everybody of your bravery. Don’t spoil everything for the sake of a
little temper.”
Mr. Dix stood up and clinched his fists, but at the spectacle of the
dripping, forlorn figure before him his wrath vanished and he broke
into a hearty laugh.
“Come on, mate,” he said, clapping him on the back, “now let’s go and
find Emma. If she don’t fall in love with you now she never will. My
eye! you are a picture!”
He began to walk towards the town, and Mr. Heard, with his legs wide
apart and his arms held stiffly from his body, waddled along beside
him. Two little streamlets followed.
They walked along the quay in silence, and had nearly reached the end
of it, when the figure of a man turned the corner of the houses and
advanced at a shambling trot towards them.
“Old Smith!” said Mr. Heard, in a hasty whisper. “Now, be careful. Hold
me tight.”
The new-comer thankfully dropped into a walk as he saw them, and came
to a standstill with a cry of astonishment as the light of a
neighboring lamp revealed their miserable condition.
“Wot, Arthur!” he exclaimed.
“Halloa,” said Mr. Heard, drearily.
“The idea o’ your being so sinful,” said Mr. Smith, severely. “Emma
told me wot you said, but I never thought as you’d got the pluck to go
and do it. I’m surprised at you.”
“I ain’t done it,” said Mr. Heard, in a sullen voice; “nobody can
drownd themselves in comfort with a lot of interfering people about.”
Mr. Smith turned and gazed at the mate, and a broad beam of admiration
shone in his face as he grasped that gentleman’s hand.
“Come into the ’ouse both of you and get some dry clothes,” he said,
warmly.
He thrust his strong, thick-set figure between them, and with a hand on
each coat-collar propelled them in the direction of home. The mate
muttered something about going back to his ship, but Mr. Smith refused
to listen, and stopping at the door of a neat cottage, turned the
handle and thrust his dripping charges over the threshold of a
comfortable sitting-room.
A pleasant-faced woman of middle age and a pretty girl of twenty rose
at their entrance, and a faint scream fell pleasantly upon the ears of
Mr. Heard.
“Here he is,” bawled Mr. Smith; “just saved at the last moment.”
“What, two of them?” exclaimed Miss Smith, with a faint note of
gratification in her voice. Her gaze fell on the mate, and she smiled
approvingly.
“No; this one jumped in and saved ’im,” said her father.
“Oh, Arthur!” said Miss Smith. “How could you be so wicked! I never
dreamt you’d go and do such a thing—never! I didn’t think you’d got it
in you.”
Mr. Heard grinned sheepishly. “I told you I would,” he muttered.
“Don’t stand talking here,” said Mrs. Smith, gazing at the puddle which
was growing in the centre of the carpet; “they’ll catch cold. Take ’em
upstairs and give ’em some dry clothes. And I’ll bring some hot whisky
and water up to ’em.”
“Rum is best,” said Mr. Smith, herding his charges and driving them up
the small staircase. “Send young Joe for some. Send up three glasses.”
They disappeared upstairs, and Joe appearing at that moment from the
kitchen, was hastily sent off to the “Blue Jay” for the rum. A couple
of curious neighbors helped him to carry it back, and, standing
modestly just inside the door, ventured on a few skilled directions as
to its preparation. After which, with an eye on Miss Smith, they stood
and conversed, mostly in head-shakes.
Stimulated by the rum and the energetic Mr. Smith, the men were not
long in changing. Preceded by their host, they came down to the
sitting-room again; Mr. Heard with as desperate and unrepentant an air
as he could assume, and Mr. Dix trying to conceal his uneasiness by
taking great interest in a suit of clothes three sizes too large for
him.
“They was both as near drownded as could be,” said Mr. Smith, looking
round; “he ses Arthur fought like a madman to prevent ’imself from
being saved.”
“It was nothing, really,” said the mate, in an almost inaudible voice,
as he met Miss Smith’s admiring gaze.
“Listen to ’im,” said the delighted Mr. Smith; “all brave men are like
that. That’s wot’s made us Englishmen wot we are.”
