INTRODUCES THE "PLAYMATE" AND HER SKIPPER
I SUPPOSE I must try and find the _Playmate_," thought Tregarthen.
"Perhaps Jack has not received my wire. I hope he hasn't cleared out
without waiting for me, though I shouldn't be surprised. It used to
be a favourite trick of his not to wait a minute for anyone."
When Tregarthen had reached the quayside he found that the whole
length of the spacious wharf was lined with a double row of coasting
brigs, schooners, lighters, and the ubiquitous Rochester barges. On
the Hamworthy side the feeble glimmer of the quay lights faintly
illuminated the white hulls of a few yachts, but the sub-lieutenant
knew that they were of too great a tonnage to correspond with his
ideas of the _Playmate_.
Where, then, in all that jumble of floating craft, was Stockton's
yacht to be found?
Gerald Tregarthen was at a loss. Beyond a few half intoxicated seamen
lurching back to their vessels the quay was deserted. He was on the
point of making for the nearest hotel when a voice came apparently
from beneath his feet.
"Ferry, sir?"
The young officer looked down. Close to where he stood a flight of
stone steps led to the water's edge. It was nearly low tide, and the
steps looked particularly uninviting in the dim reflection from the
oily water. At the foot of the landing, with barely a couple of
inches to spare betwixt the cutwater of a brig and the ponderous
rudder of a Thames barge, was a boat, its occupant holding on to a
ringbolt in the stonework by means of a short boat-hook.
"Ferry, sir?"
"Do you know of a yacht--a cutter called the _Playmate_?" asked
Tregarthen.
"Can't say as 'ow I does, sir," replied the ferry-man. "But I'll call
my mate; maybe he'll know." And placing his hands trumpet-wise to his
mouth he shouted: "Buck-up! Buck-up Cartridge, where be ye?"
The echo of the man's powerful voice had barely died away when a hail
came from the opposite shore. "Hulloa, there?" immediately followed
by the faint splash of oars.
"Old Buck-up'll know if there be any craft o' that name," remarked
the ferry-man, and as the new comer's boat rubbed its nose against
the quarter of the ferry-boat the query was anxiously repeated.
"Wot, _Playmate_, owned by a gent o' the name o' Stockton? Why, sure
I do. She's lying off the Stakes."
"Can you put me aboard?" asked Tregarthen, a load removed from his
mind at the assurance that his chum had not set sail.
"Certainly, sir," replied Cartridge; and, handing his portmanteau to
the ferry-man, who in turn passed it on to the second water-man,
Tregarthen stepped across the first craft into the second.
With long, easy strokes the boat glided with the still strong ebb
past the line of shipping and into the staked channel. Here, being
comparatively open, the N.W. wind blew fresh, and the young officer
shivered in spite of his experience on the bridge of a destroyer. He
missed the thick pilot-coat, and the comforting shelter of the
storm-dodgers.
Between long, low banks of reeking mud the boat passed, till at
length, a good quarter of a mile from the quay, appeared the dim
outlines of half a dozen yachts of all sizes, their anchor-lights
gleaming fitfully upon the dew-sodden decks and mainsail covers, and
casting broken shafts of light upon the ruffled water.
"There be the _Playmate_, sir," exclaimed the waterman, resting on
his oars and looking over his shoulder. Tregarthen followed the
direction of his gaze.
Twenty yards away lay a smart little white cutter. Even in the gloom
the sub-lieutenant could distinguish her graceful spoon bow, her
short yet becoming quarter, and the businesslike sheer of her sides.
Across her boom a canvas awning was lashed over the diminutive
cockpit. From the cabin a light flickered upon the awning, and
gleamed cheerfully through the fluted glass skylight. To Tregarthen
the vision of that light seemed an indescribable comfort. The tedious
journey, the disappointment of Stockton's non-appearance, the
cheerless welcome of the bleak and desolate harbour--all were
forgotten. He had found a haven of rest.
"_Playmate_, ahoy!"
The waterman jerked one oar into his boat and with the other
skilfully checked her way till she gently rubbed sides with the
yacht.
"Hallo, there! Is that you, Cartridge?"
"Yes, sir; I've brought a gent off to see you."
There was the sound of a hasty scuffling, the awning was partially
unlaced, and a hand holding a lantern appeared, followed by the head
and shoulders of the owner of the cutter _Playmate_.
The rays of the lamp fell upon the features of the owner. He had a
somewhat long, thin face, with a characteristically square jaw, and
light eyebrows that formed an almost continuous line across his
brows.
"Hallo, you!" he exclaimed, as the identity of his visitor was
revealed. "I'd given you up."
"So it appears," replied Tregarthen. "Didn't you get my wire?"
"Wire--what wire? But don't stay there; come aboard. You'd better use
the fore-hatch, unlacing this awning is a blessed nuisance."
