MORE MISCHIEF--JULIAN'S BAD ADVICE--DIGBY'S FIRST TUTOR--HOW TIME WAS
SPENT AT OSBERTON--TOBY TUBB AND HIS YARNS.
There was a large gathering at Bloxholme Hall, both from far and near,
of most of the principal families in the county. The house was full of
those acquaintances of Mr and Mrs Heathcote who lived too far off to
return the same night, but numbers came who were to drive home again the
same evening.
There was an archery meeting in the morning, and then a dinner and a
dance afterwards. Julian and Digby voted it very slow work. It was,
probably, so to them. Kate liked the archery, and especially the
dancing, for gentlemen asked her to dance, and chatted with her, and she
skipped about like a little fairy, as merrily as possible. The boys had
not gone in to the dinner, but they had helped themselves plentifully to
the good things on which they could lay hands, and Julian especially had
got hold of some wine. In consequence of this, he had become very
pot-valorous.
"I'll tell you what, Digby," said he, "we must do something, or I shall
go to sleep. This dancing is all nonsense. Come into the garden. I
dare say I shall knock out an idea; it's seldom I fail, when I try."
That was true; but they were very bad ideas Master Julian knocked out.
Before long they found their way into the court-yard, where the
carriages of the company were left standing by themselves. The horses
were in the stables, pleasantly munching their corn. The coachmen and
grooms were in the servants' hall, as agreeably occupied in eating their
suppers.
Julian went in and out among the carriages, and whatever rugs, or
gloves, or wrappers, or halters he could find, he transferred from one
carriage to the other.
"I say, Digby, it will be a capital joke," he exclaimed. "When the fat
old coachmen come out, they'll all set to quarrelling. One will think
that the other has stolen his things; and they will never dream that we
did it."
Digby thought the joke a good one, and helped to take the articles out
of some carriages and to put them into others, till it was evidently
almost impossible for any one, in the dark, to regain their lost
property. When this was done, and the joke, as they called it, enjoyed,
the boys sat down to consider what else they could do.
"I have a notion of something," said Julian. "It is dangerous, because,
if we were found out, we should get into a terrible scrape; but I should
like to try it."
"What is it?" asked Digby, eagerly. "As for the scrape, I don't mind
that; I rather like the risk."
"Well, young 'un, that's according to fancy," said Julian. "I like to
take care of myself, but still I like fun. My notion is, that if we
were to take the linch-pins out of the carriages we should see a scene
not often beheld. As soon as they begin to move, the wheels will go
spinning off in every direction, and the people will be spilt right and
left into the road. Wouldn't it be fun?"
Digby did not think so. He could scarcely fancy that Julian was in
earnest. "Why, some of the coachmen might be killed," he exclaimed;
"and the people inside would certainly be hurt."
"Oh, nonsense," answered Julian. "You are qualmish. I'll do it. You
just stand by and see. Look, they are out in a minute. Just untwist
the wire. Here's somebody's chaise; I suspect it is the parson's.
There, he'll get a spill. Now, then, this old family coach; it belongs
to those old frumps the Fullers. Lord, what fun, to see them all
sprawling out into the road."
Thus Julian went on, Digby felt very much inclined to stop him, and to
entreat him to replace the linch-pins; but Julian rattled away, and was
so amusing, that his first feeling of the wrong to which he was a party
wore off. It never occurred to him that, if he could not stop Julian,
his wisest course would have been to tell the coachmen to look to their
linch-pins. Fortunately, many of the carriages had been built in
London, and were supplied with patent boxes, so that they escaped the
contemplated mischief.
While the boys were thus engaged they heard some footsteps, and they
guessed that the coachmen were returning from their suppers to look
after their horses. They therefore beat a precipitate retreat through
the gate which led into the garden, and quickly made their way into the
ball-room.
Mr Bowdler was walking about the room, speaking a kindly word whenever
he had an opportunity, both to young and old, of those among whom he had
come to live, and whom he was anxious to instruct, and endeavouring, as
he felt it most important to do, to win the confidence of all, when he
saw the two boys return. Their hair was disordered, their shoes were
far from clean, and there were thin lines of dust or mud on their
jackets. Julian looked flushed, and Digby had a sheepish abashed
manner, very different from that which usually distinguished him. He
was very certain that they had been about something they should not, but
the question as to what they had been doing he did not think fit to ask.
