In less rapid times, before the invention of the electric telegraph and
other scientific luxuries, Captain Gething would have remained quietly
on board the _Seamew_, and been delivered to his expectant family
without any further trouble. As it was, the message in which Captain
Wilson took such pride, reached Mrs. Gething just as Mr. Glover—who had
been sitting in her parlor all the afternoon, listening as patiently as
he could to her somewhat uninteresting conversation—was on the point of
departure. The effect on him was hardly less marked than on his
hostess, and he went on his way to the railway station in a condition
in which rage and jealousy strove for the mastery. All the way to town
he pondered over ways and means to wrest from his rival the prize which
he had won, and by the time the train had reached Fenchurch Street he
had hatched as pleasant a little plot as ever occurred to a man, most
of whose existence had been spent amid the blameless surroundings of
ladies’ hosiery. Half an hour later he was sitting in the dingy
furnished apartments of a friend of his who lived in a small house off
the Walworth Road.
“I want you to do me a favor, Tillotson,” he said to the
unkempt-looking tenant.
“I shall be delighted,” said Mr. Tillotson, sticking his hands in his
pockets, and warming himself comfortably at a fire-stove ornament
trimmed with red paper roses—“if I can, you know.”
“It is a great favor,” said Glover.
Mr. Tillotson, looking very despondent, said, of course, that would
please him more.
“I wouldn’t ask anybody but you to do it,” said the wily Glover. “If it
comes off all right I will get you that berth you asked me for at
Leatham and Roberts’.”
“It’s coming off, then,” said Mr. Tillotson, brightening visibly. “If
you will wait a minute—if the girl is in I will ask her if she will go
and get us something to drink.”
“I had better begin at the beginning,” said Mr. Glover, as, all the
’ifs’ having been triumphantly surmounted, he helped himself from a
small flat bottle of whiskey; “it won’t take long.”
He lit his pipe, and, plunging into his story, finished it without
interruption.
“You are a deep one, Glover,” said his admiring friend when he had
finished. “I thought you had been very smart lately—not but what you
were always a dressy man,” he added thoughtfully.
“I believe in keeping my own things to myself,” said Glover.
“And this bargee has got the old un,” said Tillotson, using the terms
Glover had employed in his narrative. “I don’t see what is to be done,
Glover.”
“I want to get him away,” said the other. “If I can’t find him, nobody
else shall, and I want you to help me.”
“Go down to Stourwich, tie him up in a sack, and drown him, I suppose,”
said Tillotson, trying to live up to a reputation several lady friends
had bestowed upon him of being sarcastic.
“Can you get away to-morrow?” demanded Glover impatiently.
“I am as free as the birds of the air,” responded Tillotson gloomily;
“the only difference is, nobody puts out crumbs for me.”
“I can reckon on you, then,” said Glover. “I thought I could. We have
known each other a long time, Tillotson. There is nothing like an old
friend when one is in trouble.”
Mr. Tillotson assented modestly. “You won’t forget about Leatham and
Roberts?” he said.
“Of course not,” said Glover. “You see, it won’t do to be seen in this
thing myself. What I want you to do is to come down with me to
Stourwich and bring the old man to London; then I can find him at my
own time, in the street or anywhere, quite haphazard like.”
“I don’t quite see how it is to be done,” said Tillotson.
“Meet me to-morrow morning at Waterloo, at ten minutes past eight,”
said Glover, finishing his glass and rising; “and we will have a try,
at any rate.”
He shook hands with his friend, and following him down the uncarpeted
stairs, said a few words at the door in favor of early rising, and
departed to his place of business to make his own arrangements about
the morrow.
He was at the station and in the train first in the morning, Mr.
Tillotson turning up with that extreme punctuality which enables a man
to catch his train before it has got up full speed.
“I was half afraid at one time that I shouldn’t have done it,” said Mr.
Tillotson, in self-congratulation, as he fell on to the seat. “Smoker,
too! Couldn’t have done better if I had been here at seven o’clock.”
His friend grunted, and, there being nobody else in the carriage, began
at once to discuss the practical part of the business.
“If he could only read we might send a letter aboard to him,” said Mr.
Tillotson, pushing his hat back. “The idea of a man his age not being
able to!”
