“It’s all right, cap’n,” said he. “You’ve lost the prettiest little girl in England.”
“What?” said the skipper, in incredulous tones.
“Fact,” replied the other. “Here’s your ring back. I wouldn’t let her wear it any longer.”
“However did you do it?” inquired Evans, taking the ring in a dazed fashion.
“Oh, easy as possible,” said the mate. “She liked me best, that’s all.”
“But what did you say to her?” persisted Evans.
The other reflected.
“I can’t call to mind exactly,” he said at length. “But, you may rely upon it, I said everything I could against you. But she never did care much for you. She told me so herself.”
“I wish you joy of your bargain,” said Evans solemnly, after a long pause.
“What do you mean?” demanded the mate sharply.
“A girl like that,” said the skipper, with a lump in his throat, “who can carry on with two men at once ain’t worth having. She’s not my money, that’s all.”
The mate looked at him in honest bewilderment.
“Mark my words,” continued the skipper loftily, “you’ll live to regret it. A girl like that’s got no ballast. She’ll always be running after fresh neckties.”
“You put it down to the necktie, do you?” sneered the mate wrathfully.
“That and the clothes, cert’nly,” replied the skipper.
“Well, you’re wrong,” said the mate. “A lot you know about girls. It wasn’t your old clothes, and it wasn’t all your bad behaviour to her since she’s been aboard. You may as well know first as last. She wouldn’t have nothing to do with me at first, so I told her all about Mary Jones.”
“You told her THAT?” cried the skipper fiercely.
“I did,” replied the other. “She was pretty wild at first; but then the comic side of it struck her — you wearing them old clothes, and going about as you did. She used to watch you until she couldn’t stand it any longer, and then go down in the cabin and laugh. Wonderful spirits that girl’s got. Hush! Here she is!”
As he spoke the girl came on deck, and, seeing the two men talking together, remained at a short distance from them.
“It’s all right, Jane,” said the mate; “I’ve told him.”
“Oh!” said Miss Cooper, with a little gasp.
“I can’t bear deceit,” said the mate; “and now it’s off his mind, he’s so happy he can’t bear himself.”
The latter part of this assertion seemed to be more warranted by facts than the former, but Evans made a choking noise, which he intended as a sign of unbearable joy, and, relinquishing the wheel to the mate, walked forward. The clear sky was thick with stars, and a mind at ease might have found enjoyment in the quiet beauty of the night, but the skipper was too interested in the behaviour of the young couple at the wheel to give it a thought. Immersed in each other, they forgot him entirely, and exchanged little playful slaps and pushes, which incensed him beyond description. Several times he was on the point of exercising his position as commander and ordering the mate below, but in the circumstances interference was impossible, and, with a low-voiced good-night, he went below. Here his gaze fell on William Henry, who was slumbering peacefully, and, with a hazy idea of the eternal fitness of things, he raised the youth in his arms, and, despite his sleepy protests, deposited him in the mate’s bunk. Then, with head and heart both aching, he retired for the night.
There was a little embarrassment next day, but it soon passed off, and the three adult inmates of the cabin got on quite easy terms with each other. The most worried person aft was the boy, who had not been taken into their confidence, and whose face, when his sister sat with the mate’s arm around her waist, presented to the skipper a perfect study in emotions.
“I feel quite curious to see this Miss Jones,” said Miss Cooper amiably, as they sat at dinner.
“She’ll be on the quay, waving her handkerchief to him,” said the mate. “We’ll be in to-morrow afternoon, and then you’ll see her.”
As it happened, the mate was a few hours out in his reckoning, for by the time the Falcon’s bows were laid for the small harbour it was quite dark, and the little schooner glided in, guided by the two lights which marked the entrance. The quay, seen in the light of a few scattered lamps, looked dreary enough, and, except for two or three indistinct figures, appeared to be deserted. Beyond, the broken lights of the town stood out more clearly as the schooner crept slowly over the dark water towards her berth.
