To be generally helpful was one of the chief points in the character of
Charlie Brooke.
He was evidently born to aid mankind. He began by helping himself to
everything in life that seemed at all desirable. This was natural, not
selfish.
At first there were few things, apparently, that did seem to his infant
mind desirable, for his earliest days were marked by a sort of chronic
crossness that seemed quite unaccountable in one so healthy; but this
was eventually traced to the influence of pins injudiciously disposed
about the person by nurse. Possibly this experience may have tended to
develop a spirit of brave endurance, and might perhaps account for the
beautiful modifications of character that were subsequently observed in
him. At all events, sweet, patient amiability was a prevailing feature
in the boy long before the years of infancy were over, and this heavenly
aspect of him was pleasantly diversified, in course of time, by
occasional displays of resolute--we might almost say heroic--self-will,
which proved a constant source of mingled pride and alarm to his widowed
mother.
From a very early period of life little Charlie manifested an intense
desire, purpose, and capacity for what may be called his life-work of
rescuing human beings from trouble and danger. It became a passion with
him as years rolled on, and was among the chief means that brought about
the changes in his chequered career.
Appropriately enough he began--almost in babyhood--by rescuing himself!
It happened thus. One day, when he had reached the immature age of
five, he was left in the nursery for a few moments in company with a
wash-tub, in which his mother had been cleansing the household linen.
Mrs Brooke, it may be remarked, although in the middle ranks of life,
was very much below the middle ranks in financial prosperity, and had
therefore to perform much household drudgery.
Charlie's earnest desire to please and obey his mother constantly came
into collision with that self-will to which we have referred.
Separately, these qualities may perhaps work quietly, at least as
regards their possessor, but unitedly they form a mixture which is apt
to become explosive in early youth.
"Don't touch the tub, Charlie; I'll be back directly," said Mrs Brooke,
as she was leaving the nursery. "Don't even go near it."
"No, muvver, I won't."
He spoke with much decision, for he adored water--not to drink but to
play with--and seemed to realise the danger of his position, and the
necessity for self-control.
The temptation to avail himself of the chance, however, was almost too
much for him. Feeling that an internal conflict was pending, he toddled
to the fire, turned his back to it _a la_ paterfamilias, and glared at
the tub, resolved, come what might, to be "dood." But fate was against
him!
Suddenly he became aware that something more than radiated heat was
operating in rear. He glanced behind. His cotton tunic was in flames!
In the twinkling of an eye he was seated in the wash-tub, his hands
clasped in horror as he thought of his guilt, and the flames thoroughly
extinguished!
The solemn glare and pursed mouth with which he met his mother's look of
blank amazement may be imagined but cannot be described--he looked so
quiet, too, and so evidently contented, for the warm water was
congenial!
"O Charlie! did I not say that--"
"Yes, muvver, but I'm bu'nt."
The fearsome and dripping black patch which presented itself to the
agonised mother when she lifted him out of the tub sufficiently
enlightened her and exonerated the child, but her anxiety was not
relieved till she had stripped him naked and ascertained for certain
that no scrap of his fair skin had been injured.
This may be said to have been the real commencement of Charlie Brooke's
career. We mention it chiefly to show that our hero was gifted with
some power of ready resource even in childhood. He was also gifted with
a fearless and daring disposition, a quietly enthusiastic spirit, a
modest mien, and a strong muscular body.
Of course these admirable qualities were not fully developed in
childhood, but the seeds were there. In due time the plants came up and
the flowers bloomed.
We would here caution the reader--especially the youthful reader--
against supposing that from this point our hero was engaged in
rescue-work, and continued at it ever after without intermission. Like
Samson, with his great strength, he exercised his powers only now and
then--more than half unconscious of what was in him--and on many
occasions without any definite purpose in view.
His first act of heroism was exercised, when he had reached the age of
nine, in behalf of a kitten.
It was on a magnificent summer day, soon after he had been sent to the
village school, that the incident occurred. Charlie was walking at the
time with one of his school-fellows named Shank Leather.
Shank was a little older than himself, and a good enough fellow in his
way, but much given to boasting, and possessed of very few of the fine
qualities that characterised our hero. The two were out for a
holiday-ramble, a long way from home, and had reached a river on the
banks of which they sat down to enjoy their mid-day meal. The meal was
simple, and carried in their pockets. It consisted of two
inch-and-a-half-thick slices of bread, with two lumps of cheese to
match.
"I wish this river was nearer home," said Shank Leather, as they sat
down under a spreading oak to dine.
"Why?" asked his companion, with a felicitous brevity and
straightforwardness which occasionally marked his conversation.
"Because then I would have a swim in it everyday."
"Can you swim?" asked Charlie, a slight elevation of the eyebrows
indicating surprise not unmingled with admiration--for our hero was a
hero-worshipper. He could not well have been a hero otherwise!
"Of course I can swim," returned Shank; "that is to say, a little; but I
feel sure that I'll be a splendid swimmer some day."
His companion's look of admiration increased.
"What'll you take to drink?" asked Shank, drawing a large flask from the
pocket in which he had concealed it up to that moment with the express
purpose of giving his companion a pleasant surprise.
It may be well to add that the variety of dunks implied in his question
was imaginary. Shank had only one flask, but in the exuberance of
convivial generosity he quoted his own father--who was addicted to "the
bottle."
"What is it?" asked Brooke, in curious expectancy.
"Taste and see," said his friend, uncorking the flask.
Charlie tasted, but did not "see," apparently, for he looked solemn, and
tasted again.
"It's liquorice-water," said Shank, with the look of one who expects
approval. "I made it myself!"