“He’s one of the old school,” said Glover.
“Funny sort of school,” said Tillotson flippantly. “Well, we must take
our chance of him going for a walk, I suppose.”
They reached Stourwich soon after midday, and Glover, keeping a wary
look out for Wilson, proceeded slowly to the quay with his friend,
leaving the latter to walk down and discover the schooner while he went
and hired a first-floor room at the “Royal Porpoise,” a little
bow-windowed tavern facing the harbor.
“That’s the one,” said Mr. Tillotson, as he joined his friend upstairs
and led him to the window; “that little craft there. See that old chap
working with the rest?”
Mr. Glover, who was focussing a pair of cheap field-glasses on to the
schooner, gave a little exclamation of surprise.
“That’s him, sure enough,” he said, putting down the glasses. “Now what
are we to do?”
At Tillotson’s suggestion they had some dinner, and Glover fumed the
afternoon away, while his friend hung about the quay. After tea his
impatience got the better of his caution, and, pulling his hat over his
eyes, he went on the quay too. Fifty yards beyond the _Seamew_ he found
a post, and leaning against it with his friend, anxiously watched the
deck of the schooner.
“There’s three of ’em going ashore,” said Tillotson suddenly. “Look!”
They watched breathlessly as the crew walked slowly off, and, dusk
coming on, approached a little closer.
“There’s that fellow Wilson,” said Glover, in a whisper. “Don’t look!”
“Well, what’s the use of telling me?” said Tillotson reasonably.
“He’s going ashore with another chap,” continued Glover excitedly— “the
mate, I expect. Now’s your chance. Get him away, and I’ll stand you
something handsome—upon my soul I will!”
“What do you call something handsome?” inquired Tillotson, whose pulse
was not so feverish as his friend’s.
“Get him safe to London and I’ll stand a fiver,” said Glover. “Now go.
I’ll stay here.”
Mr. Tillotson, having got matters on a business footing, went, and,
carelessly twisting his small moustache, slowly approached the
schooner, on the deck of which was a small boy.
“Is Captain Gething aboard, old man?” inquired Mr. Tillotson, in a
friendly voice.
“Down the cabin, I b’lieve,” said Henry, jerking his thumb.
“I should like to see him,” said Mr. Tillotson.
“I’ve got no objection,” said Henry.
Charmed with his success, Mr. Tillotson stepped aboard and looked
carelessly round.
“He’s an old friend of mine,” he said confidentially. “What’s that
you’re smoking?”
“Shag,” was the reply.
“Try a cigar,” said Mr. Tillotson, producing three in an envelope.
“You’ll find them rather good.”
The gratified Henry took one, and, first crackling it against his ear,
smelt it knowingly, while Mr. Tillotson, in a leisurely fashion,
descended to the cabin.
A tea-tray and an untidy litter of cups and saucers stood on the table,
at the end of which sat an old man with his folded hands resting on the
table.
“Good-evening,” said Mr. Tillotson, pausing at the doorway and peering
through the gloom to make sure that there was nobody else present. “All
alone?”
“All alone,” repeated Captain Gething, looking up and wondering who
this might be.
“It’s too dark to see you far,” said Tillotson, in a mysterious
whisper, “but it’s Captain Gething, ain’t it?”
“That’s me,” said the Captain uneasily.
“Going to Northfleet?” inquired Mr. Tillotson in another whisper.
“What do you mean?” inquired the captain quickly, as he gripped the
edges of the table.
“Are you sure it’ll be all right?” continued Tillotson.
“What do you mean?” repeated the captain from his seat. “Speak plain.”
“I mean that you had better bolt,” said Tillotson in a hurried whisper.
“There’s a heavy reward out for you, which Captain Wilson wants. You
can’t do what you did for nothing, you know.”
Captain Gething sat down in his seat again and shaded his face with his
hand.
“I’ll go back,” he said brokenly. “Wilson told me he was alive, and
that it was all a mistake. If he’s lying to me for the price of my old
neck, let him have it.”
“What about your wife and daughter?” said Tillotson, who was beginning
to have a strong disrelish for his task. “I saw in the paper last night
that Wilson had got you. He’s gone ashore now to make arrangements at
the station.”
