“JOHN THOMAS, A. B.”
WHEN he found his friend Flint, Guy did not know just what he would do.
Probably he intended to be governed entirely by his advice, for he had
already thought better of his resolution to return at once to Norwall.
It is true that he had seen the rough side of the world so far during
his wanderings, but he believed that it had better things in store for
him. At any rate he would find Flint and ask him if it hadn’t. The
sailor was so jolly and hopeful, and spoke so encouragingly whenever Guy
told him of his troubles, that it was a pleasure to be in his company.
Guy spent an hour in unavailing search for his friend, but he discovered
the Ossipee, which was discharging her cargo preparatory to going into
the dry docks, and by taking her as a point of departure succeeded at
last in finding the boarding-house at which he had eaten supper the
night before.
He approached it with the utmost caution, momentarily expecting to come
suddenly upon some signs of the terrible fracas that had taken place
there a few hours ago, such as broken skulls, dissevered limbs, and
lifeless bodies; but nothing of the kind was to be seen. The place was
as quiet as the station-house he had just left, and Guy had half a mind
to go in and ask for Flint, but hesitated when he thought of the
landlord, with his fierce mustache and closely-cropped head. He did not
want to see the landlord again, or that worthy might demand to know what
he meant by running out of his house in that unceremonious manner and
leaving his supper bill unpaid.
While Guy was wondering how he could answer such a question without
wounding the landlord’s feelings, a hail came to him from the opposite
side of the street.
“Halloo there! Hold on a minute!” exclaimed a voice.
Guy looked up and saw a stranger coming toward him. He was dressed in
broadcloth, wore a shining plug hat on his head, and well-blacked boots
on his feet; rings sparkled on his fingers, something that looked like a
diamond glittered in his shirt bosom, and a heavy gold watch-chain
dangled across his crimson waistcoat. Taken altogether he reminded Guy
of the steward of the Queen of the Lakes. He approached with some
eagerness in his manner, and as he came up thrust out his hand and
greeted the boy with:
“Why, Jenkins, how are you? Glad to see you; when did you come in? Just
been down to your ship looking for you. How are you, I say?”
The stranger smiled so good-naturedly, shook his hand so warmly, and
appeared so delighted to see him, that Guy was rather taken aback. As
soon as he could speak, he replied:
“I came in night before last in the schooner Ossipee from Chicago; but
my name isn’t Jenkins.”
The stranger started, and looked at Guy a moment with an expression of
great surprise on his face.
“Well, I declare, I have made a mistake—that’s a fact!” said he. “But
you look enough like Jenkins to be his brother. You see, he’s a
particular friend of mine, and I am always on the lookout to do him a
neighborly turn. I wonder if you are as good a sailor as he is.”
“I am a sailor,” replied Guy.
“Of course you are. I can tell that by the cut of your jib.”
These words went straight to Guy’s heart, and vastly increased his
importance in his own eyes. He straightened up, thrust his hands deep
into his pockets, and took a few steps up and down the sidewalk, rolling
from side to side as he had seen Flint do.
“Think I don’t know a sailor man when I see him!” exclaimed the
stranger. “Why, I have been one myself. Take something warm this frosty
morning?”
“No, sir,” emphatically replied the boy, who had already seen enough of
the evils of strong drink. “You don’t get anything warm down me.”
“Good resolution!” cried the man, giving Guy’s hand another cordial
shake, and slapping him familiarly on the back. “Stick to it. Do you
know that that is one of the things that keeps you sailor men before the
mast all your lives? It is the sober, intelligent ones, just such
fellows as I see you are, who get to be mates and captains. Now, I can
put you on a vessel where you will be pushed ahead as fast as you can
stand it. You want a berth, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Guy. “I want to find my mate; and if I don’t
succeed, I am going home.”
“Your mate!” exclaimed the stranger. “Oh, I know him—know him well. It’s
Jack a—Jack a——”
“No, it isn’t Jack; it’s Dick Flint.”
“Why, so it is. How stupid in me to forget his name! I saw him with you
yesterday, come to think. Let me see,” added the stranger, placing his
finger on his forehead and looking down at the ground in a brown study;
“didn’t I ship him last night on board the Santa Maria? Of course I
did.”
