One week later, and three men might be seen walking briskly along a by-
street in Liverpool towards the docks. These were Hubert Oliphant,
Frank Oldfield, and Captain Merryweather, commander of the barque
_Sabrina_, bound for South Australia. The vessel was to sail next day,
and the young men were going with the captain to make some final
arrangements about their cabins. Hubert looked bright and happy, poor
Frank subdued and sad. The captain was a thorough and hearty-looking
sailor, brown as a coffee-berry from exposure to weather; with abundance
of bushy beard and whiskers; broad-shouldered, tall, and upright. It
was now the middle of October, just three days after the flight of
Samuel Johnson from Langhurst, as recorded in the opening of our story.
As the captain and his two companions turned the corner of the street
they came upon a group which arrested their attention at once.
Standing not far from the door of a public-house was a lad of about
fourteen years of age. He looked worn and hungry, yet he had not at all
the appearance of a beggar. He was evidently strange to the place, and
looked about him with an air of perplexity, which made it clear that he
was in the midst of unfamiliar and uncongenial scenes. Three or four
sailors were looking hard at him, as they lounged about the public-house
door, and were making their comments to one another.
"A queer-looking craft," said one. "Never sailed in these waters afore,
I reckon."
"Don't look sea-worthy," said another.
"Started a timber or two, I calculate," remarked a third.
"Halloa! messmate," shouted another, whose good-humoured face was
unhappily flushed by drink, "don't lie-to there in that fashion, but
make sail, and come to an anchor on this bench."
The lad did not answer, but stood gazing at the sailors in a state of
utter bewilderment.
"Have you carried away your jawing-tackle, my hearty?" asked the man who
had last addressed him.
"I can't make head nor tail of what you say," was the boy's reply.
"Well, what's amiss with you, then? Can you compass that?"
"Ay," was the reply; "I understand that well enough. There's plenty
amiss with me, for I've had nothing to eat or drink since yesterday, and
I haven't brass to buy anything with."
"Ah, I see. I suppose you mean by that foreign lingo that you haven't a
shot in your locker, and you want a bit of summut to stow away in your
hold."
"I mean," replied the lad, rather sulkily, "that I'm almost starved to
death."
"Well, it's no odds," cried the other. "I can't quite make you out; but
I see you've hoisted signals of distress: there, sit you down.
Landlord, a glass of grog, hot, and sweet, and strong. Here, take a
pull at that till the grog comes."
He handed to him a pewter-pot as he spoke.
The boy pushed it from him with a look of disgust.
"I can't touch it," he said. "If you'll give me a mouthful of meat
instead, I'll thank you; and with all my heart too."
"Meat!" exclaimed the sailor, in astonishment, "what's the young lubber
dreaming about? Come, don't be a fool; drink the ale, and you shall
have some bread and cheese when you've finished your grog."
"Jack," expostulated one of his companions, "let the poor lad alone; he
hasn't a mind for the drink, perhaps he ain't used to it, and it'll only
make him top heavy. You can see he wants ballast; he'll be over on his
beam-ends the first squall if he takes the ale and grog aboard."
"Avast, avast, Tom," said the other, who was just sufficiently
intoxicated to be obstinate, and determined to have his own way. "If I
take him in tow, he must obey sailing orders. Grog first, and bread and
cheese afterwards; that's what I say."
"And I'd die afore I'd touch a drop of the drink," said the poor boy,
setting his teeth firmly. "I've seen enough, and more nor enough, of
misery from the drink; and I'd starve to skin and bone afore I'd touch a
drop of it."
"Bravo, my lad, bravo!" cried Captain Merryweather, who had listened to
the conversation with the greatest interest. "Come hither, my poor boy;
you shall have a good meal, and something better than the grog to wash
it down with."
"Oh, never heed Jack, captain," cried one of the other sailors; "he's
half-seas over just now, and doesn't know which way he's steering. I'll
see that the poor lad has something to eat."
"Thank you kindly, my man," replied the captain; "but he shall go with
me, if he will."
"Ay, sir," said the boy thankfully, "I'll go with you, for I'm sure you
speak gradely."
The whole party soon reached a temperance hotel, and here the captain
ordered his young companion a substantial breakfast.
"Stay here, my lad," he said, "till I come back; I want to have a word
with you. I am going with these gentlemen to the docks, but I shall be
back again in half an hour. By the way, what's your name, my boy?"
A deep flush came over the other's face at this question. He stared at
Captain Merryweather, and did not answer.
"I want to know your name."
"My name? Ah, well--I don't--you see--"
"Why, surely you haven't forgotten your own name? What do they call
you?"
"Poor fellow!" said Hubert; "his hunger has confused his brain. He'll
be better when he has had his breakfast."