“He had a letter from my daughter this morning, said the old man
brokenly.
“He told you it was from her,” said Tillotson. “Get your things and
come quick.”
Excited by the part he was playing, he bent forward and clutched at the
old man’s arm. Captain Gething, obedient to the touch, rose, and taking
his battered cap from a nail, followed him in silence above.
“We’re going for a drink,” said Tillotson to the boy. “We’ll be back in
ten minutes.”
“All right,” said Henry cheerfully; “wish I was going with you.”
The other laughed airily, and gaining the quay, set off with the silent
old man by his side. At first the captain went listlessly enough, but
as he got farther and farther from the ship all the feelings of the
hunted animal awoke within him, and he was as eager to escape as
Tillotson could have wished.
“Where are we going?” he inquired as they came in sight of the railway
station. “I’m not going by train.”
“London,” said Tillotson. “That’s the most likely place to get lost
in.”
“I’m not going in the train,” said the other doggedly.
“Why not?” said Tillotson in surprise.
“When they come back to the ship and find me gone they’ll telegraph to
London,” said the old man. “I won’t be caught like a rat in a trap.”
“What are you going to do, then?” inquired the perplexed Tillotson.
“I don’t know,” said the old man. “Walk, I think. It’s dark, and we
might get twenty miles away before daybreak.”
“Yes, we might,” said Tillotson, who had no fancy for a nocturnal
pilgrimage of the kind; “but we’re not going to.”
“Let me go alone,” said the old man.
Tillotson shook his head.
“They’d be bound to spot you tramping about the country,” he said
confidently. “Now do let me know what’s best for you, and go by train.”
“I won’t,” said Gething obstinately. “You’ve been very kind, more than
kind, in giving me warning. Let me go off by myself.”
Tillotson shook his head and glanced carelessly in the direction of
Glover, who was some few yards behind.
“I wish you’d trust me,” he said earnestly. “You’ll be safer in London
than anywhere.”
Captain Gething pondered. “There’s a schooner about half a mile up the
river, which is getting away about one o’clock this morning,” he said
slowly. “I’ve worked on her once or twice, and the skipper might take
us if you can pay him well. He knows me as Stroud.”
“If you’ll wait here a minute or two I’ll go to the railway station and
get my bag,” said Tillotson, who wanted to confer with his chief.
“I’ll wait up the road under the arch,” said Captain Gething.
“Now don’t run away,” said Tillotson impressively. “If you won’t go by
train, perhaps the schooner is the best thing we can do.”
He set off to the station, and after a hurried consultation with
Glover, returned anxiously to the arch. Gething, standing in the shadow
with his hands in his pockets, was patiently waiting.
“It’s all right,” said Tillotson cheerfully; “and now for a sea voyage.
You know the way to the schooner, I suppose.”
They made their way back cautiously, Captain Gething turning off to the
left before they reached the harbor and leading the way through dingy
little streets of private houses and chandlers’ shops. It was not a
part usually frequented by people taking an evening stroll, and Henry,
who had begun to get uneasy at their absence, and starting in search of
them had picked them up at the corner, followed wondering.
His wonder increased as they left the houses and met the cool air
blowing from the river. The road was dark and uneven, and he followed
cautiously, just keeping them in sight, until at a tumble-down little
wharf they halted, and after a low consultation, boarded a small
schooner lying alongside. There was nobody on the deck, but a light
showed in the cabin, and after a minute’s hesitation they went below.
An hour or two passed, and the small watcher, ensconced behind a pile
of empties, shivered with the cold. Unconscious of the amicable
overtures in the cabin, which had resulted in the master of the
_Frolic_ taking a couple of cabin passengers who were quite willing to
rough it in the matter of food and accommodation, and willing to pay
for it, he was afraid to desert his post. Another hour passed. A couple
of seamen came by his place of concealment, and stepping aboard, went
down the foc’sle. A clock struck eleven, and a few minutes later the
light in the cabin was extinguished.
The boy watched another quarter of an hour and then, the ship being
dark and still, crept noiselessly on board. The sound of deep snoring
came from the cabin, and gaining the wharf again, he set off as hard as
he could run to the _Seamew_.