Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "THE GIRLS LOOKED DOWN WITH A SORT OF AWED CURIOSITY."
_See page_ 224.]
THE GIRL CRUSOES
_A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEAS_
BY
MRS. HERBERT STRANG
_ILLUSTRATED IN COLOUR BY N. TENISON_
LONDON
HENRY FROWDE
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
1912
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, U.S.,
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER THE FIRST
TOMMY AND THE OTHERS
CHAPTER THE SECOND
UNCLE BEN
CHAPTER THE THIRD
LEAVING HOME
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
ABOARD THE _ELIZABETH_
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
A MIDNIGHT WRECK
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
THE ISLAND BEAUTIFUL
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH
A LOCAL HABITATION
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
THE FISHERS
CHAPTER THE NINTH
THE LITTLE BROWN FACE
CHAPTER THE TENTH
ANXIOUS DAYS
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH
A TROPICAL STORM
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH
ALARMS AND DISCOVERIES
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
LOST
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH
IN THE PIT
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
THE ELEVENTH HOUR
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH
NEW TERRORS
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
THE FOUNDLING
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH
ANOTHER BROWN FACE
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH
THE SHARK
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH
THE PRISONER IN THE CAVE
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
A DESPERATE ADVENTURE
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
FRIENDS IN NEED
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD
THE HOME-COMING
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE GIRLS LOOKED DOWN WITH A SORT OF AWED
CURIOSITY" (see page 224) . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"LYING ON A PILE OF CANVAS HUDDLED A LITTLE FIGURE"
"THE THREE TOGETHER DRAGGED THE BOAT UP THE BEACH"
"'THERE!' SHE CRIED TRIUMPHANTLY, YET FEARFULLY"
"WITH A FINAL PULL THEY HAULED TOMMY OVER THE BRINK"
"SHE FELT THAT FANGATI COULD NOT REACH HER IN TIME"
CHAPTER I
TOMMY AND THE OTHERS
At noon on a day late in September, the express train from London
rested, panting and impatient, for a brief halt at the little
countryside station of Poppicombe. The arrival and departure of this
train was the event of the day to most of the inhabitants, not only of
Poppicombe, but of the surrounding villages. There were quite
half-a-dozen people standing on the platform, and the station staff,
consisting of two men and a boy, were moving about briskly. One man
was busily engaged in handing various newspapers and packages, which
had been thrown from the guard's van, to the people who had been
awaiting them; the other man, the stationmaster, was exchanging a few
words with the guard, at the end of the platform; while the boy porter,
looking about disconsolately for some doors to bang, distinguished
himself by suddenly slamming the open door of the luggage van, much to
the astonishment of the guard. As soon as the train had rumbled away,
the young porter seized a newspaper from a pile standing on a trolly,
opened it at a particular page, and, after reading a few words, let
forth a wild war-whoop. Then, in spite of the glare in the
stationmaster's eye, he rushed madly out of the station and looked
excitedly up Longhill Avenue. There in the distance he saw, coming
slowly towards the station, a young girl of twelve or thirteen years of
age, seated upon a sturdy Exmoor pony. Although she sat her mount with
the ease that comes only to the born rider, a close observer would have
noticed that the slight droop about her slim young shoulders became
more pronounced as she neared her destination. She was dressed in
black, and her plain wide-brimmed sailor hat was trimmed only with a
narrow band of crape.
She rode forward with an eye that seemed to ignore all outward objects,
her thin, small-featured face betokening a mood of deep despondency.
Her errand had been the same for many days, and day after day she had
met with nothing but disappointment. A few weeks ago she had taken the
journey at a canter. Now, in spite of her natural high spirits, Tommy,
as she was called by her family and friends, held the reins in such a
listless fashion that the pony merely sauntered through the Avenue, as
though he too shared her depression. Her lack of vigour was perhaps
the more noticeable because her thin, wiry body looked framed for
energy. There was an unmistakable air of health about the young
girlish figure, but Tommy, although she was quite unconscious of it,
was suffering from fatigue of the spirit. She had borne up bravely
enough at first, but successive daily disappointments had at length
proved too much for her.
Now Longhill Avenue does not belie its name. It has a hill, and the
hill is long and gently sloping, with rows of tall chestnut-trees on
either side. When Tommy had reached the foot of the hill, she suddenly
became aware that some one was shouting lustily. She started, and
looking up quickly, saw a quaint little figure, dressed in corduroys,
with a peaked cap much too large for him, wildly waving a paper, and
rushing towards her from the station yard as fast as hobnailed boots
allowed. She touched up her pony and was soon within hail of the
freckled, rosy-cheeked young porter, whose face was spread abroad with
smiles.
