Jack Truman, till recently the heir of a man of large property, but now
a mere pauper without home or profession, sat in a big morocco-covered
chair, with his hands in his pockets, listening to his future
father-in-law, Boaz Pottinger, Esq., whilst he expounded his opinions,
and more or less laid down the law.
Mr. Pottinger had acquired a fortune in chemical works, and it was
his almost daily boast that he was “a self-made man.” His detractors
declared that this was not much to be proud of, and that Boaz
Pottinger, ugly, ungainly, uncouth, had omitted to supply himself with
the letter “h.” However, he had a ladylike wife, a pretty daughter,
and half a million, so when he bought a place in Kent the neighbours
figuratively made room for him. No one was more friendly than the
Squire of the parish, Hildebrande Truman, whose ancestors were
Crusaders, and who had never earned a penny in his life. As times were
bad for agriculturists, Mr. Truman attempted to make some money in
speculation, but kept his endeavours to himself, intending to treat his
wife and family to a delightful surprise! Unfortunately, the surprise
was not of the nature he anticipated. On the collapse of a monstrous
financial swindle he became liable, involved, ruined, and within a
few months, Daines Place, its estates and messuages and heirlooms,
were brought to the hammer, and sold. The shock, and the shame, had
killed the Squire, and now here was the Squire’s son listening to Mr.
Pottinger’s ideas on the subject of his future!
Mr. Pottinger enjoyed the sound of his own voice as he lay back in his
chair, with his thick white fingers meeting at the tips, his eyes fixed
on a corner of a bookcase. He said:
“You see, Jack, my boy, everything is altered now the poor Squire has
gone, and scarcely left a penny piece--or anyway not more than will
keep your mother and sisters in a small way. If he had only given _me_
a hint of what he was after, I’d have warned him. I know all about the
smiling scoundrels, that rob honest folks, not of shillings, but of
’undreds of thousands of pounds, and call themselves honourable men.
Well, if I’d ’ad a ’int, you would not be sitting there--without an
acre to your name!”
“No,” sighed the young man, “but there is no use in going over that
now, and the governor meant it all for the best. The question is, what
am I to do to make a living for Nancy and myself?”
“Talk of making your own living, my son.--We will leave Nancy out of
the business.”
“But Nancy is engaged to me, with your consent, and she intends to
stick to me--and I to her.”
“Circumstances have changed since this time last year. Then you were
heir to a fine property, and would ’ave ’ad a suitable allowance. Now
what ’ave you got? What are you and Nancy going to live on--tell me
that? ’Ow are you going to put a ’ouse over ’er ’ead?”
“That is just the crucial question,” replied young Truman, rising to
his feet. He was slight and well made, with a square chin, and fine
head--the typical young Britisher who has been to Eton and Oxford; his
clothes and boots were the perfection of cut--in short, he appeared
what he was, a good-looking man of fashion, who had never earned, or
lacked, a sovereign in his life.
“You have no profession,” resumed Mr. Pottinger.
“No, that’s the worst of it. I did not care about the Army--I wanted to
be a sailor, and my mother struck; and here I am--at twenty-four--an
incapable idiot!”
“But you can turn your hand to something.”
“I can ride to hounds, and manage a boat, I’m a bit of a carpenter, I
can photograph, and I know something of machinery.”
“There’s not a penny in any of them for you,” declared the old man
brusquely; “you’re a _hamateur_.”
“I was thinking if I took up a small farm, sir, I might----”
“Put it out of your ’ead,” brusquely interrupted Mr. Pottinger; “and
now I’ve been thinking, and it comes to this. Of course I _could_ say
you and Nancy was never to see one another again.”
“Yes, you could say it,” rejoined the other significantly.
“Nancy will never go against me; if she did----” Here he nodded his
head with alarming significance.
“Have you any suggestion to make, sir? You seemed to have some
proposition.”
“I ’ave--it’s this. Suppose you go off for three years wherever you
like--it must be out of Great Britain--and you will not correspond
with Nancy more than every six months. You will go into the world like
a man, not like a dressed-up young nincompoop, and make ten thousand
pounds. When you bring me that, I will put forty thousand to it and
give you Nancy.”
“My good sir!” gasped Jack Truman, standing squarely before him.
“You might as well ask me to bring you back the moon! Ten thousand
pounds--ten _thousand_ pounds!”
“Some men pick it up in Wall Street in one afternoon--some make it by
a stroke of the pen. Why! I’ve even been told--but I don’t believe
it--that women get as much as that for a novel!”
