"She don't move," said the captain, gloomily. "We must git the boats ready, for if it comes on to blow only a little harder we'll have to take to 'em. So do you and the stooard putt your heads together an' git up as much provisions as you think the boats will safely carry. Only necessaries, of course, an' take plenty o' water. I'll see to it that charts, compasses, canvas, and other odds and ends are ready."

Again young Brooke went off, without saying a word, to carry out his instructions. Meanwhile one of the boats was recalled, and her crew set to lighten the ship by heaving part of the cargo overboard. Still the Walrus remained immovable on the reef, for the force with which she struck had sent her high upon it.

"If we have to take to the boats, sir," said Charlie, when he was disengaged, "it may be well to put some medicines on board, for poor Samson will—"

"Ay, ay, do so, lad," said the captain, interrupting; "I've been thinkin' o' that, an' you may as well rig up some sort o' couch for the poor fellow in the long-boat, for I mean to take him along wi' myself."

"Are you so sure, then, that there is no chance of our getting her off?"

"Quite sure. Look there." He pointed, as he spoke, to the horizon to windward, where a line of cloud rested on the sea. "That'll not be long o' comin' here. It won't blow very hard, but it'll be hard enough to smash the old Walrus to bits. If you've got any valooables aboard that you'd rather not lose, you'd better stuff 'em in your pockets now. When things come to the wust mind your helm, an' look out as I used to say to my missus—"

He stopped abruptly and turned away. Evidently the thought of the "missus" was too much for him just then.

Charlie Brooke hurried off to visit the sick man, and prepare him for the sad change in his position that had now become unavoidable. But another visitor had been to see the invalid before him. Entering the berth softly, and with a quiet look, so as not to agitate the patient needlessly, he found to his regret, though not surprise, that poor Fred Samson was dead. There was a smile on the pale face, which was turned towards the port window, as if the dying man had been taking a last look of the sea and sky when Death laid a hand gently on his brow and smoothed away the wrinkles of suffering and care. A letter from his mother, held tightly in one hand and pressed upon his breast told eloquently what was the subject of his last thoughts.

Charlie cut a lock of hair from the sailor's brow with his clasp-knife, and, taking the letter gently from the dead hand, wrapped it therein.

"There's no time to bury him now. His berth must be the poor fellow's coffin," said Captain Stride, when the death was reported to him. "The swell o' the coming squall has reached us already. Look alive wi' the boats, men!"

By that time the rising swell was in truth lifting the vessel every few seconds and letting her down with a soft thud on the coral reef. It soon became evident to every one on board that the Walrus had not many hours to live—perhaps not many minutes—for the squall to which the Captain had referred was rapidly bearing down, and each successive thud became more violent than the previous one. Knowing their danger full well, the men worked with a will and in a few minutes three boats, well provisioned, were floating on the sea.

The need for haste soon became apparent, for the depth of water alongside was so insufficient that the long-boat—drawing as she did considerably more water than the others—touched twice when the swells let her drop into their hollows.

It was arranged that Charlie should go in the long-boat with the captain, Raywood the passenger, and ten men of the crew. The remainder were to be divided between the other two boats which were to be in charge of the first and second officers respectively.

"Jump in, Brooke," cried the Captain, as he sat in the stern-sheets looking up at our hero, who was busily engaged assisting the first mate to complete the arrangements of his boat, "we've struck twice already. I must shove off. Is Raywood ready?"

"He's in the cabin looking for something, sir; I'll run and fetch him."

"Stay! We've touched again!" shouted the Captain. "You an' Raywood can come off with one o' the other boats. I'll take you on board when in deep water—shove off, lads."

"Jump in with me, sir," said the first mate, as he hastily descended the side.

"Come along, Raywood," shouted Charlie, as he followed. "No time to lose!"

The passenger rushed on deck, scrambled down the side, and took his seat beside Charlie, just as the long threatened squall burst upon them.

The painter was cut, and they drifted into deep water with the second mate's boat, which had already cast off.

