The “Bruiser” turned purple, and shivered with impotent wrath.
“We get a parcel o’ pot-house loafers aboard here,” continued the mate, airily addressing the atmosphere, “and, blank my eyes! if they don’t think they’re here to be waited on. You’ll want me to wash your face for you next, and do all your other dirty work, you—”
“George!” said a sad, reproving voice.
The mate started dramatically as the skipper appeared at the companion, and stopped abruptly.
“For shame, George!” said the skipper. “I never expected to hear you talk to anybody like that, especially to my friend Mr. Simmons.”
“Your WOT? demanded the friend hotly.
“My friend,” repeated the other gently; “and as to tenth-rate prize-fighters, George, the ‘Battersea Bruiser’ might be champion of England, if he’d only take the trouble to train.”
“Oh, you’re always sticking up for him,” said the artful mate.
“He deserves it,” said the skipper warmly. “He’s always run straight, ‘as Bill Simmons, and when I hear ‘im being talked at like that, it makes me go ‘ot all over.”
“Don’t you take the trouble to go ‘ot all over on my account,” said the “Bruiser” politely.
“I can’t help my feelings, Bill,” said the skipper softly.
“And don’t you call me Bill,” roared the “Bruiser” with sudden ferocity. “D’ye think I mind what you and your little tinpot crew say. You wait till we get ashore, my friend, and the mate too. Both of you wait!”
He turned his back on them and walked off to the galley, from which, with a view of giving them an object-lesson of an entertaining kind, he presently emerged with a small sack of potatoes, which he slung from the boom and used as a punching ball, dealing blows which made the master of the Frolic sick with apprehension.
“It’s no good,” he said to the mate; “kindness is thrown away on that man.”
“Well, if he hits one, he’s got to hit the lot,” said the mate. “We’ll all stand by you.”
“I can’t always have the crew follering me about,” said the skipper dejectedly. “No, he’ll wait his opportunity, and, after he’s broke my head, he’ll go ‘ome and break up my wife’s ‘art.”
“She won’t break ‘er ‘art,” said the mate confidently. “She and you’ll have a rough time of it; p’raps it would be better for you if she did break it a bit, but she’s not that sort of woman. Well, those of us as live longest’ll see the most.”
For the remainder of that day the cook maintained a sort of unnatural calm. The Frolic rose and fell on the seas like a cork, and the “Bruiser” took short unpremeditated little runs about the deck, which aggravated him exceedingly. Between the runs he folded his arms on the side, and languidly cursed the sea and all that belonged to it; and finally, having lost all desire for food himself, went below and turned in.
He stayed in his bunk the whole of the next day and night, awaking early the following morning to the pleasant fact that the motion had ceased, and that the sides and floor of the fo’c’sle were in the places where people of regular habits would expect to find them. The other bunks were empty, and, after a toilet hastened by a yearning for nourishment, he ran up on deck.
Day had just broken, and he found to his surprise that the voyage was over, and the schooner in a small harbour, lying alongside a stone quay. A few unloaded trucks stood on a railway line which ran from the harbour to the town clustered behind it, but there was no sign of work or life; the good people of the place evidently being comfortably in their beds, and in no hurry to quit them.
The “Bruiser,” with a happy smile on his face, surveyed the scene, sniffing with joy the smell of the land as it came fresh and sweet from the hills at the back of the town. There was only one thing wanting to complete his happiness — the skipper.
“Where’s the cap’n?” he demanded of Dowse, who was methodically coiling a line.
“Just gone ‘ome,” replied Dowse shortly.
In a great hurry the “Bruiser” sprang on to the side and stepped ashore, glancing keenly in every direction for his prey. There was no sign of it, and he ran a little way up the road until he saw the approaching figure of a man, from whom he hoped to obtain information. Then, happening to look back, he saw the masts of the schooner gliding by the quay, and, retracing his steps a little, perceived, to his intense surprise, the figure of the skipper standing by the wheel.
“Ta, ta, cookie!” cried the skipper cheerily.
Angry and puzzled the “Bruiser” ran back to the edge of the quay, and stood owlishly regarding the schooner and the grinning faces of its crew as they hoisted the sails and slowly swung around with their bow pointing to the sea.