“I don’t suppose he knew who it was he was saving,” said a voice from
the door.
“I didn’t want to be saved,” said Mr. Heard, defiantly.
“Well, you can easy do it again, Arthur,” said the same voice; “the
dock won’t run away.”
Mr. Heard started and eyed the speaker with same malevolence.
“Tell us all about it,” said Miss Smith, gazing at the mate, with her
hands clasped. “Did you see him jump in?”
Mr. Dix shook his head and looked at Mr. Heard for guidance. “N—not
exactly,” he stammered; “I was just taking a stroll round the harbor
before turning in, when all of a sudden I heard a cry for help—”
“No you didn’t,” broke in Mr. Heard, fiercely.
“Well, it sounded like it,” said the mate, somewhat taken aback.
“I don’t care what it sounded like,” said the other. “I didn’t say it.
It was the last thing I should ’ave called out. I didn’t want to be
saved.”
“P’r’aps he cried ‘Emma,’” said the voice from the door.
“Might ha’ been that,” admitted the mate. “Well, when I heard it I ran
to the edge and looked down at the water, and at first I couldn’t see
anything. Then I saw what I took to be a dog, but, knowing that dogs
can’t cry ‘help!’—”
“Emma,” corrected Mr. Heard.
“Emma,” said the mate, “I just put my hands up and dived in. When I
came to the surface I struck out for him and tried to seize him from
behind, but before I could do so he put his arms round my neck
like—like—”
“Like as if it was Emma’s,” suggested the voice by the door.
Miss Smith rose with majestic dignity and confronted the speaker. “And
who asked you in here, George Harris?” she inquired, coldly.
“I see the door open,” stammered Mr. Harris—“I see the door open and I
thought—”
“If you look again you’ll see the handle,” said Miss Smith.
Mr. Harris looked, and, opening the door with extreme care, melted
slowly from a gaze too terrible for human endurance.
“We went down like a stone,” continued the mate, as Miss Smith resumed
her seat and smiled at him. “When we came up he tried to get away
again. I think we went down again a few more times, but I ain’t sure.
Then we crawled out; leastways I did, and pulled him after me.”
“He might have drowned you,” said Miss Smith, with a severe glance at
her unfortunate admirer. “And it’s my belief that he tumbled in after
all, and when you thought he was struggling to get away he was
struggling to be saved. That’s more like him.”
“Well, they’re all right now,” said Mr. Smith, as Mr. Heard broke in
with some vehemence. “And this chap’s going to ’ave the Royal Society’s
medal for it, or I’ll know the reason why.”
“No, no,” said the mate, hurriedly; “I wouldn’t take it, I couldn’t
think of it.”
“Take it or leave it,” said Mr. Smith; “but I’m going to the police to
try and get it for you. I know the inspector a bit.”
“I can’t take it,” said the horrified mate; “it—it—besides, don’t you
see, if this isn’t kept quiet Mr. Heard will be locked up for trying to
commit suicide.”
“So he would be,” said the other man from his post by the door; “he’s
quite right.”
“And I’d sooner lose fifty medals,” said Mr. Dix. “What’s the good of
me saving him for that?”
A murmur of admiration at the mate’s extraordinary nobility of
character jarred harshly on the ears of Mr. Heard. Most persistent of
all was the voice of Miss Smith, and hardly able to endure things
quietly, he sat and watched the tender glances which passed between her
and Mr. Dix. Miss Smith, conscious at last of his regards, turned and
looked at him.
“You could say you tumbled in, Arthur, and then he would get the
medal,” she said, softly.
“_Say!_” shouted the overwrought Mr. Heard. “Say I tum—”
Words failed him. He stood swaying and regarding the company for a
moment, and then, flinging open the door, closed it behind him with a
bang that made the house tremble.
The mate followed half an hour later, escorted to the ship by the
entire Smith family. Fortified by the presence of Miss Smith, he
pointed out the exact scene of the rescue without a tremor, and, when
her father narrated the affair to the skipper, whom they found sitting
on deck smoking a last pipe, listened undismayed to that astonished
mariner’s comments.