It was already getting later than the hour which he liked to be away
from home, so, wishing Mr and Mrs Heathcote good-night, in that
pleasant cordial manner which had already gained him their good-will, he
walked out to get ready his own carriage. The glass door of the house
which led into the garden was open, and so was that which led from the
garden into the court-yard. Near his own carriage he saw something
shining on the ground. He stooped down, and picked up a clasp knife
which he himself had given to Digby a few days before. A groom came and
brought out his horse and harnessed it to his carriage. When, however,
the man led it out to be clear of the other carriages, in crossing a
shallow open drain, first one wheel came off, and then, to his surprise,
another followed. As the carriage was moving very slowly, and no one
was in it, there was little harm done.
Mr Bowdler said nothing. "That was a cruel trick of those thoughtless
boys," he uttered to himself. "They could scarcely have wished to
injure me, but I fear they are the guilty ones."
He and the groom hunted about till they found the linch-pins and the
wires which kept them in, and, having examined the other wheels, he got
in and drove off.
The groom, of course, wondered how it could have happened, but it did
not occur to him to accuse the young gentlemen.
Soon after this, Mrs Fuller's coach was ordered. The fat coachman put
the horses to, and drove slowly up to the front door. She and four
daughters, and two young sons, came down the steps, the first got in,
and the latter got up outside, while Digby and Julian stood in the hall
looking on. Digby nearly bit off the thumb of his glove in his
eagerness, and hesitation and regret, as he watched for the catastrophe
he expected. Julian, fancying that they were secure from detection,
stood more in front, highly amused at the thoughts of seeing the fat
coachman tumble off into the dust.
Just as they were starting, a carriage was heard coming rapidly along
the road. The fat coachman thought that he ought to move out of the
way, so he whipped on his horses and away they trotted. A stone had
been cast on to the carriage-way--the old family coach bumped over it--
off flew a wheel--over went the carriage, the coachman and the two lads
were thrown off with no little violence, right and left, greatly to
Julian's delight, and the ladies screamed.
Fortunately the windows had not been drawn up, and no one was cut, but
being stout people and closely packed, they were very much jammed
together. The poor coachman was the most hurt, and the young men had
their coats spoilt. They were on their legs in a moment, and while one
helped up the coachman the other ran to the horses' heads. The next
thing was to get out the ladies, who, trembling and alarmed, reentered
the hall. Grooms, and servants, and gentlemen, assembled from all
quarters.
"Look at the other wheels," said a voice.
It was that of Mr Bowdler. His mind had misgiven him that the trick
which he had discovered might have been played to other carriages, and
he had driven back. He returned to the coach-yard and warned the
coachmen of what he suspected. He found them in a state of great
commotion, all crying out for the things they had lost, one accusing the
other of having appropriated them. Their anger was still further
increased when, in accordance with Mr Bowdler's advice, they discovered
the linch-pins had been abstracted from several of the carriages, and
that the necks of some of them had narrowly escaped being broken. They
were loud in their threats of vengeance on the heads of the unknown
ragamuffins who had committed the atrocious act.
"It's they gipsies," said one; "they've done it to rob the ladies as we
drove along."
"It's some on old Dame Marlow's tricks. I don't think az how any one
could a come in here to play zick a prank," observed another, a believer
in the Dame's powers.
Some, however, ventured to suggest that as there were young gentlemen at
the Hall, and young gentlemen did play very bad tricks at times, they
might have done it. Opinion was setting very much in this direction,
when John Pratt appeared, and was highly indignant that any such
reflection should be cast on his young master.
Mr Bowdler having assured himself that no more harm was likely to
occur, drove away again.
"I am not justified in allowing the boys to go on in this way," he said
to himself. "I must inform Mr Heathcote of what has occurred, and get
them sent to where they will be properly looked after; I should like to
get them separated; one will learn no good from the other."
Meantime the disturbance in the coach-yard increased, and John Pratt had
at last to summon his master from the ball-room to quell it. Mr
Heathcote's voice was now heard inquiring what was the matter, when a
dozen people tried to give their own versions of the state of affairs.
"Very well, my friends," said Mr Heathcote, after listening to them
patiently, "keep the peace among yourselves for the present, and if the
culprits can be discovered, I will take care, I promise you, that they
shall be properly punished. And John Pratt, get more lanterns, and have
all the things in the carriages collected, and distributed to the proper
owners as they are claimed."