“Well, they ain’t making a long stay, old man,” said a voice at his elbow, as the man for whom he had been waiting came up. “Why, they only came in ten minutes ago. What did they come in for, do you know?”
“They belong here,” said the “Bruiser”; “but me and the skipper’s had words, and I’m waiting for ‘im.”
“That craft don’t belong here,” said the stranger, as he eyed the receding Frolic.
“Yes, it does,” said the “Bruiser.”
“I tell you it don’t,” said the other. “I ought to know.”
“Look here, my friend,” said the “Bruiser” grimly, “don’t contradict me. That’s the Frolic of Fairhaven.”
“Very likely,” said the man. “I don’t know where she’s from, but she’s not from here.”
“Why,” said the “Bruiser,” and his voice shook, “ain’t this Fairhaven?”
“Lord love you, no!” said the stranger; “not by a couple o’ hundred miles it ain’t. Wot put that idea into your silly fat head?”
The frantic “Bruiser” raised his fist at the description, but at that moment the crew of the Frolic, which was just getting clear of the harbour, hung over the stern and gave three hearty cheers. The stranger was of a friendly and excitable disposition, and, his evil star being in the ascendant that morning, he took off his hat and cheered wildly back. Immediately afterwards he obtained unasked the post of whipping-boy to the master of the Frolic, and entered upon his new duties at once.
MORE CARGOES
OR, SEA URCHINS
CONTENTS
SMOKED SKIPPER
A SAFETY MATCH
A RASH EXPERIMENT
THE CABIN PASSENGER
CHOICE SPIRITS
A DISCIPLINARIAN
BROTHER HUTCHINS
THE DISBURSEMENT SHEET
RULE OF THREE
PICKLED HERRING
TWO OF A TRADE
AN INTERVENTION
THE GREY PARROT
MONEY-CHANGERS
THE LOST SHIP
SMOKED SKIPPER
“Wapping Old Stairs?” said the rough individual! shouldering the brand-new sea-chest, and starting off at a trot with it; “yus, I know the place, captin. Fust v’y’ge, sir?”
“Ay, ay, my hearty,” replied the owner of the chest, a small, ill-looking lad of fourteen. “Not so fast with those timbers of yours. D’ye hear?”
“All right, sir,” said the man, and, slackening his pace, twisted his head round to take stock of his companion.
“This ain’t your fust v’y’ge, captin,” he said admiringly; “don’t tell me. I could twig that directly I see you. Ho, what’s the use o’ trying to come it over a poor’ard-working man like that?”
“I don’t think there’s much about the sea I don’t know,” said the boy in a satisfied voice. “Starboard, starboard your helium a bit.”
The man obeying promptly, they went the remainder of the distance in this fashion, to the great inconvenience of people coming from the other direction.
“And a cheap ‘arf-crown’s worth, too, captin,” said the man, as he thoughtfully put the chest down at the head of the stairs and sat on it pending payment.
“I want to go off to the Susan Jane,” said
the boy, turning to a waterman who was sitting in his boat, holding on to the side of the steps with his hand.
“All right,” said the man, “give us a hold o’ your box.”
“Put it aboard,” said the boy to the other man.
“A’ right, captin,” said the man, with a cheerful smile, “but I’ll ‘ave my ‘arf-crown fust if you don’t mind.”
“But you said sixpence at the station,” said the boy.
“Two an’ sixpence, captin,” said the man, still smiling, “but I’m a bit ‘usky, an’ p’raps you didn’t hear the two ‘arf a crown’s the regler price. We ain’t allowed to do it under.”
“Well, I won’t tell anybody,” said the boy.
“Give the man ‘is ‘arf-crown,” said the waterman, with sudden heat; “that’s ‘is price, and my fare’s eighteen pence.”
“All right,” said the boy readily; “cheap too. I didn’t know the price, that’s all. But I can’t pay either of you till I get aboard. I’ve only got sixpence. I’ll tell the captain to give you the rest.”
“Tell ‘oo,” demanded the light porter, with some violence.
“The captain,” said the boy.