News of the mate’s heroic conduct became general the next day, and work
on the ketch was somewhat impeded in consequence. It became a point of
honor with Mr. Heard’s fellow-townsmen to allude to the affair as an
accident, but the romantic nature of the transaction was well
understood, and full credit given to Mr. Dix for his self-denial in the
matter of the medal. Small boys followed him in the street, and half
Pebblesea knew when he paid a visit to the Smith’s, and discussed his
chances. Two nights afterwards, when he and Miss Smith went for a walk
in the loneliest spot they could find, conversation turned almost
entirely upon the over-crowded condition of the British Isles.
The _Starfish_ was away for three weeks, but the little town no longer
looked dull to the mate as she entered the harbor one evening and
glided slowly towards her old berth. Emma Smith was waiting to see the
ship come in, and his taste for all other amusements had temporarily
disappeared.
For two or three days the course of true love ran perfectly smooth;
then, like a dark shadow, the figure of Arthur Heard was thrown across
its path. It haunted the quay, hung about the house, and cropped up
unexpectedly in the most distant solitudes. It came up behind the mate
one evening just as he left the ship and walked beside him in silence.
“Halloa,” said the mate, at last.
“Halloa,” said Mr. Heard. “Going to see Emma?”
“I’m going to see Miss Smith,” said the mate.
Mr. Heard laughed; a forced, mirthless laugh.
“And we don’t want you following us about,” said Mr. Dix, sharply. “If
it’ll ease your mind, and do you any good to know, you never had a
chance. She told me so.”
“I sha’n’t follow you,” said Mr. Heard; “it’s your last evening, so
you’d better make the most of it.”
He turned on his heel, and the mate, pondering on his last words, went
thoughtfully on to the house.
[Illustration: “‘And we don’t want you following us about,’ said Mr.
Dix, sharply.”]
Amid the distraction of pleasant society and a long walk, the matter
passed from his mind, and he only remembered it at nine o’clock that
evening as a knock sounded on the door and the sallow face of Mr. Heard
was thrust into the room.
“Good-evening all,” said the intruder.
“Evening, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, affably.
Mr. Heard with a melancholy countenance entered the room and closed the
door gently behind him. Then he coughed slightly and shook his head.
“Anything the matter, Arthur?” inquired Mr. Smith, somewhat disturbed
by these manifestations.
“I’ve got something on my mind,” said Mr. Heard, with a diabolical
glance at the mate—“something wot’s been worrying me for a long time.
I’ve been deceiving you.”
“That was always your failing, Arthur—deceitfulness,” said Mrs. Smith.
“I remember—”
“We’ve both been deceiving you,” interrupted Mr. Heard, loudly. “I
didn’t jump into the harbor the other night, and I didn’t tumble in,
and Mr. Fred Dix didn’t jump in after me; we just went to the end of
the harbor and walked in and wetted ourselves.”
There was a moment’s intense silence and all eyes turned on the mate.
The latter met them boldly.
“It’s a habit o’ mine to walk into the water and spoil my clothes for
the sake of people I’ve never met before,” he said, with a laugh.
“For shame, Arthur!” said Mr. Smith, with a huge sigh of relief.
“’Ow can you?” said Mrs. Smith.
“Arthur’s been asleep since then,” said the mate, still smiling. “All
the same, the next time he jumps in he can get out by himself.”
Mr. Heard, raising his voice, entered into a minute description of the
affair, but in vain. Mr. Smith, rising to his feet, denounced his
ingratitude in language which was seldom allowed to pass unchallenged
in the presence of his wife, while that lady contributed examples of
deceitfulness in the past of Mr. Heard, which he strove in vain to
refute. Meanwhile, her daughter patted the mate’s hand.
“It’s a bit too thin, Arthur,” said the latter, with a mocking smile;
“try something better next time.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Heard, in quieter tones; “I dare you to come
along to the harbor and jump in, just as you are, where you said you
jumped in after me. They’ll soon see who’s telling the truth.”