Having said this, the master of the house returned to his guests.
Julian and Digby, when they heard what Mr Heathcote had said, were in a
great fright. Digby knew very well that what his father said he would
do--that he assuredly would do. He had no hope of escaping detection,
and was certain that he should be punished. Of course, he remembered
that he had not actually taken the linch-pins out of the carriages, but
he had stood by, if not aiding and abetting, at all events not making
any strenuous effort to prevent the deed. He, therefore, never for a
moment dreamed of sheltering himself under the plea that he had not
touched the linch-pins. It scarcely occurred to him that Julian might
have exonerated him in a great degree by generously declaring that he
himself had proposed the trick and had carried it out. Had he been in
Julian's place, that is what he would have done; but he did not ask
Julian to act thus for him, and he made up his mind to abide the
consequences. He felt that any excuse he could offer for himself would
throw more blame on Julian, and it did occur to him that even then his
word might be doubted.
In the meantime Mrs Fuller's carriage was put to rights, the coachman
mounted on his box, the ladies were handed in, and the young gentlemen
got up once more on the rumble, all of them very angry and annoyed, as
well they might be, and some not a little bruised. Mr Heathcote
assured them of his vexation at what had occurred, and promised them, as
he had the coachmen, that he would get the culprits properly punished.
The party at length separated, and Digby, more unhappy and discontented
with himself than he had been for a long time, went to bed and cried
with very vexation till he fell asleep. It was a pity that his
repentance was not of a more permanent nature.
The next morning he arose refreshed, and though he felt an unusual
weight at his heart, yet he looked at things in a brighter light.
Julian looked immaterial (as Kate called his expression of countenance)
when he came down to breakfast, and had evidently made up his mind to
brazen out the affair, should suspicion fall on him. The event of the
evening naturally, however, became the subject of conversation, and
Digby felt conscious that he was blushing, while he dared not meet the
eye of any one present. He eat away perseveringly at his breakfast, and
bolted so hot a cup of tea, that he scalded his mouth, and was about to
make his escape, when his father's eye fell on him. Digby knew it,
though he did not dare to look up, and Mr Heathcote felt very nearly
certain that the culprit was his own son. Had he doubted it much, he
would have asked him, in joke, if he could tell how the affair happened;
but he was silent, and felt sad and annoyed. He was sorry to suppose
that Digby had been guilty of so foolish and really wicked an act, and
his pride too, of which he had a good deal, was hurt at the thought of
having, in accordance with his word, publicly to punish him.
All doubts were at an end when, in a short time, Mr Bowdler appeared,
mentioned what he had ascertained, and firmly recommended the course he
thought ought to be pursued.
"You are right," answered Mr Heathcote, "but he is such a child--it
seems to me but the other day that he was a baby. Let me see, how old
is he? Ah, to be sure, I went to school at an earlier age. Old or
young, I am bound to punish him, however. Yet stay, we have no right to
condemn him unheard."
Mr Heathcote rang the bell, and ordered the servant to send in Master
Digby to him. He felt very like that Roman father we read about, who
condemned his own son to death.
"Digby," said Mr Heathcote, when his son and heir stood before him,
"did you take the linch-pins out of the carriages last night?"
Digby thought a moment.
"No, I did not," he answered firmly.
"Do you know anything about the matter," said Mr Heathcote, somewhat
astonished but firmly believing the assertion. Oh what a blessed thing
is that perfect confidence in the honour and truthfulness of those
connected with us.
"Do you say that I must answer that question, papa?" said Digby.
"I do not wish to force you to say anything," remarked Mr Heathcote,
"but I do wish to ascertain how the circumstance occurred."
Digby thought for some time, while his father sat looking at him.
"I should like to know how you intend to punish the person who committed
the mischief," he said at last.
"If you had done it, I should probably have flogged you, and have sent
you off to school, as soon as I could find a suitable one. That would
have been a lenient punishment for you. A poor boy would be flogged and
sent to the house of correction."
"Then you must send me to school, papa, though I should be glad if you
would omit the flogging," replied Digby, frankly. "I will not say who
played the trick; but, as I see somebody ought to be punished, I'm ready
to suffer, as I think I ought."