“Look ‘ere, you give me that ‘arf-crown,” said the other, “else I’ll chuck your box overboard, an’ you after it.”
“Wait a minute, then,” said the boy, darting away up the narrow alley which led to the stairs, “I’ll go and get change.”
“‘E’s goin’ to change ‘arf a suvren, or p’raps a suvren,” said the waterman; “you’d better make it five bob, matey.”
“Ah, an’ you make yours more,” said the light-porter cordially. “Well, I’m —— Well of all the — —”
“Get off that box,” said the big policeman who had come back with the boy. “Take your sixpence an’ go. If I catch you down this way again — —”
He finished the sentence by taking the fellow by the scruff of the neck and giving him a violent push as he passed him.
“Waterman’s fare is threepence,” he said to the boy, as the man in the boat, with an utterly expressionless face, took the chest from him. “I’ll stay here till he has put you aboard.”
The boy took his seat, and the waterman, breathing hard, pulled out towards the vessels in the tier. He looked at the boy and then at the figure on the steps, and, apparently suppressing a strong inclination to speak, spat violently over the side.
“Fine big chap, ain’t he?” said the boy.
The waterman, affecting not to hear, looked over his shoulder, and pulled strongly with his left towards a small schooner, from the deck of which a couple of men were watching the small figure in the boat.
“That’s the boy I was going to tell you about,” said the skipper, “and remember this ‘ere ship’s a pirate.”
“It’s got a lot o’ pirates aboard of it,” said the mate fiercely, as he turned and regarded the crew, “a set o’ lazy, loafing, idle, worthless — —”
“It’s for the boy’s sake,” interrupted the skipper.
“Where’d you pick him up?” inquired the other.
“He’s the son of a friend o’ mine what I’ve brought aboard to oblige,” replied the skipper. “He’s got a fancy for being a pirate, so just to oblige his father I told him we was a pirate. He wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t.”
“I’ll pirate him,” said the mate, rubbing his hands.
“He’s a dreadful ‘andful by all accounts,” continued the other; “got his ‘ed stuffed full ‘o these ‘ere penny dreadfuls till they’ve turned his brain almost. He started by being an Indian, and goin off on ‘is own with two other kids. When he wanted to turn cannibal the other two objected and gave ‘im in charge. After that he did a bit ‘o burgling, and it cost ‘is old man no end o’ money to hush it up.”
“Well, what did you want him for?” grumbled the mate.
“I’m goin’ to knock the nonsense out of him,” said the skipper softly, as the boat grazed the side. “Just step for’ard and let the hands know what’s expected of ’em. When we get to sea it won’t matter.”
The mate moved off grumbling, as the small fare stood on the thwarts and scrambled up over the side. The waterman passed up the chest and, dropping the coppers into his pocket, pushed off again without a word.
“Well, you’ve got here all right, Ralph?” said the skipper. “What do you think of her?”
“She’s a rakish-looking craft,” said the boy, looking round the dingy old tub with much satisfaction; “but where’s your arms?”
“Hush!” said the skipper, and laid his finger on his nose.
“Oh, all right,” said the youth testily, “but you might tell me.”
“You shall know all in good time,” said the skipper patiently, turning to the crew, who came shuffling up, masking broad grins with dirty palms.
“Here’s a new shipmate for you, my lads. He’s small, but he’s the right stuff.” The newcomer drew himself up, and regarded the crew with some dissatisfaction. For desperadoes they looked far too good-tempered and prone to levity.
“What’s the matter with you, Jem Smithers?” inquired the skipper, scowling at a huge fair-haired man, who was laughing discordantly.
“I was thinkin’ o’ the last party I killed, sir,” said Jem, with sudden gravity. “I allers laugh when I think ‘ow he squealed.”
“You laugh too much,” said the other sternly, as he laid a hand on Ralph’s shoulder. “Take a lesson from this fine fellow; he don’t laugh. He acts. Take ‘im down below an’ show him ‘is bunk.”
“Will you please to follow me, sir?” said Smithers, leading the way below. “I dessay you’ll find it a bit stuffy, but that’s owing to Bill Dobbs. A regler old sea-dog is Bill, always sleeps in ‘is clothes and never washes.”
