NEW BLOOD
"Jewson!" exclaimed Denis in cold astonishment. "What in the world do
you want--with me?"
"You may well ask, sir," replied the steward, in an abject whine, "but
on all the diggings there was no one else that I could turn to--little
as I deserve at your hands, sir--little as I know I deserve! But you
look at me, Mr. Dent, and you'll see the way I've been used!"
He turned his face into the level moonbeams; an eye was closed and
discoloured; a lip was swollen and cut, and the coat was almost torn off
the steward's back, hanging in ribbons from the shoulders only.
"Some one's been knocking you about," remarked Denis, dispassionately.
"Some one has," the steward agreed, grimly: "some one as ought to have
known better--some one not half as old as me, and more than twice as
strong! But it was my fault. I might have known! I seen it coming from
the first; it was bound to come when the luck gave out. You'll have
heard about the water on the Gravel Pits, likely? It's flooded us out
altogether; and this is the way the Captain's used me, with his own
hands, after two months' faithful service!"
"You've probably been getting drunk," said Denis; but there was no sign
of drink about the man; and Denis accepted his denial with some regret
for the suggestion, for he was already more sympathetic than he seemed,
because readier than he knew to believe ill of Devenish.
The steward's story was that for some trifling omission he had been
visited with a torrent of intolerable abuse, and on remonstrance, with
the personal chastisement of which he bore marks which never struck
Denis as other than genuine. The wretch was clever enough to make
excuses for his late master, whose behaviour he attributed entirely to
irritation caused by the ruin of his claim; but as Jewson said, that was
not his fault, and he could not stay another hour with a gentleman who
used him so. So he had turned to Denis in his distress--little right as
he had--and he hoped the past at least would be forgiven and
forgotten--if only for the sake of the season.
"Why, what is the season?" asked Denis; for in the incessant excitement
of the last few days, and the unaccustomed surroundings of blue sky and
blazing heat, he had quite forgotten that Christmas was upon them; but
he remembered as he spoke, and could quite believe the steward's
statement that it was already Christmas Eve.
"And to think you had forgotten!" added Jewson, who was fast recovering
a careful kind of confidence. "Why, I expected to find you starting to
keep it in the good old style--roast beef--turkeys--plum-pudding and
mince pies! What's the good of being a lucky digger unless you keep a
high old Christmas like the rest of 'em?"
"Who told you I was one?" asked Denis, suspiciously.
"Who told me? If you asked me who hadn't told me, Mr. Dent, I might be
able to answer you, sir. You don't keep a thing like that to yourself in
a place like this. Captain Devenish told me, for one; it was one of the
things that helped to make him mad."
"Well," said Denis, "you must come in, steward, but I'm sorry there's
nothing to offer you. We were going out to get something before we turn
in. There's nothing in the place but the remains of some mutton we had
last night and this midday, some stale damper, and some dried-up
cheese."
"Call that nothing?" chuckled Jewson. "You might let me see what's left,
Mr. Dent; it's wonderful what can be done with what, by a bit of a cook;
and I'm all that, sir, though I say it. I might be able to save you
turning out again, and I'd be proud to do it after your kindness, Mr.
Dent, which I have done so little to deserve!"
Denis was not the man to refuse; he did not like the fellow's whining
tone, but it was not his only tone, and he did appear to have been
roughly handled. He did not impose upon Denis altogether, but only as
much as was necessary, which was characteristic of his craft. He was
admitted, a lamp lit without disturbing Doherty, and the remnants of the
mutton fetched from an outside safe. Jewson sniffed it suspiciously.
"Sweet enough!" said he. "I see you knew enough to salt it. And are them
taters I see in that sack? Then down you lie like your mate, and shut
your eyes, and see what the king'll send you! Stop a bit, though; didn't
you say there was bread and cheese?"
"Yes, but they're both as hard as nails."
"Never mind; they may make into something soft. Any mustard?"
"Yes; they left us some."
"No beer, I suppose?"
"No."
"Well, never mind. You leave the rest to me. Thank you, I see where
everything else is, and in twenty minutes to half-an-hour there'll be
something for you to see and taste too!"
Already he was crouching over the fire, blowing upon the red embers,
coaxing them into flames; and in the growing glow his cunning face
looked kindly enough, and his grin but that of an artist bent on
triumphing over materials which only put him on his artistic mettle.
Denis watched him a little from the door. Then he sauntered to and fro
between hut and shaft; and presently there came to his nostrils the most
savoury and appetizing smell that they had yet encountered on the
diggings. Something was hissing on the fire; at the table Jewson was
preparing something else. On his bed Doherty still slept the sleep of
exhaustion; and down upon the bark roof of the hut, on the black
hieroglyph of the mounted windlass, and on the white tents further along
the gully, shone a moon of surpassing purity and splendour. And Denis
thought of a Christmas hymn, and then of Father Christmas himself, as he
peered in and watched the elderly evil-doer with the once-dyed beard
preparing his miraculous and momentous meal.
