“Wimmin aboard ship I don’t ’old with,” said the night-watchman,
severely. “They’ll arsk you all sorts o’ silly questions, an’ complain
to the skipper if you don’t treat ’em civil in answering ’em. If you do
treat ’em civil, what’s the result? Is it a bit o’ bacca, or a
shilling, or anything like that? Not a bit of it; just a ‘thank you,’
an’ said in a way as though they’ve been giving you a perfect treat by
talking to you.
“They’re a contrary sects too. Ask a girl civil-like to stand off a
line you want to coil up, and she’ll get off an’ look at you as though
you ought to have waited until she ’ad offered to shift. Pull on it
without asking her to step off fust, an’ the ship won’t ’old her
’ardly. A man I knew once—he’s dead now, poor chap, and left three
widders mourning their unrepairable loss—said that with all ’is
experience wimmin was as much a riddle to ’im as when he fust married.
“O’ course, sometimes you get a gal down the fo’c’s’le pretending to be
a man, shipping as ordinary seaman or boy, and nobody not a penny the
wiser. It’s happened before, an’ I’ve no doubt it will again.
“We ’ad a queer case once on a barque I was on as steward, called the
_Tower of London_, bound from the Albert Docks to Melbourne with a
general cargo. We shipped a new boy just after we started as was
entered in the ship’s books as ’Enery Mallow, an’ the fust thing we
noticed about ’Enery was as ’e had a great dislike to work and was
terrible sea-sick. Every time there was a job as wanted to be done,
that lad ’ud go and be took bad quite independent of the weather.
“Then Bill Dowsett adopted ’im, and said he’d make a sailor of ’im. I
believe if ’Enery could ’ave chose ’is father, he’d sooner ’ad any man
than Bill, and I would sooner have been a orphan than a son to any of
’em. Bill relied on his langwidge mostly, but when that failed he’d
just fetch ’im a cuff. Nothing more than was good for a boy wot ’ad got
’is living to earn, but ’Enery used to cry until we was all ashamed of
’im.
“Bill got almost to be afraid of ’itting ’im at last, and used to try
wot being sarcastic would do. Then we found as ’Enery was ten times as
sarcastic as Bill—’e’d talk all round ’im so to speak, an’ even take
the words out of Bill’s mouth to use agin ’im. Then Bill would turn to
’is great natural gifts, and the end of it was when we was about a
fortnight out that the boy ran up on deck and went aft to the skipper
and complained of Bill’s langwidge.
“‘Langwidge,’ ses the old man, glaring at ’im as if ’e’d eat ’im—‘what
sort o’ langwidge?’
“‘Bad langwidge, sir,’ ses ’Enery.
“‘Repeat it,’ ses the skipper.
“’Enery gives a little shiver. ‘I couldn’t do it, sir,’ he ses, very
solemn; ‘it’s like—like you was talking to the bo’sen yesterday.’
“‘Go to your duties,’ roars the skipper; ‘go to your duties at once,
and don’t let me ’ear any more of it. Why, you ought to be at a young
ladies’ school.’
“‘I know I ought, sir,’ ’Enery ses, with a w’imper, ‘but I never
thought it’d be like this.’
“The old man stares at him, and then he rubs his eyes and stares agin.
’Enery wiped his eyes and stood looking down at the deck.
“‘’Eavens above,’ ses the old man, in a dazed voice, ‘don’t tell me
you’re a gal!’
“‘I won’t if you don’t want me to,’ ses ’Enery, wiping his eyes agin.
“‘What’s your name?’ ses the old man, at last.
“‘Mary Mallow, sir,’ ses ’Enery, very soft.
“‘What made you do it?’ ses the skipper, at last.
“‘My father wanted me to marry a man I didn’t want to,’ ses Miss
Mallow. ‘He used to admire my hair very much, so I cut it off. Then I
got frightened at what I’d done, and as I looked like a boy I thought
I’d go to sea.’
“‘Well, it’s a nice responsibility for me,’ ses the skipper, and he
called the mate, who ’ad just come on deck, and asked his advice. The
mate was a very straitlaced man—for a mate—and at fust he was so
shocked ’e couldn’t speak.
“‘She’ll have to come aft,’ he ses, at last.
“‘O’ course she will,’ ses the skipper, and he called me up and told me
to clear a spare cabin out for her—we carried a passenger or two
sometimes—and to fetch her chest up.