“All these are clever people--they have capital, or brains, or both. I
have neither one nor the other.”
“Oh ho! so you are going to cry off--and not take up my challenge, eh?”
“If I thought I had the very smallest chance--of--winning, you know I’d
jump at it like a shot.”
“Well, take my advice, and jump,” said Mr. Pottinger, rising with a
mighty effort--he was a seventeen-stone man. “I’ll give you two days
to consider it, and now you may be off, and talk it over with Nancy.
I like you, Jack, always did, you know; but I’m not going to give my
little girl to a fellow that has not some stuff in him--that is not
worth ’is salt. Why, look at _me_! I made myself what I ham! No, you
just go and see if you can’t do something on the same pattern,” and he
blundered heavily out of the library.
Nancy Pottinger was twenty, a pretty little dark-eyed girl, animated
and energetic, clever, resourceful, and plucky.
“Such an idea, Jack!” she exclaimed. “The three years are horrible
to contemplate, but imagine father thinking of anything so romantic!
Lately he has been devouring old tales about knights sallying forth in
quest of adventures, and returning, after many dangers, to their lady
loves, to be crowned with wreaths and glory. I’m positive daddy got
his idea from ‘Sir Baldwin’s Quest.’ I saw him reading it, the last
month; he reads very slowly and digests every word. It has given him an
_idea_, and he will stick to it. When he grasps an idea, he never lets
it go. And if I were to run away with you, and marry you, and live with
you on sixpence a week, he would be sorry for us, but he would never
help us--never. He is like that--he would die of a broken heart, and
leave all his money to charities! Now let us get a map, and see where
you can go and make your--and my--fortune.”
“At best, I’m such a duffer,” he groaned.
“Not at all; you want self-confidence. You can do lots of things
perfectly. You can mend a watch, or a bicycle, and doctor dogs.”
“Oh yes, I can do lots of odds and ends; I’m what you may call
Jack-of-all-trades, and master of none!”
“Nonsense, I consider you most capable; especially with your hands. Now
let us go over the map, and discuss your future field. America--well,
they are so very clever over there themselves, no use trying that!
India--no--mother’s uncle was there forty years, and only brought home
some elephant tusks! Australia--too far from _me_. South Africa--the
gold and diamond mines, there you are!”
And South Africa it was! For more than two years Jack Truman strove
hard to accomplish his task. He saw many different phases of life,
and if he had not gained a fortune, he had acquired experience,
self-confidence, and a splendid physique. He had, of course, visited
the Kimberley mines, been a barman in Johannesburg, and, in the
intervals of dire poverty, tutor on a Dutch farm, and driver of
an electric tram; but he resolutely set his face against work on
the railway, or in the police, “steady regular employment open to
respectable young men.” No, he wanted no permanent billet, he was
looking for a big coup--and the big coup invariably eluded him. For
instance, he purchased with all his savings a fine stone from a
simple-looking Kaffir boy, and the splendid diamond proved to be pure
_glass_. His next accumulation he gambled and lost; he caught enteric,
and was laid up at Durban for three months. From Durban, he somehow
drifted to Zanzibar, from Zanzibar to Suakim, and now despair began to
lay hold of him, for but four months longer remained, and although
he had toiled, and striven his utmost, he was no nearer that great
prize than when he started. In Suakim he happened to encounter a naval
officer--an old schoolfellow--to whom he imparted his story, and who
listened with open-mouthed interest.
“Sounds like an Arabian Night’s tale!” he exclaimed, “but I say,
old chap, I believe I could put you on to a good thing. If it comes
off--I’ll be your best man.”
“You will be the best man I’ve ever met, if you put me on to that good
job. I don’t care what it is.”
“Then listen. I know you don’t mind roughing it, and have got a level
head, are a fair shot with a revolver, and don’t drink.”
“No; get along, Bobby.”
“You may have heard of the wreck of the _Mangalore_ passenger steamer
in the Red Sea?”
“Not I.”
“It only happened a month ago. She was bound from Marseilles to
Singapore, and ran on something about seventy miles below here--and
lies a total wreck.”
Jack nodded his head.