Mr Bowdler was very much interested in hearing this conversation, and
certainly thought very much better of Digby than he had before been
inclined to do. "There is a great deal in that boy which may bring
forth good fruit, if it is properly developed," he said to himself. It
made him very anxious that Digby should go to some school where the
moral as well as intellectual qualities of the boys were attended to.
Mr Heathcote did not wish to press the matter further on his son. He
was convinced that he was innocent of the act committed, and he had no
doubt of the real delinquent. Still he was very unwilling to have to
punish Julian, and he wished to pass the matter over, unless the boy was
positively accused before him of the crime. Digby was told that he
might go back to the schoolroom and prepare for Mr Crammer.
Mr Bowdler had heard Mr Nugent, Mrs Heathcote's brother, very highly
spoken of, and he recommended that Digby should be placed under him till
a good school could be found.
Mr Heathcote liked the notion. He could not bear the idea of having
Digby far separated from him. Not that he saw much of the boy, but he
liked to feel and know that he was near him. He fancied that he was
getting on very well with Mr Crammer, and, now that so excellent a
governess had come to instruct him, he thought that his education would
be well provided for. He promised Mr Bowdler, therefore, that he would
ride over to Osberton and get his brother-in-law to take charge of
Digby.
Mr Bowdler, on his part, undertook to make inquiries for a good school
for the boy.
"I will send young Julian home," said Mr Heathcote. "I see no
particular harm in him. He seems a quiet, inoffensive lad; but, as you
think it advisable, it will be a good excuse for separating the two."
"Yes, a very good excuse," said Mr Bowdler.
Julian had been with Digby when the footman summoned him into his
father's presence. He waited anxiously for his return.
"You've not peached, I hope, Digby?" said he.
"No, indeed," answered Digby, rather proudly. "I wasn't going to tell a
story, either. Your name wasn't mentioned, so you need not be afraid."
"That's jolly," exclaimed Julian, brightening up. "I was afraid that
you would be letting the cat out of the bag."
"I don't know exactly what that means," answered Digby; "I said that if
some one was to be punished I was ready to suffer, and so I'm to be sent
off to school, and that's not very pleasant, let me tell you. Not that
I mind the idea of school. It may be a very good sort of place; but I
don't like to have to leave so many pleasant things behind me. What
will my poor dear old dog Tomboy do without me? And there's my pretty
pony Juniper, which papa only bought last spring for me, and which I've
taught to know me and follow me about the field like a dog. How many
pleasant rides I expected to have on him; and he will have forgotten all
about me when I come back. Then I was to have gone out shooting with
John Pratt in September; and I'm pretty certain papa would have got me a
small gun, for I know he would like to see me a good shot; he's a
first-rate one himself. John says he'll back me up to kill a brace of
partridges within a week after I get my gun; but all that's come to an
end. Then we were to have had such capital fishing. John has been
getting my tackle ready for me, and has made me a prime rod, much better
than can be bought in the shops. Trap and ball, and hoops, and cricket,
and marbles--not that I ever can endure marbles--and rounders, and
prisoner's base, and all those sort of games, can be had at school even
better than at home, with the fellows one may pick up; so that won't
make any difference. But, as far as I can make out, they don't let one
go out birds'-nesting, or ferreting, or cross-bow shooting, or badger
hunting, or any of those sort of things which John Pratt is up to.
Schools must be very slow places, that's my opinion. I don't suppose we
might even blow up a wasps' nest, if we were to find one. If John Pratt
might go and live near, and take me out every day, and have some fun or
other, I shouldn't mind it. Then, you see, I don't like leaving Kate
and little Gusty. What Kate will do without me I do not know at all. I
hope Miss Apsley will treat her kindly; if he don't I'll--" and Digby
looked very fierce, but said nothing more.
"If you don't like school, all you've to do is to run away," said
Julian, ever ready to offer evil counsel. "That's what I would do, I
know; or, if you don't like the idea of going there, run away before.
Send to me, and I'll help you; I'm always ready to help a friend in
need."
"Thank you," said Digby; "oh, I know you would be, but I promised my
father that I would go willingly if he wished to send me; so go I must."
Julian might have urged that promises were like piecrust, as the vulgar
saying runs, made to be broken: but he already knew enough of Digby to
be aware that such an opinion would have no response in his bosom, so he
only said, "Well, when you get there, and change your mind, only let me
know, and I will help you if I ran."