Fortunate was it for the whole crew that Captain Stride had provided for every emergency, and that, among other safeguards, he had put several tarpaulins into each boat, for with these they were enabled to form a covering which turned off the waves and prevented their being swamped. The squall turned out to be a very severe one, and in the midst of it the three boats were so far separated that the prospect of their being able to draw together again until evening was very remote. Indeed the waves soon ran so high that it required the utmost attention of each steersman to keep his craft afloat, and when at last the light began to fade the boats were almost out of sight of each other.

"No chance, I fear, of our ever meeting again," remarked the mate, as he cast a wistful look at the southern horizon where the sail of the long-boat could be barely seen like the wing of a sea-gull. "Your lot has been cast with us, Mr Brooke, so you'll have to make the best of it."

"I always try to make the best of things," replied Charlie. "My chief regret at present is that Raywood and I, being two extra hands, will help to consume your provisions too fast."

"Luckily my appetite is a poor one," said Raywood, with a faint smile; "and it's not likely to improve in the circumstances."

"I'm not so sure o' that sir," returned the mate, with an air that was meant to be reassuring; "fresh air and exposure have effected wonders before now in the matter of health—so they say. Another pull on the halyards, Dick; that looks like a fresh squall. Mind your sheets, Will Ward."

A prompt "Ay, ay, sir" from Dick Darvall and the cabin-boy showed that each was alive to the importance of the duty required of him, while the other men—of whom there were six—busied themselves in making the tarpaulin coverings more secure, or in baling out the water which, in spite of them, had found its way into the boat.

Charlie rose and seated himself on the thwart beside the fine-looking seaman Dick Darvall, so as to have a clearer view ahead under the sail.

"Long-boat nowhere to be seen now," he murmured half to himself after a long look.

"No, sir—nor the other boat either," said Darvall in a quiet voice. "We shall never see 'em no more."

"I hope you are wrong," returned Charlie; "indeed I feel sure that the weather will clear during the night, and that we shall find both boats becalmed not far off."

"Maybe so, sir," rejoined the sailor, in the tone of one willing to be, but not yet, convinced.

Our hero was right as to the first, but not as to the second, point. The weather did clear during the night, but when the sun arose next morning on a comparatively calm sea neither of the other boats was to be seen. In fact every object that could arrest the eye had vanished from the scene, leaving only a great circular shield of blue, of which their tiny craft formed the centre.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

ADRIFT ON THE SEA.

"You are ill, Will Ward," was Dick Darvall's first remark when there was sufficient daylight to distinguish faces.

"You're another!" was the cabin-boy's quick, facetious retort, which caused Darvall to smile and had the effect of rousing the half-sleeping crew.

"But you are ill, my boy," repeated the seaman earnestly.

"No, Dick, not exactly ill," returned Will, with a faint smile, "but I'm queer."

Each man had spent that stormy night on the particular thwart on which he had chanced to sit down when he first entered the boat, so that all were looking more or less weary, but seamen are used to uncomfortable and interrupted slumbers. They soon roused themselves and began to look about and make a few comments on the weather. Some, recurring naturally to their beloved indulgence, pulled out their pipes and filled them.

"Have 'ee a light, Jim?" asked a rugged man, in a sleepy tone, of a comrade behind him.

"No, Jack, I haven't" answered Jim, in a less sleepy tone, slapping all his pockets and thrusting his hands into them.

"Have you, Dick?" asked the rugged man in some anxiety.

"No, I haven't," replied Darvall, in a very serious voice, as he also took to slapping his pockets; "no—nor baccy!"

It was curious to note at this point how every seaman in that boat became suddenly sympathetic and wide awake, and took to hasty, anxious examination of all his pockets—vest jacket, and trousers. The result was the discovery of a good many clay pipes, more or less blackened and shortened, with a few plugs of tobacco, but not a single match, either fusee or congreve. The men looked at each other with something akin to despair.

"Was no matches putt on board wi' the grub an' other things?" asked Jim in a solemn tone.

"And no tobacco?" inquired the mate.

No one could answer in the affirmative. A general sigh—like a miniature squall—burst from the sailors, and relieved them a little. Jim put his pipe between his lips, and meekly began, if we may say so, to smoke his tobacco dry. At an order from the mate the men got out the oars and began to pull, for there was barely enough wind to fill the sail.