“She was a fine boat, eight thousand tons, carried three hundred
passengers, and was heavily insured at Lloyd’s. The insurance is not
paid yet; the underwriters want a few more particulars before they
hand over £200,000--you see, it is a fairly stiff sum! She lies five
miles off the coast, well away from the steamer track, and was out of
her course. The captain talks of fog, and currents--and everyone knows
the Red Sea is the very devil! I believe the rocks _grow_! The office
people here, I happen to know, are looking for a trustworthy chap to
carry on for a few weeks, whilst things are straightened out a bit; a
man to keep off the Arab cut-throats, and have an eye to everything
till she is formally taken over: you see, there is a lot of stores and
liquor on board. They want a steady level-headed _gentleman_, who can
turn his hand to most things, from a boat to a windlass; he is not
picked up easily on this coast! Now, suppose you lend a hand, and go
in for the berth; they will send you down in the steam-launch with a
couple of Lascars, and pay you handsomely. I believe there is money in
it besides--perhaps a big haul.”
“And that’s just what I am in search of, these two years, so I’m your
man,” announced Jack with emphasis.
“Mind you, it is not a kid-glove job; you run a good many risks, both
from the Arabs, and others.”
“I don’t mind that; nothing venture, nothing have. Can you give me a
hint of the whereabouts of the coin?”
“No--not exactly; it would be libellous. However, unless you are a
regular thickhead, you will soon see how the land lies, and if you do
find out anything strange, communicate with Suakim at once.”
“And if I find nothing but stale stores, and rats?”
“You must risk that, and take your chance; it is just a bit of a
gamble, but mind you, I’ve given you what you are hunting for all over
the place, and that is, a straight tip.”
Three days later found Jack Truman _en route_ to the _Mangalore_; he
had received information and orders from headquarters, was to await
full instructions from London, and to keep watch over the wreck--for
possibly four weeks, or longer. The new commander was despatched to his
berth in a little steam-launch, accompanied by two Lascars, and had
provided himself with plenty of tobacco, a Martini rifle, revolver,
screwdriver, pincers, matches, and a change of clothes. After some
hours’ steady steaming, the _Mangalore_ came into sight. She lay over
at an angle of thirty degrees, with her decks awash, and sleepy seas
breaking over them.
Her position was undoubtedly precarious, and she was anything but an
inviting abode--in short, she was a water-logged wreck. Far away from
the _Mangalore_ lay the African coast, with a fringe of jagged hills
behind which the crimson sun was setting; prominent among the hills,
was one almost like a tower, but no tower--or even hut--was on that
desolate shore.
When the two Lascars had come aboard, and beheld the condition of the
_Mangalore_, they loudly refused to remain. She would go to pieces with
the first gale--yes, but not with _them_ as her crew; and in spite of
every denunciation and expostulation that the captain of the launch
could devise--backed up by Truman, with broken Arabic and forcible
gestures--the two cowards deserted the ship, and returned to Suakim.
Previous to taking over charge, Jack Truman had gleaned some
particulars of the wreck. She had gone aground most unexpectedly,
when the passengers were all at lunch; there was no panic, everything
had been managed with the utmost pluck and coolness. The weather was
calm, and passengers had gone off comfortably in boats, had landed
about four o’clock in the afternoon, and been subsequently transported
on to Suakim. The level-headed captain carried away his log-book,
chronometer, and most of his possessions in the steam-launch, and had
been warmly applauded for his courage, and resource.
Jack accepted the desertion of the Lascars with surprising _sangfroid_;
he was accustomed to being alone. This, however, was a new kind of
solitude--a solitude at sea. He scrambled about the deck, and explored
the abandoned steamer from end to end. There was the long saloon, the
smashed crockery, the passengers’ cabins, with their clothes and
belongings scattered about, precisely as they had abandoned them. He
discovered quantities of stores, and quantities of rats, and as the
result of a careful inspection, he decided to take up his quarters in
the captain’s cabin. Here, he made up a bed, and after a light supper,
turned in.
In a day or two the caretaker became accustomed to his novel
position; he smoked a good deal, he read novels--the property of the
late passengers--he sat and stared for hours at the sea, or jagged
coast-line, and some distant rocky islands, but he never once saw smoke
or sail. His sole companion was the ship’s cat, a bony, lean, uncanny
looking animal, with the pointed face peculiar to the Eastern feline.