“He’ll do that,” said Mr. Smith, with conviction.
For a fraction of a second Mr. Dix hesitated, then, with a steady
glance at Miss Smith, he sprang to his feet and accepted the challenge.
Mrs. Smith besought him not to be foolish, and, with a vague idea of
dissuading him, told him a slanderous anecdote concerning Mr. Heard’s
aunt. Her daughter gazed at the mate with proud confidence, and, taking
his arm, bade her mother to get some dry clothes ready and led the way
to the harbor.
The night was fine but dark, and a chill breeze blew up from the sea.
Twice the hapless mate thought of backing out, but a glance at Miss
Smith’s profile and the tender pressure of her arm deterred him. The
tide was running out and he had a faint hope that he might keep afloat
long enough to be washed ashore alive. He talked rapidly, and his laugh
rang across the water. Arrived at the spot they stopped, and Miss Smith
looking down into the darkness was unable to repress a shiver.
“Be careful, Fred,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm.
The mate looked at her oddly. “All right,” he said, gayly, “I’ll be out
almost before I’m in. You run back to the house and help your mother
get the dry clothes ready for me.”
His tones were so confident, and his laugh so buoyant, that Mr. Heard,
who had been fully expecting him to withdraw from the affair, began to
feel that he had under-rated his swimming powers. “Just jumping in and
swimming out again is not quite the same as saving a drownding man,” he
said, with a sneer.
In a flash the mate saw a chance of escape.
“Why, there’s no satisfying you,” he said, slowly. “If I do go in I can
see that you won’t own up that you’ve been lying.”
“He’ll ’ave to,” said Mr. Smith, who, having made up his mind for a
little excitement, was in no mind to lose it.
“I don’t believe he would,” said the mate. “Look here!” he said,
suddenly, as he laid an affectionate arm on the old man’s shoulder. “I
know what we’ll do.”
“Well?” said Mr. Smith.
“I’ll save _you_,” said the mate, with a smile of great relief.
“Save _me_?” said the puzzled Mr. Smith, as his daughter uttered a
faint cry. “How?”
“Just as I saved him,” said the other, nodding. “You jump in, and after
you’ve sunk twice—same as he did—I’ll dive in and save you. At any rate
I’ll do my best; I promise you I won’t come ashore without you.”
Mr. Smith hastily flung off the encircling arm and retired a few paces
inland. “’Ave you—ever been—in a lunatic asylum at any time?” he
inquired, as soon as he could speak.
“No,” said the mate, gravely.
“Neither ’ave I,” said Mr. Smith; “and, what’s more, I’m not going.”
He took a deep breath and stood simmering. Miss Smith came forward and,
with a smothered giggle, took the mate’s arm and squeezed it.
“It’ll have to be Arthur again, then,” said the latter, in a resigned
voice.
“_Me_?” cried Mr. Heard, with a start.
“Yes, you!” said the mate, in a decided voice. “After what you said
just now I’m not going in without saving somebody. It would be no good.
Come on, in you go.”
“He couldn’t speak fairer than that, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith,
dispassionately, as he came forward again.
“But I tell you he can’t swim,” protested Mr. Heard, “not properly. He
didn’t swim last time; I told you so.”
“Never mind; we know what you said,” retorted the mate. “All you’ve got
to do is to jump in and I’ll follow and save you—same as I did the
other night.”
“Go on, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, encouragingly. “It ain’t cold.”
“I tell you he can’t swim,” repeated Mr. Heard, passionately. “I should
be drownded before your eyes.”
[Illustration: “‘I tell you he can’t swim,’ repeated Mr. Heard,
passionately.”]
“Rubbish,” said Mr. Smith. “Why, I believe you’re afraid.”
“I should be drownded, I tell you,” said Mr. Heard. “He wouldn’t come
in after me.”
“Yes, he would,” said Mr. Smith, passing a muscular arm round the
mate’s waist; “’cos the moment you’re overboard I’ll drop ’im in. Are
you ready?”
