BREAKERS AHEAD
Ned Dempster was certainly the sharpest of all the boys in Northbourne.
Naturally sharp, that is to say, for he, in common with Alick Carnegy,
was incorrigibly idle, and Ned's talent of ability was therefore
allowed to rust from disuse.
The Carnegy boys and Ned were in the same class at Sunday school, a
class taught by Theo. The rest of the boys comprising it being dull
and lumpish, it was only to be expected that a sharp-witted lad like
Ned stood out brilliantly from his neighbours, attracting by his
intelligence the attention of his teacher as well as her young brothers.
Ned Dempster was an orphan who had been brought up by his grandmother,
Goody Dempster, the oldest inhabitant of the little fishing-village, an
aged woman whose skin was baked brown by the sun and the salt
sea-breezes until she had more the appearance of a New Zealander than
an Englishwoman. Pitying the boy, as well as being considerably
interested in his intelligent answers in class, Theo began to have him
a good deal at the Bunk. She found many little offices there for him,
such as to look after and keep tidy 'The Theodora,' the family boat,
and to help in the obstinately unproductive garden. In this way the
acquaintance between the three boys became a week-day as well as a
Sunday one. Alick and Ned, in particular, rapidly found themselves to
be kindred spirits. In each was ingrained a powerful love of
adventure. Alick, a great reader, who had devoured already his
father's little library, which was made up for the most part of books
on seafaring subjects, found in Ned Dempster a listener who hungered
for as much of that exciting fare as Alick could manage to retail
second-hand.
For a long time the darling topic that absorbed their individual
attention was pirates. The boys were never weary of rehearsing all the
thrilling scenes of pirate-life which Alick had either read or heard
of. In these lively pastimes Geoff willingly shared, lending a hand
and a stentorian throat to the exciting work, though his tastes did not
lie in that direction to the same extent as did those of his brother
and Ned Dempster. Still, to be dressed in fierce red sashes, to wear
elaborately corked moustaches, to be armed with clumsy, antique weapons
which represented cutlasses, and to board, with ringing shouts, the
beached-up fishing-boats in search of slaves, was a delightsome
diversion. And perhaps to Geoff its greatest charm was that there was
plenty of noise about it.
In course of time the joys of pirate-life palled. Next, there set in
an extended course of terrible shipwrecks to order; these catastrophes
being altogether independent of the weather. Into this game, which was
not so exclusively manly, the many dolls belonging to Queenie were
pressed. Time after time, these waxen ladies were bravely rescued and
ceremoniously restored, dripping from the waves, to their anxious
little owner, who, truth to tell, caught more colds than one in tending
the shipwrecked doll-people.
But, in after days, Alick and Ned struck out quite a new line. Late
and early they were found poring over atlases; drawing charts upon
everything and anything, promiscuously, in the Northbourne landscape.
Their daily conversation consisted of mysterious whispers about
marching Polewards; about dangerous floes, and about camping out on the
ice. At this juncture Geoff threw up his partnership in the games,
which had become over-serious for his light-hearted, fun-loving nature.
Not for him was there any attraction in the great mystery of the North
Pole.
The imagination of Ned Dempster, on the other hand, took fire over the
marvellous adventures, the awe-inspiring dangers and hardships of those
explorers who, hitherto, have failed to attain the great object. This,
in truth, was an aim to live for, to perish for, if need be; and as
time went on, the boys became closer intimates than ever, particularly
as nobody else took any interest in the one topic that had seized, with
iron grip, their youthful imaginations. Perhaps the fact of the
indifference of others bound the two closer together.
Alick grew worse and worse over the preparation of his lessons for the
tutor. The routine and discipline of the schoolroom became too irksome
to be borne. Consequently, punishments and detentions and complaints
were the order of the day at the Bunk, to the despair of their tutor,
Philip Price, a quiet, not over robust-looking young man, who had
qualified for the Church, but as yet had failed in getting a living.
Meantime he taught the young Carnegys every morning, and made up a
slender income by giving afternoon lessons elsewhere.
The young man and his widowed mother, after their home was broken up by
death, had sought a hiding-place far from the summer-friends, who fell
away so quickly in the 'day of trouble.'
'I'll work for you, mother dear; never you fear about the future!'
Philip had bravely declared. Poor lad, he had gallantly striven to do
so, but sometimes he felt as though every man's hand was against him,
so fruitless were his struggles. It is hard work to force one's way
inside the world's pitilessly closed doors.
