A DORYMATE’S HOME.
Upon accepting Lord Seabright’s offer of a passage to England in the
_Saga_, Breeze had instantly thought of Ireland, and of Queenstown, the
home of his beloved dorymate, Wolfe Brady. Amid all the strangeness of
the Old World, it was pleasant to think that there were at least two
people in it who, for the sake of their boy, would be glad to see him.
Then, too, they would have heard from Wolfe by this time, and thus he
would learn the home news for which he so longed. So, just now,
Queenstown seemed the most desirable place in all Europe for him to
visit; and Breeze was made happy by Lord Seabright’s answer, which was,
“Why, certainly; we can run into Queenstown if you must go there. It
will not be far out of our course to Cowes. But whatever can you want to
go there for?”
When Breeze explained that the only friends he had on that side of the
Atlantic lived there, he could see that the other was wondering what
sort of people his friends could be to live in Queenstown.
When, on the fifth day after leaving it, the little cavalcade of tired
men and weary ponies clattered back into Reykjavik, the place really
seemed quite like a town, as compared with the wilderness they had just
traversed, and they wondered they had not noticed before how much there
was going on in it. Poor Nimbus feasted his eyes on the sea, and drew in
long breaths of the salt and fishy air. The moment he was unlashed from
his pony, although he was almost too stiff and lame to walk, he waddled
off towards the landing.
While Lord Seabright was having a settlement of accounts with Haik
Gierssen, and Breeze was collecting the articles that were to be
returned on board the _Saga_, they both heard strange rumors of a fire
that had taken place in the town the night before. Their informants told
them excitedly about a certain stranger who, at the peril of his own
life, had saved three of the inmates of the burning building, and then
mysteriously disappeared.
“He was a plucky fellow, whoever he was, and I wish we had been here to
help him,” was Lord Seabright’s comment upon this story.
When all the business had been settled, and they returned once more to
the _Saga_, the yacht seemed to Breeze delightfully home-like and
comfortable, and he was more than ever glad that his cruise on her was
to be extended. Nimbus was already hard at work in the galley, from
which came a happy clatter of pots and pans, and the tones of his voice
as he told his awe-stricken young assistant marvellous tales of his
thrilling adventures and hairbreadth escapes during the trip to the
geysers.
“But where is Mr. Whymper?” asked Lord Seabright of Mr. Marlin, who
replied that the gentleman was turned in, recovering from his recent
exertions.
“Lazy dog!” exclaimed his friend; “I’ll soon stir him up.” And after
giving orders for the yacht to put to sea, he went below. As he entered
the saloon, Mr. Whyte Whymper, who was lying on a lounge, threw down the
semi-monthly Reykjavik paper, which, as it was wholly printed in
Icelandic, he had been trying in vain to read, and exclaimed,
“Awfully glad you’ve come back, old fellow! Haven’t had a thing to do
since you left except read this stoopid paper. Went ashore once, but got
mixed up in a beastly row, and haven’t been off the ship since. Awfully
glad, ’pon honor. What sort of a trip have you had? and how did our
young Yankee friend enjoy it?”
“What sort of a row did you get into?” inquired Lord Seabright, without
answering these questions, and gazing suspiciously at the bandages with
which his friend’s head and hands were swathed. “Was it in connection
with a fire?”
“Well, yes,” admitted the other, hesitatingly, “it was a sort of a fire,
and some children were left in rather an uncomfortable position, because
the beggars outside were too stoopid to know what to do.”
“And you showed them?”
“Yes, I put them up to a wrinkle that I thought might be useful to them
at some future time.”
“Whyte, you are a splendid fellow!” exclaimed Lord Seabright,
enthusiastically. “You saved those children’s lives at the risk of your
own, and then hurried away to avoid being thanked for it. After this I’d
like to hear anybody call you lazy and selfish again!” With this he
stepped forward to grasp his friend’s hand.
“Keep back! No demonstrations! Hands off!” cried the other,
apprehensively drawing back his bandaged members. “My flippers are still
a little tender.”
And no wonder; for the poor brave hands were so terribly burned that
they would be scarred and disfigured for life.
“I tell you, it made me feel more than ever proud of being an
Englishman,” said Lord Seabright, in talking of the affair to Breeze,
“to see the pluck with which that fellow concealed his sufferings, and
made light of them.”
This incident taught Breeze that appearances are often very deceitful,
and first impressions are apt to be unjust ones; also, that some of the
noblest natures are only developed by extraordinary circumstances.