He stood embracing the mate and waiting, but Mr. Heard, with an
infuriated exclamation, walked away. A parting glance showed him that
the old man had released the mate, and that the latter was now
embracing Miss Smith.
IN THE FAMILY
[Illustration]
IN THE FAMILY
The oldest inhabitant of Claybury sat beneath the sign of the
“Cauliflower” and gazed with affectionate, but dim, old eyes in the
direction of the village street.
“No; Claybury men ain’t never been much of ones for emigrating,” he
said, turning to the youthful traveller who was resting in the shade
with a mug of ale and a cigarette. “They know they’d ’ave to go a long
way afore they’d find a place as ’ud come up to this.”
He finished the tablespoonful of beer in his mug and sat for so long
with his head back and the inverted vessel on his face that the
traveller, who at first thought it was the beginning of a conjuring
trick, colored furiously, and asked permission to refill it.
Now and then a Claybury man has gone to foreign parts, said the old
man, drinking from the replenished mug, and placing it where the
traveller could mark progress without undue strain; but they’ve,
generally speaking, come back and wished as they’d never gone.
The on’y man as I ever heard of that made his fortune by emigrating was
Henery Walker’s great-uncle, Josiah Walker by name, and he wasn’t a
Claybury man at all. He made his fortune out o’ sheep in Australey, and
he was so rich and well-to-do that he could never find time to answer
the letters that Henery Walker used to send him when he was hard up.
Henery Walker used to hear of ’im through a relation of his up in
London, and tell us all about ’im and his money up at this here
“Cauliflower” public-house. And he used to sit and drink his beer and
wonder who would ’ave the old man’s money arter he was dead.
When the relation in London died Henery Walker left off hearing about
his uncle, and he got so worried over thinking that the old man might
die and leave his money to strangers that he got quite thin. He talked
of emigrating to Australey ’imself, and then, acting on the advice of
Bill Chambers—who said it was a cheaper thing to do—he wrote to his
uncle instead, and, arter reminding ’im that ’e was an old man living
in a strange country, ’e asked ’im to come to Claybury and make his
’ome with ’is loving grand-nephew.
It was a good letter, because more than one gave ’im a hand with it,
and there was little bits o’ Scripture in it to make it more
solemn-like. It was wrote on pink paper with pie-crust edges and put in
a green envelope, and Bill Chambers said a man must ’ave a ’art of
stone if that didn’t touch it.
Four months arterwards Henery Walker got an answer to ’is letter from
’is great-uncle. It was a nice letter, and, arter thanking Henery
Walker for all his kindness, ’is uncle said that he was getting an old
man, and p’r’aps he should come and lay ’is bones in England arter all,
and if he did ’e should certainly come and see his grand-nephew, Henery
Walker.
Most of us thought Henery Walker’s fortune was as good as made, but Bob
Pretty, a nasty, low poaching chap that has done wot he could to give
Claybury a bad name, turned up his nose at it.
“I’ll believe he’s coming ’ome when I see him,” he ses. “It’s my belief
he went to Australey to get out o’ your way, Henery.”
“As it ’appened he went there afore I was born,” ses Henery Walker,
firing up.
“He knew your father,” ses Bob Pretty, “and he didn’t want to take no
risks.”
They ’ad words then, and arter that every time Bob Pretty met ’im he
asked arter his great-uncle’s ’ealth, and used to pretend to think ’e
was living with ’im.
“You ought to get the old gentleman out a bit more, Henery,” he would
say; “it can’t be good for ’im to be shut up in the ’ouse so
much—especially your ’ouse.”
Henery Walker used to get that riled he didn’t know wot to do with
’imself, and as time went on, and he began to be afraid that ’is uncle
never would come back to England, he used to get quite nasty if anybody
on’y so much as used the word “uncle” in ’is company.
It was over six months since he ’ad had the letter from ’is uncle, and
’e was up here at the “Cauliflower” with some more of us one night,
when Dicky Weed, the tailor, turns to Bob Pretty and he ses, “Who’s the
old gentleman that’s staying with you, Bob?”