Nauseous in the extreme, it might have served the purpose of an emetic
had not the digestion of the boys been ostrich-like, but, on hearing how
it came into existence, Charlie put it a third time to his lips, took a
good gulp, and then, nodding his head as he wiped his mouth with his
cuff, declared that it was "wonderful."
"Yes, isn't it? There's not many fellows could make stuff like that."
"No, indeed," assented the other heartily, as he attacked the bread and
cheese. "Does your father know you made it?"
"Oh yes, and he tasted it too--he'd taste anything in the shape of
drink--but he spat it out, and then washed his mouth with brandy an'
water. Mother took some too, and she said she had tasted worse drinks;
and she only wished that father would take to it. That made father
laugh heartily. Then I gave some to little May, and she said it was `So
nice.'"
"Ay. That was like little May," remarked Charlie, with a quiet laugh;
"she'd say that a mess o' tar an' shoe-blacking was nice if _you_ made
it. But I say, Shank, let's see you swim. I'd give anything if I could
swim. Do, like a brick as you are. There's a fine deep hole here under
the bank."
He pointed to a pool in the river where the gurgling eddies certainly
indicated considerable depth of water, but his friend shook his head.
"No, Charlie," he said, "you don't understand the danger as I do. Don't
you see that the water runs into the hole at such a rate that there's a
tree-mendous eddy that would sweep any man off his legs--"
"But you're goin' to swim, you know," interrupted his friend, "an' have
got to be off your legs anyhow!"
"That's all _you_ know," returned the other. "If a man's swept round by
an eddy, don't you know, he'll be banged against things, and then the
water rushes out of the hole with _such_ a gush, an' goes thunderin'
down below, over boulders and stones, and--an'--don't you see?"
"That's true, Shank; it does look dangerous, even for a man that can
swim."
He put such emphasis on the "man" that his comrade glanced sharply at
him, but the genuine innocence of our hero's face was too obvious to
suggest irony. He simply saw that the use of the word _man_ pleased his
friend, therefore he used it.
Conversation was cut short at this point by the sudden appearance on the
scene of two strangers--a kitten and a dog.
The assertion that "dogs delight to bark and bite" is, perhaps, too
sweeping, but then it was made by a poet and poets have an acknowledged
licence--though not necessarily a dog-licence. Certain it is, however,
that this dog--a mongrel cur--did bark with savage delight, and display
all its teeth, with an evident desire to bite, as it chased a delirious
tortoise-shell kitten towards the river.
It was a round, soft, lively kitten, with the hair on its little body
sticking straight out, its heart in its mouth, and horror in its lovely
eyes. It made straight for the tree under which the dinner was going
on. Both boys started up. Enemies in front and rear! Even a human
general might have stood appalled. Two courses were still open--right
and left. The kitten turned right and went wrong, for that was the
river-side. No time for thought! Barking cur and yelling boys! It
reached the edge of the pool, spread out all its legs with a caterwaul
of despair, and went headlong into the water.
Shank Leather gazed--something like glee mingled with his look of
consternation. Not so our hero. Pity was bursting his bosom. With one
magnificent bound he went into the pool, caught the kitten in his right
hand, and carried it straight to the bottom. Next moment he re-appeared
on the surface, wildly beating the water with one hand and holding the
kitten aloft in the other. Shank, to do him justice, plunged into the
river up to his waist, but his courage carried him no further. There he
stuck, vainly holding out a hand and shouting for help.
But no help was near, and it seemed as if the pair of strugglers were
doomed to perish when a pitiful eddy swept them both out of the deep
pool into the foaming rapid below. Shank followed them in howling
despair, for here things looked ten times worse: his comrade being
tossed from billow to breaker, was turned heels over head, bumped
against boulders, stranded on shallows, overturned and swept away
again--but ever with the left arm beating wildly, and the right hand
with the kitten, held high in air.
But the danger, except from being dashed against the boulders, was not
really as great as it seemed, for every time that Brooke got a foothold
for an instant, or was driven on a rock, or was surged, right-end-up, on
a shoot of water, he managed to gasp a little air--including a deal of
water. The kitten, of course, had the same chances, and, being passive,
perhaps suffered less.
At the foot of the rapid they were whirled, as if contemptuously, into
an eddy. Shank was there, as deep as he dared venture. He even pushed
in up to the arm-pits, and, catching his comrade by the hair, dragged
him to bank.
"O Charlie, I've saved ye!" he exclaimed, as his friend crawled out and
sat down.
"Ay, an' you've saved the kitten too!" replied his friend, examining the
poor animal.
"It's dead," said Shank; "dead as mutton."
"No, only stunned. No wonder, poor beast!"
With tender care the rescuer squeezed the water from the fur of the
rescued. Then, pulling open his vest and shirt, he was about to place
the kitten in his bosom to warm it.
"No use doin' that," said Leather. "You're as wet an' nigh as cold as
itself."
"That's true. Sit down here," returned Brooke, in a tone of command
which surprised his comrade. "Open your shirt."
Again Shank obeyed wonderingly. Next moment he gave a gasp as the cold,
wet creature was thrust into his warm bosom.
"It makes me shiver all over," he said.
"Never mind," replied his friend coolly, as he got up and wrung the
water out of his own garments.
"It's beginning to move, Charlie," said Shank, after a few minutes.
"Give it here, then."
The creature was indeed showing feeble symptoms of revival, so Brooke--
whose bosom was not only recovering its own heat, but was beginning to
warm the wet garments--thrust it into his own breast, and the two
friends set off homeward at a run.
At the nearest house they made inquiry as to the owner of the kitten,
but failed to find one. Our hero therefore resolved to carry it home.
Long before that haven was reached, however, his clothes were nearly
dry, and the rescued one was purring sweetly, in childlike innocence--
all the horrors, sufferings, and agonies of the past forgotten,
apparently, in the enjoyment of the present.