Sometimes at night, listening to the wash of the waves, it had seemed
to Jack that the grey Grimalkin was not his sole ship-mate, unless his
imagination was playing tricks. He seemed to hear a footstep, a heavy
and yet a stealthy footstep. The experience was distinctly unpleasant,
as he knew perfectly well that there was not a human being but himself
within many miles. Jack did not believe in ghosts, and yet when alone,
as he was, even a strong man may succumb to superstition. Solitude and
silence evoke strange thoughts. He had overhauled the entire ship, and
even examined the cargo; to his surprise, it proved to consist of boxes
full of scrap-iron; this at once raised his suspicions--scrap-iron, at
eighteen shillings a ton, was not worth its carriage all the way to
Singapore! Then he made another strange discovery--he was wonderfully
agile in getting about, even when he had to crawl and creep; down in
the hold were three great holes in the ship’s side, caused by dynamite
exploded from within! This was astounding. Did it mean that the captain
had deliberately scuttled the _Mangalore_? Now if he could but find a
scrap of writing as clue, or a witness! If he could but prove that the
steamer had been purposely cast away, his future was made! He would
inform the underwriters, save them an enormous loss, and possibly
secure a generous reward--say £10,000.
With such an incentive, Jack worked ceaselessly. He searched almost day
and night, anxious to discover some clue before he was relieved, or
the derelict went to pieces, and he was compelled to abandon her, and
take to the boat. He believed he might find the desired object in the
captain’s cabin, and every day he examined it. Every day he turned out
the bunk, the drawers, the desk; he lifted the carpet--but all proved
useless.
The cat and the caretaker had become close friends; she accorded him
her society; twice a day he gave her some tinned milk in a saucer
(for himself, he lived on the stores), and she in return showed her
gratitude by occasionally bringing him a dead rat. The ship was alive
with them; what they existed on was a mystery; but they overran the
saloon, the lower deck, and swarmed up the rigging. Truman often shot
them with his revolver--practice, to keep his eye in!
One hot, airless afternoon he was lying in his bunk trying to sleep,
when suddenly he was disturbed by an extraordinary commotion behind the
wainscot; a violent scuffling and scratching. The enterprising cat had
evidently got in there, and could not find her way out. He had missed
her, the whole day. So that was where she was! He called, and she began
to mew piteously and continuously. Well, there was nothing for it but
to break in the panel, which he proceeded to do, with a series of
violent kicks. Presently, as a result, the cat crawled forth, looking
extremely dusty and dejected, and as she emerged from the woodwork, a
little ball of white paper rolled out after her. Jack Truman stooped
and picked it up and examined it curiously. Was it a find? It _was_!
He discovered a creased plan of the ship, on which were three crosses
in red ink, indicating the exact spot at which the dynamite was placed,
and there was also a scrap of a letter evidently addressed to the
captain.
“Off coast. Lat. ... can’t miss it ... tower rock ... it daytime ...
wire as arrang....”
So there was his fortune at last, thanks to the cat! he had found the
clue, and the whole thread was complete! For some time he sat on the
side of his bunk, with the paper still in his hand, revelling in an
ecstasy of exaltation. The two morsels of dusty paper might bring him
Nancy. What should he set about first? He must be cool, and collected,
and not act hastily. It was full moon, and the sea was smooth as oil;
after sundown he would get the boat, row ashore, and walk during the
night to a little station thirty miles up the coast, and from there
despatch a runner, or a camel man, to Suakim. Meanwhile he would be
compelled to leave the cat in temporary charge of the _Mangalore_!
Talking of full moon, what was this enormous shadow on the sky-light?
He looked up, and was confronted by a pair of watery grey eyes, and
a large crimson face. In another moment the face was thrust into the
cabin and a tall bare-footed man in blue shirt and trousers said
hoarsely:
“Hullo, boss, so you have found something!” and he grinned, and pointed
to the paper, and the broken boards. “I’ve had my eye on you! I always
guessed this was a put-up job, and a mighty neat one too.”
“Who the devil are you?” demanded Jack, sliding off the bunk, and
rising to his feet.
“Your gen’leman companion,” folding his bare arms. “I am Joe Todd--one
of the crew; I was a bit ‘on’ when she struck, and in my berth; the
boats forgot me in the scramble. I declare, when I woke, and found
what had happened, I thought I was dreaming; however, I have been
pretty comfortable--the best of liquor free, and I have not wasted my
opportunities--a bottle of French brandy and a couple of fizz a day,
eh? What beats me is having no baccy. The smell of yours drove me nigh
crazy! So here I am--and in the nick of time!”
“Why did you not show before? Where do you stow yourself?”
“Aye, that’s telling! I suppose you’re in charge of the liquor--eh? The
old Hooker has some of the best; I would have lain doggo still, but for
the baccy--it drew me out, that pipe of yourn. What’s this?” suddenly
making a snatch at the papers.