Stockton's head vanished as its owner retreated into the cabin.
Tregarthen, having paid the boatman, seized the main shrouds and
swung himself lightly on deck. Then making his way for'ard he removed
the partially open hatchway leading to the fo'c'sle.
"Hold on! Hold on a minute!" shouted Jack. "You're putting your foot
into the soup!"
Checking his downward progress just in time, Gerald waited till the
skipper, and cook combined, removed a saucepan from the top of a
roaring Primus stove, pushed the stove out of the way, and gave the
word that all was clear.
The next instant Tregarthen found himself in the fo'c'sle.
It was a small, wedge-shaped apartment, barely 4ft. in height and
7ft. wide at its broadest part, tapering away to less than 6ins.
for'ard. This limited space was still further curtailed by a number
of lockers and cupboards, the stove, a bundle of sails and warps, and
the still weed-covered chain cable. Jack Stockton, pipe in mouth, and
huddled up on an upturned bucket, was busily engaged in preparing
some flat-fish, that he had just caught, for supper.
Gerald began to cough. What with the heat of the stove, the tobacco
smoke, the combined odours of the fish, the soup, and the seaweed, to
say nothing of the smoky paraffin lamp, made the confined quarters
well-nigh unbearable. It was infinitely worse than the fo'c'sle of a
destroyer in a heavy seaway, yet Stockton endured it with
equanimity--even with pleasure. It was one of the joys of yachting in
the rough.
"Excuse the mess!" he exclaimed. "You see, I didn't expect you after
the arrival of the train you agreed upon. But I'll have everything
shipshape in a jiffy. Where's your gear?"
"On deck."
"Then bring it below. You may as well get into the cabin, and I'll be
with you soon. Mind your head!"
The warning came too late. Tregarthen forgot that the cabin of a
4-ton yacht is a mere dog-kennel compared with the diminutive
wardroom of _H.M.S. Calder_, but luckily his thick cap saved his
skull from a nasty blow from a deck beam.
Then with a thud his portmanteau was deposited on the floor of the
fo'c'sle, and Stockton's voice was heard: "Here, bear a hand, and get
this thing into the cabin."
Gerald hastened to give the requested assistance. This time the small
of his arched back came into violent contact with the top of the
doorway communicating with the fo'c'sle. Thereupon, acting with more
discretion, he slowly dragged his belongings into the cabin, and sat
down upon one of the sofa-bunks.
By degrees he recovered his ruffled composure, and took a careful
survey of his limited surroundings. A glance in a bevelled mirror
revealed the fact that his encounter with the deck-beam had had the
effect of crumpling his collar into a series of longitudinal creases.
"It's time I put a sweater on," he thought, and opening his
portmanteau he produced one of those thick, serviceable articles, and
measuring the distance between his head and the deck-beams--a margin
of barely 6ins.--Tregarthen removed his collar and plunged into his
sweater. This done his sense of comfort was materially increased.
[Illustration: There was the sound of a hasty scuffling; then
appeared the head and shoulders of the owner of the _Playmate_]
"Now what do you propose doing?" he asked, as the crew of the
_Playmate_ tackled a hearty supper. "Going west?"
"I thought of making a dash across the Channel. Any objection?"
Tregarthen whistled.
"Bit risky, isn't it?"
"I don't think so. This packet is as stiff as a house; the gear's
sound, and all the stores are aboard."
"You've a compass, of course?"
"A little beauty."
"Then I'm game. By the bye, have you seen to-day's paper?"
"No; I went ashore, but quite forgot to get one. Why--anything
startling?"
"Only this," replied Gerald, producing the newspapers he had
purchased on the journey, and pointing to the _Zietan_ paragraph.
"What do you think of it?"
"Not much," replied Jack, in a matter-of-fact tone. "At any rate, I
don't suppose it will affect us."
"When do you propose to make a start?" Stockton did not immediately
reply, but, gaining the cockpit, he unlaced a portion of the awning.
"Now if you like," he replied. "The young flood has set in, though,
but with the wind in this quarter we can stem it and pick up the
east-going tide outside. Just hand me down that bundle of charts."
Gerald did so, and his chum picked out one of the English Channel.
"We ought to make St. Catherine's before daybreak," continued Jack
"And then with a decent slice of luck we can make a slant across and
pick up Cape Barfleur before sunset. It's barely fifty miles as the
crow flies. So we'll get under way now, and when we are outside the
harbour you can turn in. I had a good spell below during the day, so
a night's watch won't trouble me."
"All right; I'm game," repeated Tregarthen. Twenty minutes later the
_Playmate_ was heeling over to the steady breeze. Her voyage, that
was fated to be the forerunner of a wealth of peculiar adventures,
had begun.
[Illustration: chapter III]