"No rest for us, lads, 'cept when it blows," said the mate. "The nearest land that I know of is five hundred miles off as the crow flies. We've got a compass by good luck, so we can make for it, but the grub on board won't hold out for quarter o' that distance, so, unless we fall in with a ship, or fish jump aboard of us, ye know what's before us."

"Have we any spirits aboard?" asked the rugged man, in a growling, somewhat sulky, voice.

"Hear—hear!" exclaimed Jim.

"No, Jack," returned the mate; "at least not for the purpose o' lettin' you have a short life an' a merry one. Now, look here, men: it has pleased Providence to putt you an' me in something of a fix, and I shouldn't wonder if we was to have some stiffish experiences before we see the end of it. It has also pleased Providence to putt me here in command. You know I'm not given to boastin', but there are times when it is advisable to have plain speakin'. There is a small supply of spirits aboard, and I just want to tell 'ee—merely as a piece of useful information, and to prevent any chance o' future trouble—that as I've got charge o' them spirits I mean to keep charge of 'em."

The mate spoke in a low, soft voice, without the slightest appearance of threat or determination in his manner, but as he concluded he unbuttoned his pilot-cloth coat and pointed to the butt of a revolver which protruded from one of his vest pockets.

The men made no reply, but instinctively glanced at the two biggest and strongest men in the boat. These were Charlie Brooke and Dick Darvall. Obviously, before committing themselves further, they wished, if possible, to read in the faces of these two what they thought of the mate's speech. They failed to read much, if anything at all, for Charlie's eyes were fixed in dreamy expressionless abstraction on the horizon, and Dick was gazing up into the clouds, with a look of intense benignity—suggesting that he was holding pleasant intercourse with any celestial creatures who might be resident there.

Without a word the whole crew bent to their oars, and resigned themselves to the inevitable. Perhaps if each man had expressed his true feelings at that moment he would have said that he was glad to know there was a firm hand at the helm. For there are few things more uncomfortable in any community, large or small, than the absence of discipline, or the presence of a weak will in a position of power.

"But I say, Will," remarked Darvall, who pulled the stroke-oar, "you really do look ill. Is anything the matter with 'ee?"

"Nothin', Dick; 'cept that I'm tired," answered the cabin-boy.

"Breakfast will put that right" said our hero in an encouraging tone. "Let's feel your pulse. Hm. Well, might be slower. Come, Captain," he added, giving the mate his new title as he turned to him, "will you allow me to prescribe breakfast for this patient?"

"Certainly, Doctor," returned the mate cheerily. "Come, lads, we'll all have breakfast together."

In a few minutes the biscuit and salt junk barrels were opened, and the mate measured out an exactly equal proportion of food to each man. Then, following the example of a celebrated commander, and in order to prevent dissatisfaction on the part of any with his portion, he caused one of the men to turn his back on the food, and, pointing to one of the portions said, "Who shall have this?"

"The Doctor, sir," returned the man promptly.

The portion was immediately handed to Charlie Brooke amid a general laugh.

Thus every portion was disposed of, and the men sat down to eat in good humour, in spite of the too evident fact that they had been at once placed on short allowance, for, when each had finished, he assuredly wished for more, though no one ventured to give expression to the wish.

The only exception was the little cabin-boy, who made a brave attempt to eat, but utterly failed at the second mouthful.

"Come, Will," said Charlie in a kindly tone, pretending to misunderstand the state of matters, "don't try to deceive yourself by prolonging your breakfast. That won't make more of it. See, here, I'm not up to eating much to-day, somehow, so I'll be greatly obliged if you will dispose of half of mine as well as your own. Next time I am hungry, and you are not, I'll expect you to do the same."

But Will Ward could not be thus induced to eat. He was really ill, and before night was in a high fever. You may be sure that Dr Brooke, as every one now called him, did his best to help the little sufferer, but, of course, he could do very little, for all the medicines which he had prepared had been put into the long-boat, and, in a small open boat with no comforts, no medicines, and on short allowance of food, little could be done, except to give the boy a space of the floor on which to lie, to shield him from spray, and to cover him with blankets.