“Fine night, cap’n,” said the watchman, as the schooner came gently alongside the quay.
The skipper grunted assent. He was peering anxiously at the quay.
“It’s too late,” said the mate. “You couldn’t expect her this time o’night. It’s ten o’clock.”
“I’ll go over in the morning,” said Evans, who, now that things had been adjusted, was secretly disappointed that Miss Cooper had not witnessed the meeting. “If you’re not going ashore, we might have a hand o’ cards as soon’s we’re made fast.”
The mate assenting, they went below, and were soon deep in the mysteries of three-hand cribbage. Evans, who was a good player, surpassed himself, and had just won the first game, the others being nowhere, when a head was thrust down the companion-way, and a voice like a strained foghorn called the captain by name.
“Ay, ay!” yelled Evans, laying down his hand.
“I’ll come down, cap’n,” said the voice, and the mate just had time to whisper “Old Jones” to Miss Cooper, when a man of mighty bulk filled up the doorway of the little cabin, and extended a huge paw to Evans and the mate. He then looked at the lady, and, breathing hard, waited.
“Young lady o’ the mate’s,” said Evans breathlessly,— “Miss Cooper. Sit down, cap’n. Get the gin out, Bill.”
“Not for me,” said Captain Jones firmly, but with an obvious effort.
The surprise of Evans and the mate admitted of no concealment; but it passed unnoticed by their visitor, who, fidgeting in his seat, appeared to be labouring with some mysterious problem. After a long pause, during which all watched him anxiously, he reached over the table and shook hands with Evans again.
“Put it there, cap’n,” said Evans, much affected by this token of esteem.
The old man rose and stood looking at him, with his hand on his shoulder; he then shook hands for the third time, and patted him encouragingly on the back.
“Is anything the matter?” demanded the skipper of the Falcon as he rose to his feet, alarmed by these manifestations of feeling. “Is Mary — is she ill?”
“Worse than that,” said the other— “worse’n that, my poor boy; she’s married a lobster!”
The effect of this communication upon Evans was tremendous; but it may be doubted whether he was more surprised than Miss Cooper, who, utterly unversed in military terms, strove in vain to realize the possibility of such a mesalliance, as she gazed wildly at the speaker and squeaked with astonishment.
“When was it?” asked Evans at last, in a dull voice.
“Thursday fortnight, at ha’ past eleven,” said the old man. “He’s a sergeant in the line. I would have written to you, but I thought it was best to come and break it to you gently. Cheer up, my boy; there’s more than one Mary Jones in the world.”
With this undeniable fact, Captain Jones waved a farewell to the party and went off, leaving them to digest his news. For some time they sat still, the mate and Miss Cooper exchanging whispers, until at length, the stillness becoming oppressive, they withdrew to their respective berths, leaving the skipper sitting at the table, gazing hard at a knot in the opposite locker.
For long after their departure he sat thus, amid a deep silence, broken only by an occasional giggle from the stateroom, or an idiotic sniggering from the direction of the mate’s bunk, until, recalled to mundane affairs by the lamp burning itself out, he went, in befitting gloom, to bed.
THE RIVAL BEAUTIES
“It happened in ‘84, on board the steamer George Washington, bound from Liverpool to New York. The first eight days passed without anything unusual happening, but on the ninth I was standing aft with the first mate, hauling in the log, when we hears a yell from aloft, an’ a chap what we called Stuttering Sam come down as if he was possessed, and rushed up to the mate with his eyes nearly starting out of his ‘ed.
“‘There’s the s-s-s-s-s-s-sis-sis-sip!’ ses he.
“‘The what?’ ses the mate.
“‘The s-s-sea-sea-sssssip!’
“‘Look here, my lad,’ ses the mate, taking out a pocket-hankerchief an’ wiping his face, ‘you just tarn your ‘ed away till you get your breath. It’s like opening a bottle o’ soda water to stand talking to you. Now, what is it?’