“Only a plan of the ship,” replied Truman, keeping his fury under
control.
“Aye, and the three marks are where she is sunk. Oh, _I_ have been
poking round too. I say, boss, this _will_ be a plum for the insurance
people! You and I, go shares!”
“No you don’t!” cried Jack, making a dash to recapture his prize, but
the other was too quick for him; and now began within the limited space
of that small cabin a most desperate struggle between the two men.
Round and round, and up and down, and to and fro they wrestled.--The
cat, in alarm, took refuge in a little rack.--Jack was as hard as an
open-air life, youth, temperance, and exercise could make him. The
sailor’s was a bigger, heavier, more powerful frame--and he was half
mad with brandy.
The chances were five to one that Jack would tire down his opponent,
when his foot slipped, and he fell on the back of his head, with the
sailor a-top of him.
The fall stunned him, and when he came to his senses he was lying on
the floor, the contents of the cabin were scattered in all directions,
and it was empty. He lay for some time endeavouring to re-arrange his
ideas. He recalled the sailor, the struggle, and the fact that he had
gone off with the clue in his possession. He rose, and with difficulty
staggered to the door; it was locked on the outside.
Jack’s frenzy at having the cup of attainment snatched from his lips,
his bitter disappointment, and his bad fall, combined to throw him
into a fever. He lay half delirious all that night; with morning, he
recovered, rose, and endeavoured to burst open the door; no use--it was
strong and held fast; he could not blow off the lock, for his revolver
was in the saloon. Parched with thirst, he emptied the water jug, which
he had luckily replenished at night-fall. The sympathetic cat crept
into the port-hole; later she returned bringing him a rat. A horrible
idea came to him. Was it possible that he might yet be compelled to
exist upon the cat’s bounty? No, no--he had not come to that; but by
the second afternoon--after thirty-six hours’ imprisonment--he was
nearly mad with hunger and thirst--especially thirst.
The moon rose; he stood with his face to the port-hole endeavouring
to catch a breath of air, yet what was the good of prolonging the
agony, since die he must? Hours passed, and then, as he stood, he
seemed to hear a distant sound, not the lazy plash of the water, or
the boisterous singing of the drunkard, but a far-away humming and
throbbing--it was the steam-launch!
Yes, nearer and nearer it approached. His heart beat as if it would
choke him. He trembled so violently, he could hardly stand. Now he
could hear voices, and he shouted with all his remaining strength.
After what seemed a whole week of waiting, he heard steps coming down
the companion; the door was flung open, he was free. Here were two
or three officers and officials, who were come to relieve him; they
were amazed indeed to discover Truman locked into a cabin, and looking
death-like, with staring hollow eyes, and parched, cracked lips. What
had happened?
He pointed to his mouth, and whispered ‘_water_.’ Water and a stimulant
brought him to himself; in a short time the little crowd was in
possession of his story. He indicated the broken panel, and showed them
where the precious papers had been concealed.
“Now we will go and find the ruffian,” said the principal official; “we
must tackle him quickly, and not let him have a chance to make away
with his prize.”
The sailor was easily discovered--his resounding snores betrayed him;
he lay extended at full length on a sofa in the saloon, fast asleep,
with an empty bottle beside him. His sleep was a stupor so profound
that he had not heard the launch arrive, and he never stirred, whilst
careful fingers removed two pieces of much damaged paper from his
filthy trouser pocket.
Finally, when they roused him unceremoniously, he sat up, stared,
and exclaimed, “Bless us if this b’ain’t another blooming dream!”
Subsequently he admitted that “he had forgotten the other cove; he
had not been, so to say, sober since he saw him, and fought him for a
greedy swab--well, it might be a day ago--it might be two or three.”
The upshot of the business was, that Jack Truman, the sailor Joe Todd,
and the ship’s cat were taken off the wreck, and brought to Suakim;
here the papers were examined, and sworn to, telegraph wires put
into requisition, and lawyers consulted. The underwriters proved the
fraudulent casting-away of the S.S. _Mangalore_ (but her clever captain
had already made his escape to South America). Subsequently the wreck
was sold to a firm of merchants in Suez, who disposed of her piecemeal.
The saloon furniture now embellishes one of the smartest cafés in the
town--who sits, may see.
Last, but not least, Jack Truman received a substantial cheque, which
he immediately carried home, and laid before Boaz Pottinger, who gave
him, according to his promise, £40,000, and the hand of his daughter
Nancy.