“Of course you didn’t. He don’t ship on no such vessel, and neither do
I. She’s got a crew aboard of her who don’t sign articles,” said Guy
glibly, making use of some expressions he had heard at the
boarding-house. “I don’t want to ship with ghosts. I have seen too many
of them in my time.”
“Have you, though?” said the stranger. “I knew you were an old salt as
soon as I put my eyes on you.”
“Yes,” said Guy, pushing his tarpaulin on one side of his head,
thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets, and making a motion with
his tongue as if he were turning a quid of tobacco in his mouth. “The
last voyage I made was in a ship bound around the Cape. When the time
came we began to get ready for bad weather by sending down the
royal-yards and masts, and taking in the flying jib-boom. One of the
hands—my chum he was, too, and the best fellow and finest sailor that
ever chewed biscuit—was out on the boom, and had just sung out ‘haul
in!’ when a big sea broke over the vessel, and that was the last we ever
saw of him—that is, alive. But every night after that when the mid-watch
was called, and the order was given to haul in the flying jib-boom, we
were sure to find that fellow out there before us, working like a
trooper. No, sir, I don’t ship in any more vessels that carry ghosts, if
I know it.”
Guy pushed his hat further on the side of his head, turned his back
partly to the stranger and looked as wise as possible, thinking no doubt
that he had made an impression on his auditor. He did not know that he
had got his narrative somewhat mixed up, but that the stranger did was
evident. There was a roguish twinkle in his eye, and he was obliged to
bite his lips to keep from laughing outright. Controlling himself with
an effort he leaned toward Guy and said, in a low, confidential tone:
“I don’t blame you. The Santa Maria does bear a hard name, that’s a
fact, and I wouldn’t sail in her myself. I’ve got another vessel on my
books—the clipper Morning Light, bound up the Mediterranean, and I know
that’s the very place you want to go. Isn’t it now, say?” he exclaimed,
hitting the boy a back-handed slap on the chest.
“Yes,” answered Guy. “I should like to go.”
“Of course you would. Everybody wants to go, but only a few can get the
chance. I tell you it takes influence to get a berth on board a
Mediterranean trader,” said the man, who knew that he could impose upon
Guy to his heart’s content. “Wealthy country that, and if you don’t come
back rich, it will be your own fault. Ostrich feathers are plenty and
worth a hundred dollars a pound on this side of the Atlantic. Diamonds,
pearls, nuggets, and gold-dust, are to be had for the picking up.
Everybody fills his pockets, from the captain down to Jemmy Ducks. Come
and put down your name. Where’s your dunnage?”
“Hold on,” said Guy, as the stranger seized his arm and tried to pull
him away. “I want to find Flint, and see what he has to say about it.”
“I know where he is, and can find him for you in less than ten minutes,”
said the stranger, who had about as clear an idea of Flint’s whereabouts
as Guy himself. “All I ask of you is to put down your name. Where’s your
dunnage?”
“I left it in there last night,” said Guy, pointing toward the
boarding-house.
“Why, the landlord didn’t ship you, did he? That is, he didn’t find a
vessel for you?”
“No, I didn’t give him a chance. They had a fight in there, and I ran
away.”
“A fight. Oh, that’s nothing. It’s all settled now, I’ll warrant. Come
with me. I’ll get your dunnage for you.”
Guy did not hesitate to enter the boarding-house under the protection of
the stranger, and indeed he need not have been afraid to go in there
alone.
There was but one man in the bar-room, and that was the second mate of
the Santa Maria, who was probably on the lookout for a crew for his
vessel.
“Morning, Rupert,” said the stranger, as he and Guy entered; “I believe
my young friend here left something with you last night.”
“Ah, yes; here it is,” replied the landlord, handing Guy’s bundle over
the counter and smiling pleasantly upon the boy. “What made you dig out
in such a hurry? Did the fellows scare you?”
“Yes, they did,” replied Guy.
“You need not have been alarmed. You were my guest, and of course I
should have protected you. You see, Smith,” added the landlord, turning
to the shipping agent, “the boys had a bit of a blow-out here last
night, and one or two of them came to a clinch. It was all over in a
minute, and we took a few drinks all around and made it up. It didn’t
amount to anything.”