Julian, two days after this, to his astonishment found that his things
were packed, and his father's carriage coming to the door, he was told
that after he had had some luncheon he was to go home. Mr and Mrs
Heathcote, however, wished him good-bye very kindly, and so did the Miss
Heathcotes, and of course Digby did, so he began to hope that nothing
had been discovered. No one, however, said that they hoped soon to see
him again. He went away smiling in very good humour with himself, and
tolerably so with the rest of the world. The next day Digby was sent
off to Mr Nugent's; this he did not at all like; he would rather have
gone to school at once. He recollected how very slow he had always
thought the life there--the hours were so regular and early, and he had
no field-sports of any kind to indulge in. Kate, however, promised to
keep up a constant correspondence with him, and to tell him all that
went forward at home. He undertook to write long letters to her in
return, at which she smiled, for hitherto he decidedly had not exhibited
any proficiency either in orthography or calligraphy, indeed it required
a considerable amount of patience and ingenuity to decipher his
epistles. Digby loved his father and mother well, though I have not
said so; he had an affectionate parting from them. John Pratt drove him
over to Osberton. His uncle received him in a very kind way; he did not
allude in the slightest way to any of his late misdemeanors. There were
four or five other boys there as pupils, considerably older than he was.
They seemed very quiet, well-behaved lads, and perfectly happy and
contented with their lot. Mr Nugent, though strict in insisting on his
directions being obeyed, evidently ruled by love rather than by fear.
Mrs Nugent was also a very amiable, kind person, who took a warm
interest in the lads committed to her husband's charge. Digby had
before seen very little of his aunt. Before he had been there many days
he felt that he liked her very much. Really the time was much more
pleasantly spent than he expected. Mr Nugent was never idle for a
moment; when out of doors he was always moving about visiting his
parishioners; in the house, he was superintending the studies of his
pupils, or writing or reading himself. In an evening he would always
read some interesting book to them--he never failed to select one with
which they were anxious to go on; he encouraged those who could draw, or
net, or make models of wood, or pasteboard, to go on at the same time
with their manual occupations. Digby could do nothing of the sort. His
notion of drawing was very limited indeed; however, his aunt undertook
to teach him. By learning how to hold his pencil properly, and to move
his hand freely, he was surprised to find what rapid progress he made;
he first had very simple sketches to copy--houses and barns, the greater
number of the lines in which were perpendicular or horizontal. She
would not let him have any other sketches till he had learned to draw
what he called the up and down, and the along lines properly.
"You must do that again, Digby," she used to say in her laughing, kind
tone. "I make my houses stand upright, and I cannot allow you to let
them tumble down. Till you have learned to build up a barn or a cottage
you must not attempt to erect a church or a castle. See, you will be
able, if you persevere, to do drawings like these."
And she showed him some very attractive coloured sketches, well
calculated to excite his ambition to equal them. The books, too, his
uncle read, or which he allowed one of the other boys to read, were
frequently very amusing, though instructive fictions--accounts of the
adventures and travels of lads, just such as boys like; sometimes
history was read, and always once in the week some very interesting book
on religious subjects. It is a great mistake to suppose that such
subjects cannot be made interesting, independent of their vast, their
unspeakable importance. Altogether Digby found the evenings pass much
more pleasantly than he had when he spent them in the idle, do-nothing
way to which he had been accustomed at home. What numbers and numbers
of valuable hours are thrown away--not even spent in amusement, but
literally in doing nothing, and in being discontented, and sleepy, and
stupid, which might and ought to be employed in so profitable and
interesting a manner. Mr Nugent frequently spoke to his pupils on the
subject of the proper employment of their time, and although many had
come to him as accustomed to idle and waste it, as was Digby, they very
soon, from experiencing the pleasure and advantages it afforded them,
began to wish to spend it profitably. He used to remark--"Never suppose
that you are doing no harm when you are idle. Remember, in the first
place, that `Satan finds some evil still for idle hands to do;' so you
are voluntarily exposing yourself to his temptations. In that alone you
are wrong; but also understand that time is given us to be employed
aright; that is tilt tenure, so to speak, on which we hold our
existence; our intellects, our talents, our strength, our faculties of
mind and body, were bestowed on us for that object. Boys and young
people, and even grown men and women, fancy they were sent into the
world only to amuse themselves. If they have wealth at their disposal
they think that they are at liberty to spend their time in as pleasant a
way as possible, and as for reckoning up each day what good thing they
have done in the world, and saying how have I employed the talent
entrusted by my Maker to my charge, such an idea never comes into their
heads; but, my boys, I want it to come into your heads and hearts, and
to fix it there firmly. If you have wealth at your disposal, consider,
and reflect, and pray, that you may be guided how to employ it aright;
if you are compelled to labour for your existence, work away with a
willing heart and hand, always remembering that you are labouring in the
sight of God, and that he approves of those who are doing their best to
perform their duty in that state of life into which he has called them."
