale cheeks, straight little nose, bud of a mouth,
and timid, though by no means cowardly, spirit.
On another occasion Bob overheard Lockley again talking about Eve. "I'm
sorry for the poor thing," he said to Peter Jay, as they paced the deck
together; "she's got such a wretched home, an' her mother's such a
drunken bru--"
Lockley checked himself, and did not finish the sentence.
"The doctor says," he resumed, "that if Eve had only a bath-chair or
suthin' o' that sort, to get wheeled about in the fresh air, she'd very
likely get better as she growed older--specially if she had good
victuals. You see, small as she is, and young as she looks, she's over
fifteen. But even if she had the chair, poor thing! who would wheel it
for her? It would be no use unless it was done regular, an' her mother
can't do it--or won't."
From that hour Bob Lumpy became a miser. He had been a smoker like the
rest of the crew, but he gave up "baccy." He used to take an occasional
glass of beer or spirits when on shore or on board the _copers_, but he
became a total abstainer, much to his own benefit in every way, and as a
result he became rich--in an extremely small way.
There was a very small, thin, and dirty, but lively and intelligent boy
in Yarmouth, who loved Bob Lumsden better, if possible, than himself.
His name was Pat Stiver. The affection was mutual. Bob took this boy
into his confidence.
One day, a considerable time after Bob's discovery of Eve, Pat, having
nothing to do, sauntered to the end of Gorleston Pier, and there to his
inexpressible joy, met his friend. Before he had recovered sufficiently
from surprise to utter a word, Bob seized him by the arms, lifted him
up, and shook him.
"Take care, Lumpy," cried the boy, "I'm wery tender, like an over-young
chicken. You'd better set me down before I comes in pieces."
"Why, Stiver, you're the very man I was thinkin' of," said Lumpy,
setting the boy on the edge of the pier, and sitting down beside him.
Stiver looked proud, and felt six inches taller.
"Listen," said Bob, with an earnest look that was apt to captivate his
friends; "I want help. Will you do somethin' for me?"
"Anything," replied the boy with emphasis, "from pitch and toss to
manslaughter!"
"Well, look here. You know Eve Mooney?"
"Do I know the blessedest angel in all Gorleston? In course I does.
Wot of her?"
"She's ill--very ill," said Lumpy.
"You might as well tell me, when it's daytime, that the sun's up,"
returned Pat.
"Don't be so awful sharp, Stiver, else I'll have to snub you."
"Which you've on'y got to frown, Bob Lumpy, an' the deed's done."
Bob gave a short laugh, and then proceeded to explain matters to his
friend: how he had been saving up his wages for some time past to buy a
second-hand bath-chair for Eve, because the doctor had said it would do
her so much good, especially if backed up with good victuals.
"It's the wittles as bothers me, Stiver," said Bob, regarding his friend
with a puzzled expression.
"H'm! well," returned the small boy seriously, "wittles has bothered me
too, off an' on, pretty well since I was born, though I'm bound to
confess I does get a full blow-out now an'--"
"Hold on, Stiver; you're away on the wrong tack," cried Bob,
interrupting. "I don't mean the difficulty o' findin' wittles, but how
to get Eve to take 'em."
"Tell her to shut her eyes an' open her mouth, an' then shove 'em in,"
suggested Pat.
"I'll shove you into the sea if you go on talking balderdash," said Bob.
"Now, look here, you hain't got nothin' to do, have you!"
"If you mean in the way o' my purfession, Bob, you're right. I purfess
to do anything, but nobody as yet has axed me to do nothin'. In the
ways o' huntin' up wittles, howsever, I've plenty to do. It's hard
lines, and yet I ain't extravagant in my expectations. Most coves
require three good meals a day, w'ereas I'm content with one. I begins
at breakfast, an' I goes on a-eatin' promiskoously all day till arter
supper--w'en I can get it."
"Just so, Stiver. Now, I want to engage you professionally. Your
dooties will be to hang about Mrs Mooney's, but in an offhand, careless
sort o' way, like them superintendent chaps as git five or six hundred a
year for doin' nuffin, an' be ready at any time to offer to give Eve a
shove in the chair. But first you'll have to take the chair to her, an'
say it was sent to her from--"
"Robert Lumsden, Esquire," said Pat, seeing that his friend hesitated.
"Not at all, you little idiot," said Bob sharply. "You mustn't mention
my name on no account."
"From a gentleman, then," suggested Pat.
"That might do; but I ain't a gentleman, Stiver, an' I can't allow you
to go an' tell lies."
"I'd like to know who is if you ain't," returned the boy indignantly.
"Ain't a gentleman a man wot's gentle? An' w'en you was the other day
a-spreadin' of them lovely shells, an' crabs, an' sea-goin' kooriosities
out on her pocket-hankercher, didn't I _see_ that you was gentle?"