After steaming out of the harbor, and rounding Cape Reykjaines, the
_Saga_ skirted the wild southern coast of Iceland, with Mount Hecla in
sight, for nearly a day. Then, turning due south, she was headed for the
Färöe Islands. This rocky group of thirty-five small islands, of which
about twenty are inhabited, belongs to Denmark, and lies half-way
between Iceland and Scotland. It was intended that the Saga should stop
here for a day or two, and remain in the picturesque harbor of
Thorshavn, on Strömöe Island, the largest of the group, while her
passengers explored the surrounding waters and country. Now, on account
of the serious nature of Mr. Whyte Whymper’s injuries, which demanded
skilful medical attention, this plan was abandoned, and the yacht was
urged with all possible speed towards England.
After the Färöes, the Shetland Islands were passed, then the Orkneys,
and a day later the _Saga_ sailed through the channel known as the
Minch, between the Hebrides and the main-land of Scotland. Then down,
past the western islands, through the north channel between Scotland and
Ireland, across the Irish Sea, close to the Isle of Man, and finally,
five days after leaving Reykjavik, she steamed into the mouth of the
Mersey, and came to an anchor off the Liverpool docks.
Here it was decided that the injured man must be at once removed to
London, and although he still made light of his wounds, Lord Seabright
insisted upon accompanying him and seeing that he was properly cared
for. He ordered Mr. Marlin to take the yacht to Queenstown, where he
would try and rejoin him within a day or two.
To Breeze he said, “Of course you will go to Queenstown with the yacht,
McCloud, and if you fail to find your friends, you are to make yourself
as comfortable as you can aboard until I come. Then we shall run around
to Cowes, from which place it will be easy to send your ambergris up to
London and dispose of it.”
Breeze was very grateful for the great kindness shown him by this young
Englishman, and tried to tell him so, but was checked by “Oh, nonsense,
man! Don’t give it a thought. It’s no more than you would do if you were
in my place, and I in yours, and no more than any true sailor would do
for another whom he found in trouble. I should apologize to you for
running off and leaving you in this way, but that you understand the
necessity of the case as well as I.”
By this kindness and politeness to one who was apparently so greatly his
inferior in social station, as well as almost a stranger to him, Lord
Seabright proved himself a thorough gentleman by breeding as well as by
birth; for a true gentleman will treat with equal courtesy all persons
worthy of respect with whom he is thrown in contact.
A few hours after she had entered the Mersey the _Saga_ sailed out
again, and stood down the Irish Sea, with Breeze McCloud as her only
passenger. Had he been a young prince he could not have travelled more
luxuriously. Sitting alone in the beautiful saloon, and surrounded by
all its luxury, it was with a curious sensation that he traced the
wonderful chain of events that had led him from the forecastle of the
old fishing schooner _Vixen_ to this exquisitely appointed yacht.
The following day the _Saga_ steamed into the magnificent harbor of
Queenstown, ran up past the forts, and dropped anchor near a huge
American steamer, just in from New York, that was sending ashore her
mails and a number of passengers. These, and those who remained on board
the great steamer, gazed with admiration at the dainty yacht, and many
of them cast envious glances at the young man standing on her bridge,
whom they imagined to be her owner.
Breeze waited until after dinner before leaving the yacht. Then he was
set ashore in the gig, which Mr. Marlin said would be sent for him
whenever he should come down to the landing and blow the shrill little
silver whistle that he loaned him.
Breeze had no sooner stepped ashore than he was surrounded by a
clamorous throng of men, who wanted him to ride in a jaunting-car, or
take a carriage for the Queen’s hotel, who would show him all the sights
of the city, including the new cathedral, for a shilling, or would serve
him in any way he chose to name.
Now, for the first time Breeze remembered that he had not a cent of
money in his pockets, and anxious to get rid of his noisy persecutors,
he pushed his way through the crowd as quickly as possible, without
paying any regard to where he was going. He did not wholly escape the
attentions showered upon him, for one old woman succeeded in thrusting a
bit of shamrock into a button-hole of his coat, and evidently expected
to be paid for so doing. Breeze thanked her politely, but did not
succeed in getting rid of her, until he had walked rapidly through
several short, steep, and remarkably dirty streets, when he found
himself in the main business street of the city.
[Illustration: THOSE ON BOARD THE GREAT STEAMER GAZED WITH ADMIRATION AT
THE DAINTY YACHT.]
Here he asked a man if he could tell him where Mr. Brady’s store was.
“Is it Mike Brady the tinman, yer honor ’ll be wantin’ to find? or Pat
that kapes the grane-grocery? or mayhap ’tis Tim the alderman who has no
thrade at all, excipt for the bit of law he do pick up?”
Breeze said he did not think it was any of these, for the one he wanted
to find sold linen.
“Thin ’tis Peter the Squire you’ll be manin’; and by the same token, his
is the shop f’ninst ye, across the way.”