Digby listened to these remarks; they were quite new to him, and he did
not entirely understand them; but they made an impression, and got
stowed away somewhere in the crannies of his mind and heart, and in
after years found their way to the surface to some effect. Digby got on
much better with his lessons than he had done with Mr Crammer. All
that gentleman seemed to aim at was to make him _say_ a lesson; he
learnt to say his Latin grammar glibly enough, and to answer set
questions in geography and history; and as to his comprehension of what
he was repeating, no inquiries were made. The consequences may be
supposed, and poor Digby, with fair natural abilities, possessed the
very smallest modicum of the information which the books he had read
were capable of affording. Mr Nugent, on the contrary, cared little
how a pupil said his lessons from a book; his object was to put
information into his head, and not only to make it stay there, but to
show him how to employ it profitably when required. He used to explain
that dictionaries, and grammars, and delectuses, and graduses, and pens,
and ink, and paper, and the art of reading, were only so many mechanical
contrivances for acquiring knowledge. The first thing to be done is to
learn to use them to the best advantage.
[Note: a Gradus is a textbook used to train people learning Latin in the
art of writing Latin verse, especially hexameters and pentameters.]
"Now, Marshall and Digby, take those two Latin dictionaries, and find me
out the meaning of the words _Luna circum terram movetur_."
Marshall placed his dictionary well before him, rapidly turning over the
leaves with the thumb of one hand, while he held them fast with the
other: as his quick eye caught sight of them, he wrote them down on a
piece of paper by his side.
Digby fumbled away awkwardly, going backwards and forwards, showing
clearly that he did not know how to handle a dictionary. "What were the
words you said, Uncle?" he asked at last.
Marshall had looked out and written all his down and poor Digby had
actually forgotten them before he had been able to find one of them out.
"The moon moves, or is moved, round the earth," said Marshall, quietly.
"Now you see, Digby, the advantage of being able to turn over the leaves
of a dictionary rapidly," said Mr Nugent. "Of two people with equal
talents, the one who possesses that simple mechanical power to the
greatest perfection will beat the other, in as far as he will gain the
information for which he is seeking in so much less time. A rapid,
clear writer, and a person with a quick observant eye, has a great
advantage over those who do not possess those qualifications."
Digby very well understood these observations, and set to work to
practise turning over the leaves of his dictionary and in looking out
words, till, with no little triumph, he proved that he could find out a
word almost as quickly as Marshall.
It was not, however, all work and no play at Mr Nugent's. He was near
a river as well as near the sea, and, though he did not wish to give the
boys a taste for a naval life, yet he was anxious that they should be
instructed in rowing and sailing a boat, and in swimming. Digby had
prided himself in being a proficient for his age in all manly sports,
but he found that he was very inferior to his fellow-pupils with regard
to those connected with the water. It was satisfactory, however, to
find from Marshall, who became his chief friend, that when they first
came they were no better than he was. They were mostly as ignorant, and
accustomed to be idle, and knew nothing of aquatic amusements. Mr
Nugent, who was very fond of boating, though he had little time to spend
in it, occasionally went out with them; but on other occasions they were
committed to the charge of an old seaman, Tobias Tubb by name. Of
course he was always called Toby Tubb, or still more familiarly spoken
of as Toby. Toby had served in all sorts of craft, from a
line-of-battle ship to a collier, and, report said, at one time in a
smuggling lugger; but he had good reasons for not wishing that
circumstance to be alluded to. He was loquacious enough, however, with
regard to all the other events of his life, which he pumped up from time
to time from the depths of his memory, and sent them flowing forth in a
rich stream for the benefit of his hearers. He was a great favourite
with the boys, who delighted to listen to his yarns; and he took an
interest in his young charges, and was equally pleased to describe the
events of his nautical career. His boat was a fine wholesome craft,
eighteen feet long, with good beam. She had a spritsail, jib, foresail,
and mizen. Never did he appear so happy as when he had them all on
board for an afternoon's sail. Tubb was a very appropriate name for
him. He was somewhat stout and short, with a round, ruddy, good-natured
countenance, a bald forehead, and white hair on either side of it. He
was all roundness. His head was round, and his face was round, and his
eyes, and his nose, and his mouth were round. His nose was like a very
funny little round button; but it looked so good-natured, and cocked up
so quaintly, that the boys declared that they would not have it changed
on any account for the first Roman nose in existence. No more,
probably, would Toby, who had been very well contented with it for full
sixty years, it having, as he said, served him many a good turn during
that period. "No, no; we should never be ashamed of old friends who
have been faithful and true, and wish to exchange them for finer folk,"
he used to remark, when, as was sometimes the case, his fellow-boatmen
humorously twitted him about his lose.
