CHAPTER IX.
CHAOS IN THE CAPTAIN'S LODGINGS.
I leave you to guess what were my feelings as foot by foot thepacket's quarter fell away wider of the quay. If, as the skipperthrust off, I had found presence of mind to jump for her, who knowswhat mischief might have been prevented? I could at least--whateverthe consequences--have called a warning to Captain Coffin to give hisenemy a wide-berth. But I was unnerved; the impulse came too late;and as the foresail filled and she picked up steerage way, I stoodhelpless under the lamp at the quay-head--stood and stared after her,alone with the sense of my incredible folly.
Somewhere out yonder Captain Coffin was waiting in his shore-boat.I listened, minute after minute, on the chance of hearing his hail.A heavy bank of cloud had overcast the moon, and the packet meltedfrom sight in a blur of darkness. Worst of all--worse even than thesting of self-reproach--was the prospect of returning to Stimcoe'sand wearing through the night, while out there in the darkness thetwo men would meet, and all that followed their meeting must happenunseen by me.
This ordeal appeared so dreadful to me in prospect that I began tocast about among all manner of impracticable plans for escaping it.Of these the most promising--although I had no money--was to give theStimcoes leg-bail and run home; the most alluring, too, since itoffered to deaden the torment of uncertainty by keeping me employed,mind and body. I must follow the coach-road. In imagination Imeasured back the distance. If George Goodfellow walked to Plymouthand back once a week, why might not I succeed in walking to MindenCottage? Home was home. I should get counsel and comfort there;counsel from my father and comfort most assuredly from Plinny.I needed both, and in Falmouth just now there was none of either.Even Captain Branscome, who might have helped me--
At this point a sudden thought fetched me up with a jerk. The enemy,by pursuing after Captain Danny, had at least left me a clear coast.I was safe for a while against his spying, and consequently theembargo was off. I had no need to wait for morning. I could gomyself to the old man's lodgings, unlock the corner cupboard, andbring away the roll of papers.
I dived my hand into my breech-pocket for the forgotten key. It wassmall, and of a curious, intricate pattern. Almost before my fingersclosed upon it my mind was made up. Stimcoe's--that is, if I decidedto return to Stimcoe's--might wait. I might yet decide to breakship--as Captain Danny would have put it--and make a push for home;but that decision, too, must wait. Meanwhile, here was an urgenterrand, and a clear coast for it; here was occupation andinexpressible relief. It's an ill wind that blows nobody some good.
I set off at a run. On my way I met and passed half a dozen gangs ofhilarious ex-prisoners and equally hilarious townsmen escorting themto the waterside, where the coxswains of the transport's boats wereby this time blowing impatient calls on their whistles. But theupper end of the street was well-nigh deserted. A dingy oil lanternoverhung the pavement a few yards from the ope, and above the ope thebarber's parrot hung silent, with a shawl flung over its cage.I dived into the dark passage, and, stumbling my way to CaptainDanny's door, found that it gave easily to my hand.
For a moment I paused on the threshold, striving to remember where hekept his tinder-box and matches. But the room was small. I knew thegeography of it, and could easily--I told myself--grope my way to thecorner, find the cupboard, and, feeling for the keyhole, insert thekey. I was about to essay this when the thought occurred to me that,as Captain Danny had left the door on the latch, so very likely withequal foresight he had placed his tinder-box handy--on the table, itmight be. I put out my hand in the direction where, as Irecollected, the table stood. It reached into empty darkness. Itook another step and groped for the table with both hands.Still darkness, nothing but darkness! I took yet another step andstruck my foot against a hard object on the floor; and, as I bent toexamine this, something sharp and exceeding painful thrust itselfinto my groin--a table-leg, upturned.