Breeze afterwards learned that, having held some small political office,
Wolfe’s father had been dignified by his fellow-townsmen with the title
of “Squire.” He was very proud of this, and always insisted upon being
addressed by it.
Now, looking in the direction indicated, the lad saw the sign, “Peter
Brady, Linen Draper,” staring him in the face, and thanking the man, he
hurried across the street.
An old porter, who was putting up the shutters, told him that the squire
had driven away in a carriage a few minutes before with a stranger, and
had left word that he should not be back that night.
Where did he live! Why, about two miles from there, away out on the edge
of the city, but a cab would take him there in no time.
There were no cabs for Breeze that evening, and so he walked, and
inquired his way from one and another. At last, after more than two
hours’ persevering labor, he found himself lifting the knocker of a
small but neat-looking house some distance outside of the town, in which
he had been told that Squire Brady lived.
The maid who answered the knock said the squire was at home, and
wouldn’t the gentleman step into the parlor. When she asked what name
she should announce, he told her to say that it was a friend of the son
who was in America.
After she had gone, he could not help overhearing a whispered
consultation that took place in the hall. While he was wondering about
it, a quick footstep approached the room, and the next moment the door
was opened by his old dorymate, Wolfe Brady.
It would be hard to tell which of the two boys was the more astonished
at this meeting. Perhaps Wolfe had the better reason for amazement, at
seeing the friend from whom he had been parted thousands of miles from
there, under circumstances that led him to fear he was dead.
“Breeze!”
“Wolfe!”
These were the only words the dorymates uttered for a full minute, as
they stood holding each other’s hand, and gazing into each other’s face.
“How _do_ you happen to be here?” asked Breeze at length.
“Oh, my coming is simple enough,” answered Wolfe. “I got a thousand
dollars salvage money for helping to carry that brig into port, and
thinking I would like to see father and mother once more, I came. I only
just got in on the steamer from New York. But where in the name of all
that’s wonderful did you come from, and how?”
“I,” said Breeze, “have just got in from Iceland on the steam-yacht
_Saga_.” Then in a few words he gave his friend the briefest possible
outline of his adventures since their parting.
“Well!” exclaimed Wolfe, when he had finished, “if it doesn’t beat the
‘Arabian Nights,’ or ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ or anything else I ever heard
of, then I’m a mackerel. And to think that I should stand on that
steamer’s deck and watch you sail into the harbor only three hours
since, and not know it was you any more than Adam! But I must tell
father and mother. They’re nearly crazy already from seeing me, and I
only hope it won’t upset them entirely when I tell them who you are.”
If it did not quite upset them, it certainly did greatly agitate the
stout, ruddy-cheeked Irishman, and his equally stout but pleasant-faced
wife, whom Wolfe introduced as his father and mother, to meet the person
who had saved their son’s life.
The latter started when she saw Breeze, and after shaking hands with
him, and thanking him profusely for all that he had done for her boy,
she sat down and gazed at him keenly whenever he was not looking at her.
Her husband, too, appeared to be greatly interested in the lad’s face,
and although cordial and hospitable in the extreme, he seemed uneasy in
his presence. When he learned that Breeze had come in on the _Saga_, he
remarked to his wife that she was Lord Seabright’s yacht.
“You know him?” asked Breeze, innocently.
“To be sure I do,” answered the other. “I’ve known him since the day he
was born. Sir Wolfe was his grandfather on his mother’s side, and it’s
likely our boy has told you how intimately we were connected with Sir
Wolfe’s family.”
Breeze acknowledged that Wolfe had told him.
About this time the “squire” disappeared for a few minutes, and when he
returned he was followed by the maid bearing a tray, on which were a
plate of biscuit and some bottles and glasses.
Filling the glasses with wine from one of the bottles, the master of the
house said, “I want to propose the health of the distinguished visitor
from across the ocean, who honors our humble home with his presence
to-night. I refer to Mr. Breeze McCloud.”
As Wolfe instinctively stretched out his hand towards one of the
glasses, Breeze said, in a low tone, “Point true, Wolfe.”
Wolfe’s face flushed, as he quickly withdrew his hand, saying, “Thank
you, Breeze. I own I had almost forgotten.”
At the same time, both the squire and his wife set down their untasted
glasses, and the latter, turning to Breeze, said, in a trembling voice,
“May I ask you, sir, where you heard them words?”
“I did not hear them,” answered Breeze, “but I saw them; and if you are
at all interested I can show them to you; for, oh, Wolfe!” he added,
turning to his dorymate, “I have learned the secret of the golden ball.”
With this he unclasped the slender chain from about his neck, opened the
locket, and handed it to Wolfe’s mother.
She cast one glance at it, uttered an exclamation of joy, and very
nearly fainted from the excess of her emotion.