The first day that Digby went out in the John Dory, as Toby called his
boat, he discovered his ignorance of nautical affairs. He had day after
day been on the ponds at Bloxholme, but then John Pratt had rowed him
about, and he had never thought of learning to row himself.
The river was wide at the mouth, and, as there were deep sheltered bays,
it was a good place for rowing. When sailing, however, it was necessary
to be careful, for gusts often came down suddenly between the cliffs,
and had frequently upset boats the people in which had not been ready to
let go the sheets in an instant. There was no wind this day.
"Now, young gen'man," said Toby, looking at Digby, "you'll just take an
oar and pull with the rest?"
"Oh yes," answered Digby, who was always ready to undertake any manual
exercise, "I'll row."
Marshall and the other boys got out the oars. Toby eyed Digby, and
guessed, by the way he handled his oar the state of the case. However,
Digby persevered in silence.
The boat slowly receded from the shore, Toby steering. Digby, who sat
about midships, looked at Marshall, and Easton, and Power, who sat
further astern, and tried to imitate their movements. He did so very
fairly. He thought that he was performing his part wonderfully well.
Toby's nose curled more than usual as he looked at him.
"Give way, my lads, give way," he sung out.
The other boys instantly bent to their oars, and made much more rapid
strokes than before. Digby had not the slightest notion what "giving
way" meant. He only knew, to his cost, that he gave way, for his oar
caught in the water, and over he toppled on his back to the bottom of
the boat.
"Caught a crab, caught a crab," sung out the other boys, laughing.
Digby jumped up immediately, full of eagerness, not minding his bruises
a bit.
"Have I? Where is he? where is he? Let me see him," he exclaimed.
This made the rest laugh still more.
"It's only the sort of crab most young ge'men catches when first they
begins to learn to row," said Toby; "jump up and take your oar, and
you'll soon catch another, I warrant."
So Digby found, but he was not a boy to be beat by such an occurrence.
Each time he jumped up as quickly as he could, and grasping his oar,
went on pulling as before.
"What do you mean by `Give way?'" he asked, when he discovered that
these words invariably produced the unpleasant results.
"I means much the same as the soldier officers does when they says
`Double quick march.'"
"Oh, I see, we are to make the boat go as fast as we can," observed
Digby.
After that he caught fewer crabs, Toby having also advised him not to
dip the blade of his oar so deeply in the water. In a few days he
learned how to feather his oar, that is, when lifting the blade out of
the water, to turn it, so as to keep it almost horizontal with the
surface. This is done that it may not hold wind, and in a rough sea,
that it may be less likely to be struck by a wave, or if it is, that it
may cut through the top. He also learned to keep time with the rest, a
very essential requisite in rowing.
"You've done capitally," said Marshall, after they landed the first day,
"many fellows have been here for some time before they have done as
well."
This praise encouraged Digby, and he determined to learn to be a good
boatman. He expressed his intentions to Toby. The old man laughed.
"You'll be good enough in time, I've no doubt, master, but it will take
you some years before you are fit to be trusted. There's nothing but
experience will make a sailor. You must be out in gales of wind, and
have all your sails blown away, and your masts carried over the side,
and find yourself on a lee shore on a dark night, with rocks close
aboard, and no room to wear, and the wind blowing great guns and small
arms, and a strong current running here and there, and setting you on to
the coast; and then, if you find means to save the ship, I'll allow that
you're something of a sailor."