“‘It’s the ssssssis-sea-sea-sea-sarpint!’ ses Sam, with a bust.
“‘Rather a long un by your account of it,’ ses the mate, with a grin.
“‘What’s the matter?’ ses the skipper, who just came up.
“‘This man has seen the sea-sarpint, sir, that’s all,’ ses the mate.
“‘Y-y-yes,’ said Sam, with a sort o’ sob.
“‘Well, there ain’t much doing just now,’ ses the skipper, ‘so you’d better get a slice o’ bread and feed it.’
“The mate bust out larfing, an’ I could see by the way the skipper smiled he was rather tickled at it himself.
“The skipper an’ the mate was still larfing very hearty when we heard a dreadful ‘owl from the bridge, an’ one o’ the chaps suddenly leaves the wheel, jumps on to the deck, and bolts below as though he was mad. T’other one follows ‘m a’most d’reckly, and the second mate caught hold o’ the wheel as he left it, and called out something we couldn’t catch to the skipper.
“‘What the d — — ‘s the matter?’ yells the skipper.
“The mate pointed to starboard, but as ‘is ‘and was shaking so that one minute it was pointing to the sky an’ the next to the bottom o’ the sea, it wasn’t much of a guide to us. Even when he got it steady we couldn’t see anything, till all of a sudden, about two miles off, something like a telegraph pole stuck up out of the water for a few seconds, and then ducked down again and made straight for the ship.
“Sam was the fust to speak, and, without wasting time stuttering or stammering, he said he’d go down and see about that bit o’ bread, an’ he went afore the skipper or the mate could stop ‘im.
“In less than ‘arf a minute there was only the three officers an’ me on deck. The second mate was holding the wheel, the skipper was holding his breath, and the first mate was holding me. It was one o’ the most exciting times I ever had.
“‘Better fire the gun at it,’ ses the skipper, in a trembling voice, looking at the little brass cannon we had for signalling.
“‘Better not give him any cause for offence,’ ses the mate, shaking his head.
“‘I wonder whether it eats men,’ ses the skipper. ‘Perhaps it’ll come for some of us.’
“‘There ain’t many on deck for it to choose from,’ ses the mate, looking at ‘im significant like.
“‘That’s true,’ ses the skipper, very thoughtful; ‘I’ll go an’ send all hands on deck. As captain, it’s my duty not to leave the ship till the LAST, if I can anyways help it.’
“How he got them on deck has always been a wonder to me, but he did it. He was a brutal sort o’ a man at the best o’ times, an’ he carried on so much that I s’pose they thought even the sarpint couldn’t be worse. Anyway, up they came, an’ we all stood in a crowd watching the sarpint as it came closer and closer.
“We reckoned it to be about a hundred yards long, an’ it was about the most awful-looking creetur you could ever imagine. If you took all the ugliest things in the earth and mixed ’em up — gorillas an’ the like — you’d only make a hangel compared to what that was. It just hung off our quarter, keeping up with us, and every now and then it would open its mouth and let us see about four yards down its throat.
“‘It seems peaceable,’ whispers the fust mate, arter awhile.
“‘P’raps it ain’t hungry,’ ses the skipper. ‘We’d better not let it get peckish. Try it with a loaf o’ bread.’
“The cook went below and fetched up half-a-dozen, an’ one o’ the chaps, plucking up courage, slung it over the side, an’ afore you could say ‘Jack Robinson’ the sarpint had woffled it up an’ was looking for more. It stuck its head up and came close to the side just like the swans in Victoria Park, an’ it kept that game up until it had ‘ad ten loaves an’ a hunk o’ pork.
“‘I’m afraid we’re encouraging it,’ ses the skipper, looking at it as it swam alongside with an eye as big as a saucer cocked on the ship.
“‘P’raps it’ll go away soon if we don’t take no more notice of it,’ ses the mate. ‘Just pretend it isn’t here.’