“I think it amounted to a good deal,” said Guy, looking around at the
walls where the plastering had been knocked off by the flying glasses.
“It frightened me, I tell you. Where is Flint now?”
“Flint?” repeated the landlord interrogatively. “Do you mean the man who
came here with you. Oh, he’s up-stairs with the rest, sleeping it off.”
“I’d like to see him,” said Guy.
“Of course you can, if you wish, but I wouldn’t trouble him if I were
you. Let him sleep. He’ll be down to supper, and then you can talk to
him.”
“By the way,” said Smith suddenly, “Flint has shipped aboard the Morning
Light, hasn’t he?”
Smith looked steadily at the landlord as he said this, and the landlord
looked steadily at Smith. The two worthies evidently understood one
another.
“Yes,” was the landlord’s reply. “He’s signed articles, and got his
advance fair and square.”
“There, now,” said the shipping agent, turning to Guy; “are you
satisfied? Your mate has shipped aboard my vessel, and if you will come
with me I will ship you. You’ll see splendid times up the
Mediterranean,” he added, with a sly wink at the landlord.
“Finest country in the world,” observed that gentleman.
“Such chances to make money,” suggested the agent.
“Never saw the beat,” said the landlord. “Been up there myself, and
that’s the way I got my start in the world. Went out cabin-boy, and came
back sailing my own vessel.”
“Do you hear that?” exclaimed the agent, triumphantly. “Didn’t I tell
you so? Come with me, and I’ll put you in the way to make a man of
yourself.”
Before Guy could reply the agent assisted him to shoulder his bundle,
and gently forcing him into the street, locked arms with him and led him
away, talking rapidly all the while, and giving the boy no chance to put
in a word. In a few minutes more he found himself seated in a small,
dark room, which the agent called his office; and the latter, having
placed before him on the table a large sheet of ruled paper, which
contained several names—taking care, however, to keep his hands spread
out over the top of it—nodded his head toward a pen that was sticking in
an inkstand close by, and told Guy to put down his name.
As the boy was about to comply it occurred to him that it might be a
good plan to find out what sort of a paper it was that he was expected
to sign. But just as he was on the point of asking some questions
concerning it, he was checked by the thought that by such a proceeding
he would show his ignorance, and beside, it would look too much as
though he doubted his gentlemanly friend, the shipping agent. So he said
nothing, signed a name to the paper, and was held for a voyage to—well,
it was to some place a long way from the shores of the Mediterranean.
“John Thomas; that’s all right. You are a good penman, and ought to be
something better than a foremast hand. When your ship comes back to this
port, if you don’t tell me that you have made yourself rich by the
voyage, and that you are at least a second mate, I shall be ashamed of
you. Now, then,” said the agent, laying his pocket-book on the table and
taking the pen from the boy’s hand, “what shall I put after your name—A.
B.?”
“What’s that?” asked Guy.
“Why, you’re an able seaman, are you not!”
“No—that is, yes; of course I am. But I want to go as cabin-boy. I like
that better.”
“I can’t ship you as cabin-boy; got one already. You will get more money
by going before the mast, and you want to make all you can, don’t you?
I’ll fix it for you.”
The agent dipped his pen into the ink and wrote A. B. after the name Guy
had signed, and Guy, ignoramus that he was, never tried to prevent him.
If he could make more money by going as an able seaman of course it was
to his advantage to do it. That was the way he looked at the matter
then, but before many hours had passed over his head he took a different
view of it. He learned through much tribulation that honesty is the best
policy one can pursue, even though he be a sea-faring man.
The agent having prevailed upon Guy to sign articles, seemed on a sudden
to lose all interest in him. It is true that after he paid him his
advance he accompanied him to a store and assisted him in making some
necessary additions to his outfit, but he hurried through the business,
his every action indicating that he was impatient to be rid of Guy. When
all the purchases had been made he took a hasty leave of the boy and
told him to go to Rupert’s boarding-house and stay there, holding
himself in readiness to go aboard his vessel at six o’clock that night.
If he was not on hand when he was wanted, he would find the police after
him.
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