Digby did not know what all this meant, but he thought the description
very dreadful, and certainly he had no notion how he should act. As,
however, he had no wish to become a real sailor, that did not trouble
him. Easton, however, took in every word that was said. He had set his
heart on going to sea, and none of the descriptions of shipwrecks and
disasters in which the old man indulged had any terrors for him. They
only the more excited his ardour, and he longed to encounter and
overcome them.
When Toby Tubb saw that Digby could row fairly, he began to teach him to
sail a boat.
"First you have to learn how to steer, Master Digby," he observed; "look
over the stern, you see how the rudder is, now put your hand in the same
line above it. Now I press against your hand, the water is pressing
just in the same way against the rudder. If you keep your arm stiff, I
should make you turn round. Now, the rudder is stiff as long as you
don't let the tiller move, and so the water turns the boat round. Now
put the tiller over on the opposite side, then you see the boat also
turns the opposite way. You understand, to steer you must be going on,
or, what's the same thing, a current must be running past you. If there
is no movement in the water, you may wriggle the tiller about as much as
you please, and you can't turn the boat's head. Just understand, too,
that the water is a thing that presses. It will give way, certainly.
It is not like a rock, but still it presses all around you. That's the
reason why a vessel sails stem first, that is to say, she cuts the water
with the sharpest part, if the sails are trimmed properly to make her do
so. You may trim the sails to make her sail stern first, or if there's
a gale of wind right abeam, she goes partly ahead, but also drives
before it with her side, that's what we call making lee way. Now as to
the sails, you see, we have to balance them, or to trim them, as we call
it. Once, I'm told, ships were only made to sail right before the wind.
Funny voyages they must have been, I'm thinking. What a time they must
have been about them, waiting for a fair wind; no wonder they didn't get
round the world in those days. Now, you see, we can sail not only with
the wind abeam as close, as four and a half points to the wind in fore
and after craft. Still if we want to get where the wind blows from, we
could never do it if we couldn't tack ship, and sail away four and a
half points on the other side of the wind. That's what we call working
a traverse. Away a ship sails, zig-zagging along if there isn't too
much wind to blow her back, every tack making good some ground till she
reaches the port to which she's bound. That's what I calls the
_philusfy_ of navigation. But I haven't yet told you how the sails act
on the vessel. You see the wind presses on them, just as the water does
on the hull. The better you can get the wind to blow on them at what
they calls a right angle, the greater force it has. So in a
square-rigged ship, if you can bring the wind a little on the quarter,
so that every sail, studden-sails, alow and aloft, can be made to draw,
you'll have the greatest pressure on the sails, and send the ship on the
fastest. But we come to balancing, when a ship is on a wind. If all
the sail was set forward, it would turn her head round, or if all was
set aft it would turn her stern round. So we set some forward, and some
aft, and some amidships, and then we trim them together properly, and
away she goes in the direction we put her head. Then, you see, if we
want to turn her head round we shake the wind out of her after sails, or
trice them up, and if we want her stem to go round, we do the same with
her head sails, and that, Master Heathcote, is what I calls the theory
of sailing. There's a good deal more for you to learn before you will
be fit to be trusted in a boat by yourself, but if you keeps close to
those principles, you can't be far wrong in the long run."
Such was Digby's first lesson in seamanship. He did not take in all
that was said to him; indeed he was rather young for comprehending the
subject, but it made him think and inquire further; and Toby Tubb was
perfectly satisfied that his lessons were not thrown away.
"It's very strange," soliloquised Toby, "the fathers and mothers of
these young ge'men pays lots of money to have 'em taught to ride and
dance, and to speak Latin and French, and all sorts of gimcrack
nonsense, and not one in a thousand ever thinks of making them learn how
to knot, and splice, and reef, and steer, and to take an observation, or
work a day's work, which to my mind is likely to be far more useful to
'em when they comes to take care of themselves in the world. As for me,
I don't know what I should have done without the first, though the
shooting the sun and the navigation was above me a good way."
"There's nothing like leather." Toby would have said, there is nothing
like hemp, and pitch, and tar, and heart of oak. It is quite as well
that different people should have different opinions. Thus the world is
prevented from stagnating.