Recovering myself, I passed a hand over it. Yes, undoubtedly it wasa table-leg and the table lay topsy-turvy. But how came it so?Who had upset it, and why? I took another step, sideways, and myboot struck against something light, and, by its sound, hollow andmetallic. Stooping very cautiously--for by this time I had takenalarm and was holding my breath--I passed a hand lightly over thefloor. My fingers encountered the object I had kicked aside.It was a tinder-box. I clutched it softly, and as softly drew myselfupright again. Could I dare to strike a light? The overturnedtable: What could be the meaning of it? It could not have beenoverturned by Captain Coffin? By whom then? Some one must havevisited the lodgings in his absence.
Some one, for aught I knew, was in the room at this moment!--Some one, back there against the wall, waiting only for me to strikea light! I declare that at the thought I came near to screamingaloud, casting the tinder-box from me and rushing out blindly intothe court.
I dare say that I stood for a couple of minutes, motionless,listening not with my ears only but with every hair of my head.Nevertheless, my wits must have been working somehow; for my firstaction, when I plucked up nerve enough for it, was an entirelysensible one. I set the tinder-box on the floor between my heels,felt for the table, and righted it; then, picking up the box again,set it on the table and twisted off the lid. I found flint and steelat once, dipped my fingers into the box to make sure of the tinderand the brimstone matches, and so, after another pause to listen,essayed to strike out the spark.
This, for a pair of trembling hands, proved no easy business, and atfirst promised to be a hopeless one. But the worst moment arrivedwhen, the spark struck, I stooped to blow it upon the tinder, theglow of which must light up my own face while it revealed to menothing of the surrounding darkness. Still, it had to be done; and,keeping a tight hold on what little remained of my courage, I thrustin the match and ignited it.
While the brimstone caught fire and bubbled I drew myself erect toface the worst. But for what met my eyes as the flame caught hold ofthe stick, even the overturned table had not prepared me.
The furniture of the room lay pell-mell, as though a cyclone hadswept through it. The very pictures hung askew. Of the drawers inthe dresser some had been pulled out bodily, others stood half open,and all had been ransacked; while the fragments of china strewn alongthe shelves or scattered across the floor could only be accounted forby some blind ferocity of destruction--a madman, for instance, letloose upon it, and striking at random with a stick. As the matchburned low in my fingers I looked around hastily for a candle,scanning the dresser, the mantel-shelf, the hugger-mugger of linen,crockery, wall-ornaments, lying in a trail along the floor. But nocandle could I discover; so I lit a second match from the first andturned towards the sacred cupboard in the corner.
The cupboard was gone!
I held the match aloft, and stared at the angle of the wall; staredstupidly, at first unable to believe. Yes, the cupboard was gone!Nothing remained but the mahogany bracket which had supported it.I gazed around, the match burning lower and lower in my hand till itscorched my fingers. The pain of it awakened me, and, dropping thecharred end, I stumbled out into the passage, almost falling on theway as my feet entangled themselves in Captain Coffin's besttable-cloth.
A moment later I was rapping at Mr. George Goodfellow's door.I knew that he sometimes sat up late to practice his violin-playing;and in my confusion of terror I heeded neither that the house wassilent nor that the window over his doorway showed a blank and unlitface to the night. I knocked and knocked again, pausing to call hisname urgently, at first in hoarse whispers, by-and-by desperately,lifting my voice as loudly as I dared.
At length a voice answered; but it came from the end of the passagenext, the street, and it was not Mr. Goodfellow's.
"D--n my giblets!" it said, in a kind of muffled scream."Drunk again! Oh, you nasty image!"
It was the barber's accursed parrot. I could hear it tearing withits beak at the bars of its cage, as if struggling to pull off thecloth which covered it.
A
window creaked on its hinges, some way up the court.
"Hallo! Who's there?" demanded a gruff voice.
I took to my heels, and made a dash up the passage for the street.The cage, as I passed under it, swayed violently with the parrot'sstruggles for free speech.
"Drunk again!" it yelled. "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me--here's apretty time o' night to disturb a lady!"
No longer had I any thought of braving the night and the perils ofthe road, but pressed my elbows tight against my ribs and racedstraight for Stimcoe's.
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