"It's all right, miss, her be sound as bacon," he gasped breathlessly.
"See then!" he added, and as Tommy came nearer to him he pointed with a
grimy thumb to the Shipping Intelligence column of the newspaper which
he had snatched from the pile at the station.
Tommy took the paper, and, scanning the paragraph eagerly, read: "The
barque Elizabeth, thirty days overdue from Valparaiso, spoken by the
liner Kildonan Castle, in the Bay of Biscay; all well."
As she read these few lines, the whole expression of Tommy's face
changed. Her dark eyes brightened; a wave of gladness seemed to surge
through her as she drew herself erect in the saddle. The smile about
the corners of her rather wide but sweet-looking mouth deepened, and
even her hair, which had appeared dispirited a few moments ago, now
curled itself more tightly about her small dainty head.
"Ah! won't they be glad!" she ejaculated in her clear, brisk voice.
"Dan, you're a cherub," she cried, "a perfect cherub; you are indeed,
Dan;" and, turning her pony about, was off like the wind.
Dan Whiddon watched her admiringly.
"Her do be mortal pleased," he said to himself, "and her naming me
'cherub' be her way o' saying 'thankee,' I reckon. 'Cherub,' says she.
Now what will old Berry be calling I?"
He clumped heavily back to the station.
"Now, you young stunpoll," cried the stationmaster sternly, "what do
'ee mean by rampaging off like that?"
"Miss Tommy's uncle bean't a dead 'un arter all, I reckon," said the
boy. "His ship be behind time, that's all, and he'll be coming
down-along soon."
Dan's reply was not a particularly lucid one, but as anybody's business
was everybody's business in Poppicombe, the station-master had no
difficulty in understanding the youth. He warned Dan of the evil
effects of not minding one's own business, and crossing the line,
entered into a long discussion with his ticket-clerk concerning Miss
Tommy and her private affairs.
Meanwhile Tommy was galloping at breakneck speed the four miles which
led to her home. About a quarter of a mile from Plum-Tree Farm, where
the Westmacott family, Tommy's people, had lived for generations, she
espied her sisters standing at the gate leading into the paddock. They
had heard the sound of the quick tramp of the pony's hoofs in the
distance, and had rushed out to see why Tommy on this particular day
was riding so furiously. On catching sight of them she repeated, in
her own inimitable way, Dan's method of breaking the good news. She
yelled at the top of her voice, and waved the newspaper high above her
head. So excited was she that she almost threw the newspaper at her
elder sister, and it dropped in a puddle formed by the recent rains.
Tommy was off the saddle in a moment, and leaving the pony to find his
way to the stable, she picked up the fallen paper, and wiping the dirt
from it with her pocket-handkerchief, gave it triumphantly to her tall,
dark, handsome sister Elizabeth, whilst Mary, the second girl, drawing
nearer to Elizabeth's side, stood quietly waiting.
The three girls bore a certain family likeness to each other, but the
differences were almost equally striking. The two eldest were tall and
slim, and had the same dark-coloured eyes, but there the resemblance
ceased. In character they were as far apart as the poles. Elizabeth,
called after her mother, who had died when Tommy was only a few months
old, was a capable girl of nineteen years of age, with a magnificent
head of rich dark hair, and deep-blue eyes. Her manner was grave and
quiet. She had been a mother to the two younger girls ever since she
could remember, and responsibility had made her old for her years. Her
father, too, had made her his constant companion, and she had been his
right hand in managing the farm and keeping the accounts during the
years that had preceded his death a few months before. Mary, the
second girl, who had just turned fifteen, was as fair as Elizabeth was
dark, but with the same deep-coloured starry eyes. She was the most
studious of the three, and it was always a great delight to Tommy, when
she found her lost in some book of travel or adventure, to awaken her
from her dreams by forming a mouthpiece with her hands and shouting in
poor Mary's ear, "Hallo! are you there?" But Tommy's winning smile
always disarmed Mary's wrath, and, in spite of constant small
disagreements, the two were excellent friends.
The youngest girl, Katherine, our friend Tommy, was thin and wiry in
build, somewhat short for her years, with small black twinkling eyes,
and a little head running over with golden curls. Her chief
characteristic so far was an endless capacity for getting into scrapes.
A demon of mischief always seemed lurking in the twinkling depths of
her merry eyes. Just now they danced with excitement, as she said:
"Well, of all the cool customers you must be the coolest, Mary, to
stand there waiting, and never to change a hair, or look over the paper
in Elizabeth's hand, or anything. Oh dear! Oh dear! what can you be
made of? Dear old Uncle Ben is coming home, coming home, coming home!"
and catching Mary by the waist, she sang, "Waltz me round, Mary, waltz
me round," and twirled her sister round and round until she was
completely out of breath.
