My friend the Chief Officer is putting fresh clothes on his bed. Clean
sheets and blankets and a snowy counterpane ("All sorts o' people come
in to have a chat, Mr. McAlnwick") are arranged with due care. He is
brisk to-night, is my good friend, having no log to modify this time,
and nothing else on hand for a day or two. Photos dusted, ports
opened, tobacco and whiskey duly placed between us, he climbs into his
nest and proceeds to converse. A sort of "_Tabagie_" or tobacco
parliament, such as was once in force at Potsdam.
"Sure," he snorts, "'twas blackmail the baggage was after, ye can take
it from _me_, and--keep the door open when she's sorting the things."
Being a young man, I wait, seated sedately on the settee, to hear more
concerning "the baggage," who is, let me explain, an itinerant
_blanchisseuse des equipages_ of equivocal repute. The Mate reaches
for his pipe.
"Would ye believe it, Mr. McAlnwick? She comes in here, while I'm
lying in me bunk, closes the door, and comes up to me. Says she, 'Oh,
Mr. Mate, I'm very unhappy!' and puts her arms round me neck, in
spite--in spite of all I could do, and falls to screamin'!"
"'Slack back,' says I, 'or ye'll be the most unhappy woman in this
town.' An' then Nicholas he puts his head in."
"The Steward!" I ejaculate.
"The same. Ye see, mister, the baggage, she thought the Old Man was
aboard, and--she was goin' to make out a case! Says Nicholas, 'Oh, my
words! I'll fetch police!' An' away he cuts."
"How embarrassing!"
The blue eyes of my friend the Mate are twinkling, his face is screwed
up, and his nose is wrinkled all the way up. He is more like my old
Headmaster than ever.
"'Twas so, Mr. McAlnwick--'twas so. Ye see, my besettin' sin is
sympathy. I feel sorry for the baggage. She has a har-rd time of it,
and the ends don't meet--won't meet, nohow. But, as I said, 'Consider
the situation, Mrs. Ambree.' 'Oh, Mr. Mate,' says she, 'will he fetch
the police?' 'Possibly,' says I, 'if he finds one on the quay.' And
she began cryin' fit to break me heart."
To my surprise, the nose is still wrinkled; he breathes through his
nose in a way that means "Ye don't know what's comin'."
"'Oh, I hope he won't be so cruel, Mr. Mate,' says she, cryin' as I
said. 'For why?' says I, speakin' stern. 'You are an immoral wumman,
Mrs. Ambree.' 'Yes,' says she, 'I know that, Mr. Mate, I know that;
but it would be har-rd on me if he was to fetch Jim aboard for me.'
'Jim?' says I. 'Who in thunder's Jim, Mrs. Ambree?' ''Tis my husband,'
she sobs. 'He's on night duty in this dock, an' I'm a ruined soul if
he finds out.' And she set down there, Mr. McAlnwick, just where
you're settin' and burst into floods o' tears."
"Dear me!" I observe. And the nose is one mass of humoursome
corrugations.
"Aye, 'tis so," continues the Chief Officer, pouring out "Black and
White" for two. "An' at that moment in comes Nicholas, his face
serious-like, and says he, 'Mrs. Ambree, ye're wanted.' An' she goes
out wi' him, like Mary Queen o' Scots to the block!"
"Mr. Honna, I'm surprised!"
"Not a bit of it, McAlnwick, not a bit of it! At first I thought
Nicholas had been a fool and fetched a policeman, but Nicholas is no
fool, as ye've no doubt observed. Still, I got out an' put on me pants
and went into the cabin. Passin' the Steward's door I heard voices.
Enterin' the Steward's room, I saw him an' the baggage splittin' a
Guinness and carryin' on! 'Twas scandalous, Mr. McAlnwick. To be done
by a wire-haired, leather-skinned old reprobate like Nicholas. 'Twas a
clear case, for his wife does all his washin' up at Bridgend."
"I am shocked, Mr. Honna."
"Ye may well be. I was too. Pass the water-bottle, Mr. McAlnwick."
"I hear," I observe, "I hear Alexander the Great is to have the
_Petruchio_ next time she comes in."
"That's the rumour, Mr. McAlnwick. _I_ think there's something in it,
for me wife tells me that Mrs. Alexander was lookin' at a house in
Cathay only last week. 'A house,' says she, 'that will be not less
than thirty pounds a year.' That means _Petruchio_, a big ship."
The above personage, you see, is the Chief, the man who wore elevators
in his boots.
"But why should he move into a larger house, Mr. Honna?"
"To keep up his position in the world, Mr. McAlnwick. 'Tis a big
responsibility, ye see. His youngster will now go to a--a scholastic
academy while mine remain on the rates."
"How are they, Mr. Honna?"
"Fine, Mr. McAlnwick, fine! Jacko passed I don't know how many exams.,
and he's teaching the curate to play the organ. Hallo!"
There is a knock at the door, and I rise to lift the hook which holds
it. A stout man with a short moustache and a double chin--Tenniel's
Bismarck to the life--touches his cap. It is the night watchman.
"Beg pardon, sir, Mr. Honna, but I don't feel well, sir, and I wanted
to know, sir, if you'd mind my goin' to get a drop o' brandy, sir?"
"Away ye go, then."
"Thank you, sir. Shan't be long, sir. Only----"
"Have ye any money?"
"Oh, _yes_, sir. Thank you all the same, sir."
I close the door, Bismarck hastens away for brandy, and the Mate's
nose is covered with wrinkles. Whereby I am at liberty to conclude
that there is _bunkum_ in the air. I cough.
"See that man?" he says. I nod.
"Skipper of a three-masted bark once."
"Yes?"
"He was!"
"What brought him down to night watchman at thirty shillings a week?"
"Bad health. He was always feelin' unwell, and he was tradin' between
Liverpool and Bordeaux."
The Mate nods at me to emphasise his words, while I look at him
gravely.
"An' now," adds my friend the Mate, "I must turn out and see he comes
back."
"I'll do that--don't bother. So he's one of the derelicts?"
"His brother was another. Died mad, over at Landore. Ever hear of Mad
Robin? Well, he was Chief of a boat carryin' cotton to Liverpool.
Comin' home from Savannah, dropped her propeller in mid-ocean."
"Shipped his spare one?" Mr. Honna laughs shortly.
"Didn't carry spares in that company, Mr. McAlnwick. No, he made one."
"Made one! How?"
"Out of a block of hornbeam and the plates of one of his bulkheads.
Knocked about for a month waitin' for fine weather, tipped the ship,
fixed his tin-pot screw on, and started 'slow ahead.' Came in under
her own steam, Second Engineer in command, Chief under restraint in
his berth. Died over at Landore--D.T."
With which abrupt epitaph the Mate reaches for his pants, while I,
knocking out my pipe, go away to turn in.