"I'll be pretty rough on you, Pat, in a minit, if you don't hold your
jaw," interrupted Bob, who, however, did not seem displeased with his
friend's definition of a gentleman. "Well, you may say what you like,
only be sure you say what's true. An' then you'll have to take some
nice things as I'll get for her from time to time w'en I comes ashore.
But there'll be difficulties, I doubt, in the way of gettin' her to take
wittles w'en she don't know who they comes from."
"Oh, don't you bother your head about that," said Pat. "I'll manage it.
I'm used to difficulties. Just you leave it to me, an' it'll be all
right."
"Well, I will, Pat; so you'll come round with me to the old furnitur'
shop in Yarmouth, an' fetch the chair. I got it awful cheap from the
old chap as keeps the shop w'en I told him what it was for. Then you'll
bring it out to Eve, an' try to git her to have a ride in it to-day, if
you can. I'll see about the wittles arter. Hain't quite worked that
out in my mind yet. Now, as to wages. I fear I can't offer you none--"
"I never axed for none," retorted Pat proudly.
"That's true Pat; but I'm not a-goin' to make you slave for nuthin'.
I'll just promise you that I'll save all I can o' my wages, an' give you
what I can spare. You'll just have to trust me as to that."
"Trust you, Bob!" exclaimed Pat, with enthusiasm, "look here, now; this
is how the wind blows. If the Prime Minister o' Rooshia was to come to
me in full regimentals an' offer to make me capting o' the Horse Marines
to the Hemperor, I'd say, `No thankee, I'm engaged,' as the young woman
said to the young man she didn't want to marry."
The matter being thus satisfactorily settled, Bob Lumsden and his little
friend went off to Yarmouth, intent on carrying out the first part of
their plan.
It chanced about the same time that another couple were having a quiet
chat together in the neighbourhood of Gorleston Pier. Fred Martin and
Isa Wentworth had met by appointment to talk over a subject of peculiar
interest to themselves. Let us approach and become eavesdroppers.
"Now, Fred," said Isa, with a good deal of decision in her tone, "I'm
not at all satisfied with your explanation. These mysterious and long
visits you make to London ought to be accounted for, and as I have
agreed to become your wife within the next three or four months, just to
please _you_, the least you can do, I think, is to have no secrets from
_me_. Besides, you have no idea what the people here and your former
shipmates are saying about you."
"Indeed, dear lass, what do they say?"
"Well, they say now you've got well they can't understand why you should
go loafing about doin' nothin' or idling your time in London, instead of
goin' to sea."
"Idlin' my time!" exclaimed Fred with affected indignation. "How do
they know I'm idlin' my time? What if I was studyin' to be a doctor or
a parson?"
"Perhaps they'd say that _was_ idlin' your time, seein' that you're only
a fisherman," returned Isa, looking up in her lover's face with a bright
smile. "But tell me, Fred, why should you have any secret from _me_?"
"Because, dear lass, the thing that gives me so much pleasure and hope
is not absolutely fixed, and I don't want you to be made anxious. This
much I will tell you, however: you know I passed my examination for
skipper when I was home last time, and now, through God's goodness, I
have been offered the command of a smack. If all goes well, I hope to
sail in her next week; then, on my return, I hope to--to take the
happiest. Well, well, I'll say no more about that, as we're gettin'
near mother's door. But tell me, Isa, has Uncle Martin been worrying
mother again when I was away?"
"No. When he found out that you had got the money that was left to her,
and had bought an annuity for her with it, he went away, and I've not
seen him since."
"That's well. I'm glad of that."
"But am I to hear nothing more about this smack, not even her name?"
"Nothing more just now, Isa. As to her name, it's not yet fixed. But,
trust me, you shall know all in good time."
As they had now reached the foot of Mrs Martin's stair, the subject was
dropped.
They found the good woman in the act of supplying Granny Martin with a
cup of tea. There was obvious improvement in the attic. Sundry little
articles of luxury were there which had not been there before.
"You see, my boy," said Mrs Martin to Fred, as they sat round the
social board, "now that the Lord has sent me enough to get along without
slavin' as I used--to do, I takes more time to make granny comfortable,
an' I've got her a noo chair, and noo specs, which she was much in want
of, for the old uns was scratched to that extent you could hardly see
through 'em, besides bein' cracked across both eyes. Ain't they much
better, dear?"
The old woman, seated in the attic window, turned her head towards the
tea-table and nodded benignantly once or twice; but the kind look soon
faded into the wonted air of patient contentment, and the old head
turned to the sea as the needle turns to the pole, and the soft murmur
was heard, "He'll come soon now."