Bob Pretty puts down ’is beer very careful and turns round on ’im.
“Old gentleman?” he ses, very slow. “Wot are you talking about?”
“I mean the little old gentleman with white whiskers and a squeaky
voice,” ses Dicky Weed.
“You’ve been dreaming,” ses Bob, taking up ’is beer ag’in.
“I see ’im too, Bob,” ses Bill Chambers.
“Ho, you did, did you?” ses Bob Pretty, putting down ’is mug with a
bang. “And wot d’ye mean by coming spying round my place, eh? Wot d’ye
mean by it?”
“Spying?” ses Bill Chambers, gaping at ’im with ’is mouth open; “I
wasn’t spying. Anyone ’ud think you ’ad done something you was ashamed
of.”
“You mind your business and I’ll mind mine,” ses Bob, very fierce.
“I was passing the ’ouse,” ses Bill Chambers, looking round at us, “and
I see an old man’s face at the bedroom winder, and while I was
wondering who ’e was a hand come and drawed ’im away. I see ’im as
plain as ever I see anything in my life, and the hand, too. Big and
dirty it was.”
“And he’s got a cough,” ses Dicky Weed—“a churchyard cough—I ’eard it.”
“It ain’t much you don’t hear, Dicky,” ses Bob Pretty, turning on ’im;
“the on’y thing you never did ’ear, and never will ’ear, is any good of
yourself.”
He kicked over a chair wot was in ’is way and went off in such a temper
as we’d never seen ’im in afore, and, wot was more surprising still,
but I know it’s true, ’cos I drunk it up myself, he’d left over arf a
pint o’ beer in ’is mug.
“He’s up to something,” ses Sam Jones, starting arter him; “mark my
words.”
We couldn’t make head nor tail out of it, but for some days arterward
you’d ha’ thought that Bob Pretty’s ’ouse was a peep-show. Everybody
stared at the winders as they went by, and the children played in front
of the ’ouse and stared in all day long. Then the old gentleman was
seen one day as bold as brass sitting at the winder, and we heard that
it was a pore old tramp Bob Pretty ’ad met on the road and given a home
to, and he didn’t like ’is good-’artedness to be known for fear he
should be made fun of.
Nobody believed that, o’ course, and things got more puzzling than
ever. Once or twice the old gentleman went out for a walk, but Bob
Pretty or ’is missis was always with ’im, and if anybody tried to speak
to him they always said ’e was deaf and took ’im off as fast as they
could. Then one night up at the “Cauliflower” here Dicky Weed came
rushing in with a bit o’ news that took everybody’s breath away.
“I’ve just come from the post-office,” he ses, “and there’s a letter
for Bob Pretty’s old gentleman! Wot d’ye think o’ that?”
“If you could tell us wot’s inside it you might ’ave something to brag
about,” ses Henery Walker.
“I don’t want to see the inside,” ses Dicky Weed; “the name on the
outside was good enough for me. I couldn’t hardly believe my own eyes,
but there it was: ‘Mr. Josiah Walker,’ as plain as the nose on your
face.”
O’ course, we see it all then, and wondered why we hadn’t thought of it
afore; and we stood quiet listening to the things that Henery Walker
said about a man that would go and steal another man’s great-uncle from
’im. Three times Smith, the landlord, said, “_Hush!_” and the fourth
time he put Henery Walker outside and told ’im to stay there till he
’ad lost his voice.
Henery Walker stayed outside five minutes, and then ’e come back in
ag’in to ask for advice. His idea seemed to be that, as the old
gentleman was deaf, Bob Pretty was passing ’isself off as Henery
Walker, and the disgrace was a’most more than ’e could bear. He began
to get excited ag’in, and Smith ’ad just said “_Hush!_” once more when
we ’eard somebody whistling outside, and in come Bob Pretty.
He ’ad hardly got ’is face in at the door afore Henery Walker started
on ’im, and Bob Pretty stood there, struck all of a heap, and staring
at ’im as though he couldn’t believe his ears.
“’Ave you gone mad, Henery?” he ses, at last.