Certainly, Philip Price might have had his chances, as they are called,
if he had not been so bent upon entering the clerical profession. His
mother's relatives were City men of some repute, and a sure footing
among them might have been gained by the young man, had he chosen to
relinquish his dream. But Philip did not so choose. Even after he had
fully qualified, and the living he had made so sure of stepping into
passed into the hands of others, and it seemed as if the labourer were
not 'worthy of his hire,' Philip did not regret his choice of a career.
'It will come right, mother, don't you doubt it,' he persisted.
Meanwhile something else came. Failing health was the cross that
Philip Price was required to shoulder. He grew painfully thin as time
went on; his tall, elastic figure acquired a stoop; and there came, to
stay, an anxious, upright line between his eyebrows, that spoke of
mental worry.
'Philip dear,' his watchful mother, quick to note these signs, laid her
hand on his shoulder to say, 'these pupils try you overmuch. I know
they do!'
'Nonsense, dear old mater!' evaded Philip, imprisoning the wrinkled
hand. He had come in looking unusually spent, and thrown himself on
the hard, slippery sofa of the cheap lodging the Prices called,
nowadays, their home.
The truth was the young tutor had begun to tire woefully of the daily
grind he had taken up so blithely. It was the incorrigible Carnegy
boys who were his special worry. His other pupils, a meek, small boy
and his shy sister, though they would never set the Thames on fire by
their wit, at the same time would never goad their teacher to
desperation by mutinous, unruly ways. But Philip Price never carried
tales out of school. Not from himself did his mother learn how tried
the tutor was, but, with a woman's instinct, she divined the cause.
'I wish, dear, you had never seen that family, the Carnegys,' she said
plaintively. It was a chance shot, of course, but Philip started up
alert.
'I've been told a good deal about them, only to-day,' went on the
widow, taking up some fleecy knitting. The mother and son were sitting
in the twilight, and knitting needed no spectacles. 'It seems they are
an ill-governed pack, the young people, neglected by their father, and
allowed to grow up anyhow, people say. Philip, I feel quite positive
that they try you beyond your strength. Is it not so? Tell me, my
dear.'
'Mother,'--Philip's thin face flushed as he spoke hurriedly,--'is it
quite fair of you to quote "they say" about people whom you don't know?
The Carnegys are not an "ill-governed pack," I assure you. The
boys--my pupils--are, I grant you, unmanageable young rebels; but the
others--Miss Carnegy and her little sister--they are----' Philip
stopped abruptly.
'Well, Phil?' His mother raised her head quickly to glance at the
troubled face opposite.
'They are as sweet and gentle-natured as they are fair!' said Philip in
a low voice.
'I should like very well to see and know these Misses Carnegy for
myself,' presently observed Mrs. Price; and Philip noted the faint,
jealous displeasure in her voice.
'Mother,' he laughed in a boyish way, 'one of those Misses Carnegy, as
you call them, is so charming that you could not resist taking her in
your arms and setting her on your lap!'
'Oh, they are only children, these girls?'
'One of them is,' rejoined Philip, after a hesitating pause. 'She is a
child of five. But the other Miss Carnegy is grown up; she is the
eldest, and the mainstay of the family. There is no mother, you see.'
'Ah! Poor dear young things! Well, but, my boy, the thing troubling
me most is that you should be condemned to such poor work as teaching,
when, by rights, you ought to be filling a far different position. Oh,
Philip, to think with your fine abilities you should be nothing better
than a mere drudge! I often wish, dear, that you had not been so
obstinate. You might have had a capital position by this time, with
one or other of your uncles in the City.'
'Hush, mother, please!' Philip raised his thin hand. 'You know that
from my childhood I've desired to be a soldier of Christ. If there be
no opening prepared for me as yet, it must be that I am not fit for the
work. In God's own good time He will point the way. I am content to
wait that time, mother; and,' added the young man softly under his
breath, 'if it be that the opening never come in this life, well, we
know that all things are possible to Him, without any feeble help from
us weak mortals.'
'Dear boy,' sighed the widow, 'your patience shames my discontent.
But, you see, it tries a mother's heart sorely to see her child
stranded high and dry, while others, not half so fit, rush in and win
the prizes of life.'
'Bide a wee, mater, bide a wee! Everything comes to the man who can
wait, as the old proverb says. But I must confess I am at the end of
my patience with those young scamps, the Carnegy boys.'
'Speak to their father, Philip. Rouse him up to rule in his own
house,' said Mrs. Price energetically.
'I really think I must,' assented Philip; and he did.