Momentous as the sequel will very soon show, at the time it was indeed
little less than a miracle, and nothing less to Doherty, who was roused
from a castaway's dreams of plenty to find them true. The remains of the
mutton had been changed as by some fairy wand into a spiced ragout
swimming in rich gravy. The cook apologized for the potatoes, which he
had only had time to fry; but the other diners had forgotten that
potatoes could be fried, and their appreciation was proportionate. But
the greatest success came in the Welsh rarebit which a master hand had
evolved from the stale damper and the dried-up cheese. It lay steaming
in its dish like liquid gold--a joy to the eye, a boon to the nose, and
to the diggers' hardened palates an inconceivable delicacy and treat.
"And to think," said Denis, "that we had the material by us; that we've
had it ready to our hand any time these two months!"
"And much good it was, or would have been," echoed Doherty, "to our
hand! It's the hand that matters, not the material. Mr. Steward, give me
yours!"
"His name is Jewson," remarked Denis; and his heart sank in spite of him
as he saw the young hand join the old across the empty plates.
"But you called me steward, Mr. Dent, and I like to be called steward,"
rejoined Jewson, adroitly. "It reminds me of times you may think I'd
like to forget; but I wouldn't and shall I tell you why? Because I'd
like to make up for 'em, sir, if only you'd give me the chance. I'm out
of a job. Wild hosses wouldn't take me back to Captain Devenish. I was
only his servant, not a partner, and I'll be your servant, Mr. Dent, and
a good one, sir, if you'll give me a trial. Pay me what you like--I
ain't partic'lar."
And the old rogue lapsed into a living heap of humility; but he had gone
just one sentence too far.
"I'll pay you well if I take you," said Denis, shortly, as he sipped his
tea. Yet even the tea seemed a better brew than they had managed to
achieve for themselves.
"I don't want you to make up your minds to-night," resumed the steward,
reducing the humility a degree or so. "I don't care about hotel work. I
certainly shouldn't start work at any of these here shanties on
Christmas Day. They have approached me, you understand, through
Lieutenant Rackham, who has been kind enough to say a good word for my
capabilities. But that's not the kind of place I'd like so well as this.
Let me camp outside to-night, and cook your Christmas dinner to-morrow,
while you think it over."
But Denis said he would prefer to think it over at once, and lit his
pipe, and went out to do so then and there, with a troubled face which
Jewson could understand and Doherty could not.
"He never liked me," said the steward with a sigh. "And it was my
fault," he added self-reproachfully.
"But if you see that you could soon make him like you."
"If he gave me the chance, perhaps."
"He shall!"
Denis was leaning in the moonlight against the windlass staging. There
he listened to the lad's strenuous and enthusiastic plea.
"We've never had a mate like that since we've been on Ballarat," urged
Jimmy; "and all done in half-an-hour out of our own odds and ends! Why,
mister, that steward of yours would make a man of me and a new man of
you in less than no time. And he doesn't even ask to be a partner; he's
the very man we want, dropped from the stars on to this blessed claim!
If we don't snap him up, others soon will, and we deserve to lose the
second-best chance we've ever had."
Denis puffed his pipe in silence.
"I know him, you see," he said at last.
"Of course you do."
"But I never liked him."
"So he says."
"And it was his own fault."
"He says that too. He's said enough for me to see he means turning over
a new leaf if you give him this chance."
Denis wavered. If he was going to give the man a chance (and he could
always watch him, and get rid of him at a moment's notice) it would be
perhaps unfair to let the lad know all he thought about their
prospective companion.
"Do you really want him to have the job, Jimmy?"
"I do so, mister. He's the very man for us. I want him bad."
"And you never wanted Mr. Moseley at all, eh?"
"No, mister, I never did."
Denis went on smoking for another minute. The moon was high now, and as
pure as ever. The tents further down the gully shone white as from a
fall of real Christmas snow; and sounds of real Christmas came faintly
from them, and more faintly from far beyond. Denis, however, was not
thinking of the morrow, but of many a morrow--of long days of
unremitting labour--of short nights when the spent body would be fit but
for rest and for refreshment. He felt the better already for this single
evening meal. And the man could be watched--the man could be watched.
"Well, mister?"
"It's all right, Jimmy. He shall have his trial--to-morrow--the day
after to-morrow--and as many days after that again as he suits us and we
him. But never let him know the half of what we take, and never you
leave him on the claim alone."