THE COTTAGE AT COVE INVADED--DAN HORSEY SPEAKS "TOORKO" TO RUSSIANS, AND
FAILS TO ENLIGHTEN THEM.
Retracing his steps hastily to the village of Cove, Stephen Gaff sought
out his own humble cottage, which, during his absence on his frequent
voyages, was left under the charge of his fisherman brother-in-law, John
Furby. Presenting himself at the door, he created the family sensation
which has been described at the end of the first chapter.
The first violent demonstrations of surprise and joy over, Mrs Gaff
dragged her husband into a small closet, which was regarded by the
household in the light of a spare room, and there compelled him to
change his garments. While this change was being made the volatile
Bu'ster, indignant at being bolted out, kicked the door with his heel
until he became convinced that no good or evil could result from the
process. Then his active mind reverted to the forbidden loaf, and he
forthwith drew a chair below the shelf on which it lay. Upon the chair
he placed a three-legged stool, and upon the stool an eight-inch block,
which latter being an unstable foundation, caused Billy to lose his
balance when he got upon it. The erection instantly gave way, and fell
with a hideous crash. Tottie, who stood near, gazing at her brother's
misdeeds, as was her wont, in awe-stricken admiration, was overwhelmed
in the debris.
Nothing daunted, the Bu'ster "returned to the charge," and fell a second
time,--with the loaf, however, in his arms.
"Hah!" exclaimed Mrs Gaff, issuing from the spare room, and rushing at
her offspring with uplifted hand.
"Stop, lass," said Stephen, arresting her, and catching up the boy, whom
he placed on his knee as he sat down in a chair beside the fire. "How
are 'ee, Billy, my lad?"
Billy, glaring defiance at his mother, who returned the glare with
interest in the shape of a united shake of the fist and head, replied
that he was "fuss'rate."
Tottie having immediately claimed, and been put in possession of the
other knee, divided her father's attention, and while the goodwife
busied herself in preparing the supper, which had been originally
intended for "Uncle John," a quick fire of question and reply of the
most varied and unconnected sort was kept up by the trio at the fire, in
tones, and accompanied by hugs and gestures, which proved beyond all
doubt that Stephen Gaff was a father of the right kind, and that the
little ones hailed him as an inestimable addition to their household
joys.
It would be unjust to Mrs Gaff were I to permit the reader to suppose
that she was a disagreeable contrast to the father. She was
true-hearted and loving, but she had been born and bred in the midst of
a class of people whose manners are as rough as their calling, and was
by no means tender or considerate. A terrific scream, or a knock-down
slap, from Mrs Gaff, was regarded both by giver and recipient in much
the same light as is a mild reproof in more polite society.
"Wrecked again, Stephen," said Mrs Gaff, pausing in her occupation, and
recurring to the remark made by her husband when he first entered the
room, "where have 'ee bin wrecked this time?"
"A'most at the door, lass, on the Black Rock."
"Ay, an' was all the rest saved?" inquired the wife.
"No, none of 'em. A' lost save one, a little child."
"A child, lad!" exclaimed the wife in surprise; "what have 'ee done wi'
it?"
"Took it to its friends."
As he said this the sailor gave his wife a look which induced her to
refrain from further questioning on that subject.
"An' who saved ye, Stephen?"
"God saved me," replied the man, earnestly.
"True, lad; but was there none o' the boys there to lend a hand?"
"No, none. It puzzled me a bit," said Stephen, "for the lads are wont
to be on the look-out on a night like this."
"It needn't puzzle ye, then," replied the wife, as she set a chair for
her husband at the table, and poured out a cup of tea, "for there's bin
two sloops an' a schooner on the rocks off the pier-head for three hours
past, an' a' the lads are out at them,--Uncle John among the rest.
They've made him coxswain o' the new lifeboat since ye last went to
sea."
Stephen set down the cup, which he had just raised to his lips,
untasted, and rose hastily.
"Wrecks at the pier-head, lass," he exclaimed, "and you let me sit here
idle!"
"Don't go, Stephen," entreated Mrs Gaff; "you're not fit to do anything
after sitch a night, an' its o'er late."
The man paid no attention to the remonstrance, but buttoned up his coat,
and seized his cap.
Mrs Gaff promptly locked the door with an air of thorough
determination, put the key in her bosom, and crossed her arms thereon
tightly.
Stephen smiled slightly as he turned, raised the window, and leaped
through it into the road, followed by a vociferous cheer from Billy,
whose spirit was wildly stirred by the boldness and success of the
movement, and mightily rejoiced at the discomfiture of his mother.