"Do make her stop it, Bess," besought Mary gaspingly.
"Tommy darling, do try to be a bit sensible," said Elizabeth, with a
smile.
"Not I!" said Tommy, "why should be sensible?" as she gave Mary's
pigtail a tug.
Elizabeth, recognizing Tommy's mood, and fearing there would be
"ructions" presently, tactfully put her arm about her gay-hearted,
mischievous small sister, and led the way indoors.
This was not the first time by any means that Elizabeth had acted as
peacemaker in the Westmacott family. When she was quite a child, and
Tommy a mere baby, she had often been called by Mrs. Pratt, the
housekeeper, to see if she could induce "that plaguy young limb" to
behave herself. Later on, Elizabeth had, times without number, pleaded
with her father not to be so angry, or quite so severe, with his
youngest girl, however trying the child might be; and Mr. Westmacott,
seeing that Elizabeth thoroughly understood "the imp of mischief," as
he called her the day he had been obliged to summon all hands on the
farm to rescue her and her pony from a bog, left her more and more to
his eldest daughter's care. Then when Tommy was old enough to
accompany her sisters to "lessons" at the Vicarage, again Elizabeth had
to pour oil on troubled waters, for the vicar, an old friend of her
father's, who had undertaken the education of the three girls, and
whose word had hitherto been taken as law, often became very irritable
when Tommy would argue instead of accepting facts. As Tommy increased
in stature, she became, under Elizabeth's wise guidance, more and more
amenable to reason, but she never lost her absolute fearlessness and
independence.
All the girls had been encouraged by their father to live an open-air
life, and Tommy always led the way instinctively whenever they went
riding, driving, rowing and fishing. The farmhouse was the old manor
house. The huge kitchen, with its deep-seated fireplace and
low-raftered oak-beamed ceiling, was now used as a living-room. It had
three deep bay windows, each looking across the flower garden on to the
moors. The breath of autumn was in the air, but the hollyhocks and
gladioli still flaunted their gay colours, as though they refused to
own that summer had ended. The garden was Elizabeth's special pride;
she loved to keep it an old-fashioned, old-world garden, and had
herself planted sweet peas and stocks, and the spiked gillyflower,
amongst the lavender bushes and the oleanders. In fact, after her
father's death, when Elizabeth had found that his assets were really
"nil," owing to a succession of bad crops and the cattle-disease
spreading so rapidly among the kine, she had had serious thoughts of
trying to take up gardening as a profession, but on talking it over
with her sisters they agreed that it would be better to wait until the
return of their uncle.
Captain Barton was their mother's only brother. He was a deep-sea
captain, and at the time of his brother-in-law's death he was sailing
in mid-Pacific. But at the first port the vessel had touched, he had
received a letter from his eldest niece, telling him the sad news, and
how things were with them, and asking him to come to them as soon as he
could. He had answered the letter at once, and in his reply had done
his best to hearten them. He had advised Elizabeth to see the
landlord, place the facts before him, and ask him if he would allow the
rent to be in abeyance until her uncle arrived. The landlord had
consented, knowing the family so well, and so one great worry had for a
time been taken off Elizabeth's young shoulders. She was not obliged
to remove at once, but they all knew that it was impossible to keep on
the farm, even had it been paying, and several evenings were passed by
the three girls in wondering what they could do so as not to be a
burden upon their uncle. Mary had spoken of teaching, but there would
be no money to pay for the necessary training, so that idea had to be
given up. Tommy had a new idea about every other day as to what she'd
do in order to make the family fortune. One day she burnt three of the
saucepans, scalded herself rather badly, and made everything around her
"sticky," by trying to invent a new kind of jam. Another day she
concocted the Westmacott Cure for sick headache, and insisted upon her
sisters tasting the "awful mixture," which she assured them was
harmless, and was quite annoyed when Elizabeth and Mary advised her not
to invent anything else for a few years.
So the days went on, the girls busying themselves about the farm and
longing eagerly for the return of the only relation they had in the
world. Captain Barton had given them the probable date of his arrival
at Plymouth, but when the expected day came and passed without any
further news from him, they had all become more and more anxious and
alarmed, wondering if his vessel had gone down with all hands and left
no trace of her whereabouts. Hence Tommy's excitement and delight, and
Elizabeth and Mary's quiet joy, on hearing that their uncle was coming
to them at last.