“Well, we did pretend as well as we could; but everybody hugged the port side o’ the ship, and was ready to bolt down below at the shortest notice; and at last, when the beast got craning its neck up over the side as though it was looking for something, we gave it some more grub. We thought if we didn’t give it he might take it, and take it off the wrong shelf, so to speak. But, as the mate said, it was encouraging it, and long arter it was dark we could hear it snorting and splashing behind us, until at last it ‘ad such an effect on us the mate sent one o’ the chaps down to rouse the skipper.
“‘I don’t think it’ll do no ‘arm,’ ses the skipper, peering over the side, and speaking as though he knew all about sea-sarpints and their ways.
“‘S’pose it puts its ‘ead over the side and takes one o’ the men,’ ses the mate.
“‘Let me know at once,’ ses the skipper firmly; an’ he went below agin and left us.
“Well, I was jolly glad when eight bells struck, an’ I went below; an’ if ever I hoped anything I hoped that when I go up that ugly brute would have gone, but, instead o’ that, when I went on deck it was playing alongside like a kitten a’most, an’ one o’ the chaps told me as the skipper had been feeding it agin.
“‘It’s a wonderful animal,’ ses the skipper, ‘an’ there’s none of you now but has seen the sea-sarpint; but I forbid any man here to say a word about it when we get ashore.’
“‘Why not, sir?’ ses the second mate.
“‘Becos you wouldn’t be believed,’ said the skipper sternly. ‘You might all go ashore and kiss the Book an’ make affidavits an’ not a soul ‘ud believe you. The comic papers ‘ud make fun of it, and the respectable papers ‘ud say it was seaweed or gulls.’
“Why not take it to New York with us?’ ses the fust mate suddenly.
“‘What?’ ses the skipper.
“‘Feed it every day,’ ses the mate, getting excited, ‘and bait a couple of shark hooks and keep ’em ready, together with some wire rope. Git ‘im to foller us as far as he will, and then hook him. We might git him in alive and show him at a sovereign a head. Anyway, we can take in his carcase if we manage it properly.’
“‘By Jove! if we only could,’ ses the skipper, getting excited too.
“‘We can try,’ ses the mate. ‘Why, we could have noosed it this mornin’ if we had liked; and if it breaks the lines we must blow its head to pieces with the gun.’
“It seemed a most eggstraordinary thing to try and catch it that way; but the beast was so tame, and stuck so close to us, that it wasn’t quite so ridikilous as it seemed at fust.
“Arter a couple o’ days nobody minded the animal a bit, for it was about the most nervous thing of its size you ever saw. It hadn’t got the soul of a mouse;
and one day when the second mate, just for a lark, took the line of the foghorn in his hand and tooted it a bit, it flung up its ‘ead in a scared sort o’ way, and, after backing a bit, turned clean round and bolted.
“I thought the skipper ‘ud have gone mad. He chucked over loaves o’ bread, bits o’ beef and pork, an’ scores o’ biskits, and by-and-bye, when the brute plucked up heart an’ came arter us again, he fairly beamed with joy. Then he gave orders that nobody was to touch the horn for any reason whatever, not even if there was a fog, or chance of collision, or anything of the kind; an’ he also gave orders that the bells wasn’t to be struck, but that the bosen was just to shove ‘is ‘ead in the fo’c’s’le and call ’em out instead.
“Arter three days had passed, and the thing was still follering us, everybody made certain of taking it to New York, an’ I b’leeve if it hadn’t been for Joe Cooper the question about the sea-sarpint would ha’ been settled long ago. He was a most eggstraordinary ugly chap was Joe. He had a perfic cartoon of a face, an’ he was so delikit-minded and sensitive about it that if a chap only stopped in the street and whistled as he passed him, or pointed him out to a friend, he didn’t like it. He told me once when I was symperthizing with him, that the only time a woman ever spoke civilly to him was one night down Poplar way in a fog, an’ he was so ‘appy about it that they both walked into the canal afore he knew where they was.
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 130