Mrs Gaff relieved her feelings by slapping the Bu'ster's face, and was
about to close the window when her husband quietly stepped through it
again, saying--
"Open the door, lass, you've no need to fear; I'll remain now."
There was a trampling of many feet outside. The door had scarcely been
unlocked when they were in the passage. Next moment four fishermen
entered, bearing the figure of a man in their arms.
"He an't drownded, lass, only swownded," said one of the men to Mrs
Gaff, with the view of relieving the good woman's anxiety, as they laid
a seaman on the bed. "Look alive now, old girl, an' git hot blankets
an' bottles."
While Mrs Gaff obeyed in silent haste, the room was filled with men,
some of whom supported or half-carried others, whose drooping heads,
torn garments, and haggard faces, showed that they had just been rescued
from the angry sea. None of them were more than partially clothed; some
were nearly naked. With excited haste the fishermen crowded the wrecked
men round the fire, and spread blankets and sails, or whatever came
first to hand, on the floor for those who were most exhausted to lie
down upon, while Stephen Gaff poured hot tea and hot grog
indiscriminately into cups, saucers, pannikins, and soup-plates, and
urged them to drink with rough but kindly hospitality.
The wrecked men, (there were twelve of them), were Russians, and as a
matter of course could not understand a word that was said to them,
although some of the fishermen asked them, with as much earnestness as
if their lives depended on the answer, "Who--they--wos--an'--whar'--
they--com'd--fro'?"
Receiving for reply a stare and a shake of the head from such of the men
as were able to attend, one of the fishermen tried them again with great
precision and slowness of speech, and with much solemnity of manner,
"What--part--o' the arth--d'ye hail fro',--lads?"
No answer, accompanied by a stare and a shake.
"Oh, it's o' no use," cried one, "let the poor lads a-be."
"Hallo! Dan," cried another, as a man forced his way through the
crowded room towards the fire, "you've bin in Toorkey, I believe; I say,
try them fellers wi' a screed o' Toorko. P'raps they'll make _that_
out."
The individual addressed was very different from the men amongst whom he
stood. He was a thin, slightly-made, yet strong and active young man,
in a very short grey coat, a very long striped vest, and very tight
corduroy trousers--a sort of compound of footman and jockey. In truth,
Daniel Horsey was both; being at once valet and groom to the romantic
Kenneth, whose fate it was, (according to the infallible Mrs Niven), to
be "drownded."
Dan's first inquiry was as to whether any one had seen his master, and
the tones in which the question was put betokened him, beyond all doubt,
a son of the Green Isle.
Being told that no one had seen his master, he was about to leave the
hut in quest of him when he was collared by several stout men, and
placed forcibly in front of a Russian with a huge red beard, who
appeared to be the least exhausted of the party.
"Come now, Dan, say somethin' to them Roosians."
"Arrah! d'ye think I'll spake a word av ye stick yer great ugly fists
into my jooglar veins like that? Hands off," he cried indignantly, "or
niver a taste o' spaitch ye'll git from me, bad or good. Besides, what
duv _I_ know about Roosian?"
"Ye've bin in Toorkey, han't ye?" inquired a fisherman.
"Troth I have, an' what o' that?" replied Dan, as his captors released
their hold of his collar.
"Ye can speak Toorko, can't ye?"
"Maybe I can," he replied cautiously.
"Well, I'm told that Toorkey lies to the suthard o' Roosia, just as
England lies to the suthard o' Scotland, an' so, mayhap, they'll
understand a bit Toorko."
"Faix, av they don't understand Thoorko better nor the English
understand Scotch, it's little speed I'll come wi' them," said Dan with
a leer. "Howsomediver, I'll give 'em a trial. I say, Mr Red-beard,
hubba doorum bobble moti squorum howko joski tearum thaddi whak? Come,
now, avic, let's hear what ye've got to say to that. An' mind what ye
spake, 'cause we won't stand no blarney here."
Dan uttered this with immense volubility and assurance, and the
fishermen regarded him with deepening respect, as they awaited the
Russian's answer. He replied by a stare and a shake of the head as
before.
"Hookum daddy," resumed Dan, stooping to gaze earnestly into the man's
face, and placing the thumb of his right hand into the palm of his left,
by way of emphasising his remark, "Hookum daddy, saringo spolli-jaker
tooraloo be japers bang falairo--och!" he added, turning away with a
look of disgust, "he don't understand a word. I would try him wi'
Frinch, but it's clear as ditch wather that he's half drownded still."
Convinced that Dan Horsey's "Toorko" was of no use, the fishermen at
length allowed him to retire.