“I don’t think the worse of him for that,” said Ralph, regarding the fermenting Dobbs kindly.
“You’d best keep a civil tongue in your ‘ed, my lad,” said Dobbs shortly.
“Never mind ‘im,” said Smithers cheerfully; “nobody takes any notice o’ old Dobbs. You can ‘it ‘im if you like. I won’t let him hurt you.”
“I don’t want to start by quarreling,” said Ralph seriously.
“You’re afraid,” said Jem tauntingly; “you’ll never make one of us. ‘It ‘im; I won’t let him hurt you.”
Thus aroused, the boy, first directing Dobbs’ attention to his stomach by a curious duck of his head, much admired as a feint in his neighborhood, struck him in the face. The next moment the forecastle was in an uproar and Ralph prostrate on Dobbs’ knees, frantically reminding Jem of his promise.
“All right, I won’t let him ‘urt you,” said Jem consolingly.
“But he is hurting me,” yelled the boy. “He’s hurting me now.”
“Well, wait till I get ‘im ashore,” said Jem, “his old woman won’t know him when I’ve done with him.”
The boy’s reply to this was a torrent of shrill abuse, principally directed to Jem’s facial short-comings.
“Now don’t get rude,” said the seaman, grinning.
“Squint eyes,” cried Ralph fiercely.
“When you’ve done with that ‘ere young gentleman, Dobbs,” said Jem, with exquisite politeness. “I should like to ‘ave ‘im for a little bit to teach ‘im manners.”
“‘E don’t want to go,” said Dobbs, grinning as Ralph clung to him. “He knows who’s kind to him.”
“Wait till I get a chance at you,” sobbed Ralph, as Jem took him away from Dobbs.
“Lord lumme,” said Jem, regarding him in astonishment. “Why, he’s actooaly cryin’. I’ve seen a good many pirates in my time, Bill, but this is a new sort.”
“Leave the boy alone,” said the cook, a fat, good-natured man. “Here, come ‘ere, old man. They don’t mean no ‘arm.”
Glad to escape, Ralph made his way over to the cook, grinding his teeth with shame as that worthy took him between his knees and mopped his eyes with something which he called a handke
rchief.
“You’ll be all right,” he said kindly. “You’ll be as good a pirate as any of us before you’ve finished.”
“Wait till the first engagement, that’s all,” sobbed the boy. “If somebody don’t get shot in the back it won’t be my fault.”
The two seamen looked at each other. “That’s wot hurt my ‘and then,” said Dobbs slowly. “I thought it was a jack-knife.”
He reached over, and unceremoniously grabbing the boy by the collar, pulled him towards him, and drew a small, cheap revolver from his pocket. “Look at that, Jem.”
“Take your fingers orf the blessed trigger and then I will,” said the other, somewhat sourly.
“I’ll pitch it overboard,” said Dobbs.
“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said Smithers, pocket-ing it, “that’s worth a few pints o’ anybody’s money. Stand out o’ the way, Bill, the Pirit King wants to go on deck.”
Bill moved aside as the boy went to the ladder, and, allowing him to get up four or five steps, did the rest for him with his shoulder. The boy reached the deck on all fours, and, regaining a more dignified position as soon as possible, went and leaned over the side, regarding with lofty contempt the busy drudges on wharf and river.
They sailed at midnight and brought up in the early dawn in Longreach, where a lighter loaded with barrels came alongside, and the boy smelt romance and mystery when he learnt that they contained powder. They took in ten tons, the lighter drifted away, the hatches were put on, and they started once more.
It was his first voyage, and he regarded with eager interest the craft passing up and down. He had made his peace with the seamen, and they regaled him with blood-curdling stories of their adventures in the vain hope of horrifying him.
“‘E’s a beastly little rascal, that’s wot ‘e is,” said the indignant Bill, who had surprised himself by his powers of narration; “fancy larfin’ when I told ‘im of pitchin’ the baby to the sharks.”
‘“E’s all right, Bill,” said the cook softly. “Wait till you’ve got seven of ’em.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 133
