CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
THE BROWN MAN’S SERVANT
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
THE SKIPPER’S WOOING
CHAPTER I
The schooner _Seamew_, of London, Captain Wilson master and owner, had
just finished loading at Northfleet with cement for Brittlesea. Every
inch of space was packed. Cement, exuded from the cracks, imparted to
the hairy faces of honest seamen a ghastly appearance sadly out of
keeping with their characters, and even took its place, disguised as
thickening, among the multiple ingredients of a sea-pie that was
cooking for dinner.
It was not until the decks were washed and the little schooner was once
more presentable that the mate gave a thought to his own toilet. It was
a fine, warm morning in May, and some of the cargo had got into his
hair and settled in streaks on his hot, good-humored face. The boy had
brought aft a wooden bucket filled with fair water, and placed upon the
hatch by its side a piece of yellow soap and a towel. Upon these
preparations the mate smiled pleasantly, and throwing off his shirt and
girding his loins with his braces, he bent over and with much zestful
splashing began his ablutions.
Twice did the ministering angel, who was not of an age to be in any
great concern about his own toilet, change the water before the mate
was satisfied; after which the latter, his face and neck aglow with
friction, descended to the cabin for a change of raiment.
He did not appear on deck again until after dinner, which, in the
absence of the skipper, he ate alone. The men, who had also dined, were
lounging forward, smoking, and the mate, having filled his own pipe,
sat down by himself and smoked in silence.
“I’m keeping the skipper’s dinner ’ot in a small sorsepan, sir,” said
the cook, thrusting his head out of the galley.
“All right,” said the mate.
“It’s a funny thing where the skipper gets to these times,” said the
cook, addressing nobody in particular, but regarding the mate out of
the corner of his eye.
“Very rum,” said the mate, who was affably inclined just then.
The cook came out of the galley, and, wiping his wet hands on his dirty
canvas trousers, drew near and gazed in a troubled fashion ashore.
“E’s the best cap’n I ever sailed under,” he said slowly. “Ain’t it
struck you, sir, he’s been worried like these ’ere last few trips? I
told ’im as ’e was goin’ ashore as there was sea-pie for dinner, and ’e
ses, ‘All right, Joe’ ’e ses, just as if I’d said boiled beef and
taters, or fine mornin’, sir, or anythink like that!”
The mate shook his head, blew out a cloud of smoke and watched it
lazily as it disappeared.
“It strikes me as ’ow ’e’sarter fresh cargo or something,” said a stout
old seaman who had joined the cook. “Look ’ow ’e’s dressing nowadays!
Why, the cap’n of a steamer ain’t smarter!”
“Not so smart, Sam,” said the remaining seaman, who, encouraged by the
peaceful aspect of the mate had also drawn near. “I don’t think it’s
cargo he’s after, though—cement pays all right.”
“It _ain’t_ cargo,” said a small but confident voice.
“You clear out!” said old Sam. “A boy o’ your age shovin’ his spoke in
when ’is elders is talkin’! What next, I wonder!”
“Where am I to clear to? I’m my own end of the ship anyway,” said the
youth vindictively.
The men started to move, but it was too late. The mate’s latent sense
of discipline was roused and he jumped up in a fury.
“My——!” he said, “if there ain’t the whole blasted ship’s company
aft—every man Jack of ’em! Come down in the cabin, gentlemen, come down
and have a drop of Hollands and a cigar apiece. All the riffraff o’ the
foc’sle sitting aft and prattling about the skipper like a parcel o’
washerwomen. And smoking, by—! _smoking!_ Well, when the skipper comes
aboard he’ll have to get a fresh crew or a fresh mate. I’m sick of it.
Why, it might be a barge for all the discipline that’s kept! The boy’s
the only sailor among you.”
He strode furiously up and down the deck; the cook disappeared into the
galley, and the two seamen began to bustle about forward. The small
expert who had raised the storm, by no means desirous of being caught
in the tail of it, put his pipe in his pocket and looked round for a
job.
“Come here!” said the mate sternly.
The boy came towards him.
“What was that you were saying about the skipper?” demanded the other.
“I said it wasn’t cargo he was after,” said Henry.
“Oh, a lot you know about it!” said the mate.
Henry scratched his leg, but said nothing.
“A lot you know about it!” repeated the mate in rather a disappointed
tone.
Henry scratched the other leg.
“Don’t let me hear you talking about your superior officer’s affairs
again,” said the mate sharply. “Mind that!”
“No, sir,” said the boy humbly. “It ain’t my business, o’ course.”
“What isn’t your business?” said the mate carelessly. “His,” said
Henry.
The mate turned away seething, and hearing a chuckle from the galley,
went over there and stared at the cook—a wretched being with no control
at all over his feelings—for quite five minutes. In that short space of
time he discovered that the galley was the dirtiest hole under the sun
and the cook the uncleanest person that ever handled food. He imparted
his discoveries to the cook, and after reducing him to a state of
perspiring imbecility, turned round and rated the men again. Having
charged them with insolence when they replied, and with sulkiness when
they kept silent, he went below, having secured a complete victory, and
the incensed seamen, after making sure that he had no intention of
returning, went towards Henry to find fault with _him_.
“If you was my boy,” said Sam, breathing heavily, “I’d thrash you to
within a inch of your life.”
“If I was your boy I should drown myself,” said Henry very positively.
Henry’s father had frequently had occasion to remark that his son
favored his mother, and his mother possessed a tongue which was famed
throughout Wapping, and obtained honorable mention in distant
Limehouse.
“You can’t expect discipline aboard a ship where the skipper won’t let
you ’it the boy,” said Dick moodily. “It’s bad for ’im too.”
“Don’t you worry about me, my lads,” said Henry with offensive
patronage. “I can take care of myself all right. You ain’t seen _me_
come aboard so drunk that I’ve tried to get down the foc’sle without
shoving the scuttle back. You never knew _me_ to buy a bundle o’ forged
pawn-tickets. You never—”
“Listen to ’im,” said Sam, growing purple; “I’ll be ’ung for ’im yet.”
“If you ain’t, I will,” growled Dick, with whom the matter of the
pawn-tickets was a sore subject.
“Boy!” yelled the mate, thrusting his head out at the companion.
“Coming, sir!” said Henry. “Sorry I can’t stop any longer,” he said
politely; “but me an’ the mate’s going to have a little chat.”
“I’ll have to get another ship,” said Dick, watching the small spindly
figure as it backed down the companion-ladder. “I never was on a ship
afore where the boy could do as he liked.”
Sam shook his head and sighed. “It’s the best ship I was ever on,
barrin’ that,” he said sternly.
“What’ll ’e be like when he grows up?” demanded Dick, as he lost
himself in the immensity of the conjecture. “It ain’t right t’ the boy
to let him go on like that. One good hidin’ a week would do ’im good
and us too.”
Meantime the object of their care had reached the cabin, and, leaning
against the fireplace, awaited the mate’s pleasure.
“Where’s the cap’n?” demanded the latter, plunging at once into the
subject.
Henry turned and looked at the small clock.
“Walkin’ up and down a street in Gravesend,” he said deliberately.
“Oh, you’ve got the second-sight, I s’pose,” said the mate reddening.
“And what’s he doing that for?”
“To see ’er come out,” said the boy.
The mate restrained himself, but with difficulty.
“And what’ll he do when she does come out?” he demanded.
“Nothin’,” replied the seer with conviction. “What are you lookin’
for?” he inquired, with a trace of anxiety in his voice, as the mate
rose from the locker, and, raising the lid, began groping for something
in the depths.
“Bit o’ rope,” was the reply.
“Well, what did yer ask me for?” said Henry with hasty tearfulness.
“It’s the truth. ’E won’t do nothin’; ’e never does—only stares.”
“D’you mean to say you ain’t been gammoning me?” demanded the mate,
seizing him by the collar.
“Come and see for yourself,” said Henry.
The mate released him, and stood eyeing him with a puzzled expression
as a thousand-and-one little eccentricities on the part of the skipper
suddenly occurred to him.
“Go and make yourself tidy,” he said sharply; “and mind if I find
you’ve been doing me I’ll flay you alive.”
The boy needed no second bidding. He dashed up on deck and, heedless of
the gibes of the crew, began a toilet such as he had never before been
known to make within the memory of man.
“What’s up, kiddy?” inquired the cook, whose curiosity became
unbearable.
“Wot d’you mean?” demanded Henry with dignity.
“Washin’, and all that,” said the cook, who was a plain creature.
“Don’t you ever wash yourself, you dirty pig?” said Henry elegantly. “I
s’pose you think doin’ the cookin’ keeps you clean, though.”
The cook wrung his hands, and, unconscious of plagiarism, told Sam he’d
be ’ung for ’im.
“Me and the mate are goin’ for a little stroll, Sam,” observed the
youth as he struggled into his jersey. “Keep your eyes open, and don’t
get into mischief. You can give Slushy a ’and with the sorsepans if
you’ve got nothin’ better to do. Don’t stand about idle.”
The appearance of the mate impeded Sam’s utterance, and he stood
silently by the others, watching the couple as they clambered ashore.
It was noticed that Henry carried his head very erect, but whether this
was due to the company he was keeping or the spick-and-span appearance
he made, they were unable to determine.
“Easy—go easy,” panted the mate, mopping his red face with a
handkerchief. “What are you in such a hurry for?”
“We shall be too late if we don’t hurry,” said Henry; “then you’ll
think I’ve been tellin’ lies.”
The mate made no further protest, and at the same rapid pace they
walked on until they reached a quiet road on the outskirts of
Gravesend.
“There he is!” said Henry triumphantly, as he stopped and pointed up
the road at the figure of a man slowly pacing up and down. “She’s at a
little school up at the other end. A teacher or somethin’. Here they
come.”
As he spoke a small damsel with a satchel and a roll of music issued
from a house at the other end of the road, the advanced guard of a
small company which in twos and threes now swarmed out and went their
various ways.
“Nice girls, some of ’em!” said Henry, glancing approvingly at them as
they passed. “Oh, here she comes! I can’t say I see much in her
myself.”
The mate looked up and regarded the girl as she approached with
considerable interest. He saw a pretty girl with nice gray eyes and a
flush, which might be due to the master of the _Seamew_—who was
following at a respectful distance behind her—trying to look
unconcerned at this unexpected appearance.
“Halloa, Jack!” he said carelessly.
“Halloa!” said the mate, with a great attempt at surprise. “Who’d ha’
thought o’ seeing you here!”
The skipper, disdaining to reply to this hypocrisy, stared at Henry
until an intelligent and friendly grin faded slowly from that youth’s
face and left it expressionless. “I’ve just been having a quiet
stroll,” he said, slowly turning to the mate.
“Well, so long!” said the latter, anxious to escape.
The other nodded, and turned to resume his quiet stroll at a pace which
made the mate hot to look at him. “He’ll have to look sharp if he’s
going to catch her now,” he said thoughtfully.
“He won’t catch her,” said Henry; “he never does—leastways if he does
he only passes and looks at her out of the corner of his eye. He writes
letters to her of a night, but he never gives ’em to her.”
“How do you know?” demanded the other.
“Cos I look at ’im over his shoulder while I’m puttin’ things in the
cupboard,” said Henry.
The mate stopped and regarded his hopeful young friend fixedly.
“I s’pose you look over my shoulder too, sometimes?” he suggested.
“You never write to anybody except your wife,” said Henry carelessly,
“or your mother. Leastways I’ve never known you to.”
“You’ll come to a bad end, my lad,” said the mate thickly; “that’s what
you’ll do.”
“What ’e does with ’em I can’t think,” continued Henry, disregarding
his future. “’E don’t give ’em to ’er. Ain’t got the pluck, I s’pose.
Phew! Ain’t it ’ot!”
They had got down to the river again, and he hesitated in front of a
small beer-shop whose half open door and sanded floor offered a
standing invitation to passers-by.
“Could you do a bottle o’ ginger-beer?” inquired the mate, attracted in
his turn.
“No,” said Henry shortly, “I couldn’t. I don’t mind having what you’re
going to have.”
The mate grinned, and, leading the way in, ordered refreshment for two,
exchanging a pleasant wink with the proprietor as that humorist drew
the lad’s half-pint in a quart pot.
“Ain’t you goin’ to blow the head off, sir?” inquired the landlord as
Henry, after glancing darkly into the depths and nodding to the mate,
buried his small face in the pewter. “You’ll get your moustache all
mussed up if you don’t.”
The boy withdrew his face, and, wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand, regarded the offender closely. “So long as it don’t turn it red I
don’t mind,” he said patiently, “and I don’t think as ’ow your swipes
would hurt anythin’.”
He went out, followed by the mate, leaving the landlord wiping down the
counter with one hand while he mechanically stroked his moustache with
the other. By the time a suitable retort occurred to him the couple
were out of earshot.