For a week the boat was carried over the sea by a fresh, steady breeze, during which time the sun shone out frequently, so that things seemed not so wretched as one might suppose to the shipwrecked mariners. Of course the poor cabin-boy was an exception. Although his feverish attack was a slight one he felt very weak and miserable after it. His appetite began to return, however, and it was evident that the short daily allowance would be insufficient for him. When this point was reached Dick Darvall one day, when rations were being served out, ventured to deliver an opinion.

"Captain and mates all," he said, while a sort of bashful smile played upon his sunburnt features, "it do seem to me that we should agree, each man, to give up a share of our rations to little Will Ward, so that he may be able to feed up a bit an' git the better o' this here sickness. We won't feel the want of such a little crumb each, an' he'll be ever so much the better for it."

"Agreed," chorused the men, apparently without exception.

"All right, lads," said the mate, while a rare smile lighted up for a moment his usually stern countenance; "when the need for such self-denial comes I'll call on ye to exercise it, but it ain't called for yet, because I've been lookin' after the interests o' Will Ward while he's been ill. Justice, you see, stands first o' the virtues in my mind, an' it's my opinion that it wouldn't be justice, but something very much the reverse, if we were to rob the poor boy of his victuals just because he couldn't eat them."

"Right you are, sir," interposed Dick Darvall.

"Well, then, holdin' these views," continued the mate, "I have put aside Will Ward's share every time the rations were served, so here's what belongs to him—in this keg for the meat, and this bag for the biscuit— ready for him to fall-to whenever his twist is strong enough."

There were marks of hearty approval, mingled with laughter, among the men on hearing this, but they stopped abruptly and listened for more on observing a perplexed look on their leader's face.

"But there's something that puzzles me about it, lads," resumed the mate, "and it is this, that the grub has somehow accumulated faster than I can account for, considering the smallness o' the addition to the lot each time."

On hearing this the men were a little surprised, but Charlie Brooke burst into a short laugh.

"What!" he exclaimed, "you don't mean to say that the victuals have taken root and begun to grow, do you?"

"I don't mean to say anything," returned the mate quietly; "but I'm inclined to think a good deal if you've no objection, Doctor."

"How d'ee feel now, Will?" said Charlie, stooping forward at the moment, for he observed that the boy—whose bed was on the floor at his feet— had moved, and was gazing up at him with eyes that seemed to have grown enormously since their owner fell sick.

"I feel queer—and—and—I'm inclined to think, too," returned Will in a faint voice.

Nothing more was said at that time, for a sudden shift in the wind necessitated a shift of the sail, but Dick Darvall nodded his head significantly, and it came to be understood that "Doctor" Brooke had regularly robbed himself of part of his meagre allowance in order to increase the store of the cabin-boy. Whether they were right in this conjecture has never been distinctly ascertained. But all attempts to benefit the boy were soon after frustrated, for, while life was little more than trembling in the balance with Will Ward, a gale burst upon them which sealed his fate.

It was not the rougher motion of the boat that did it, for the boy was used to that; nor the flashing of the salt spray inboard, for his comrades guarded him to some extent from that. During the alarm caused by a wave which nearly swamped the boat two of the crew in their panic seized the first things that came to hand and flung them overboard to prevent their sinking, while the rest baled with cans and sou'-westers for their lives. The portion of lading thus sacrificed turned out to be the staff of life—the casks of biscuit and pork!

It was a terrible shock to these unfortunates when the full extent of the calamity was understood, and the firmness of the mate, with a sight of the revolvers alone prevented summary vengeance being executed on the wretched men who had acted so hastily in their blind terror.

Only a small keg of biscuit remained to them. This was soon expended, and then the process of absolute starvation began. Every nook and cranny of the boat was searched again and again in the hope of something eatable being found, but only a small pot of lard—intended probably to grease the tackling—was discovered. With a dreadful expression in their eyes some of the men glared at it, and there would, no doubt, have been a deadly struggle for it if the mate had not said, "Fetch it here," in a voice which none dared to disobey.

It formed but a mouthful to each, yet the poor fellows devoured it with the greed of ravening wolves, and carefully licked their fingers when it was done. The little cabin-boy had three portions allotted to him, because Charlie Brooke and Dick Darvall added their allowance to his without allowing him to be aware of the fact.

But the extra allowance and kindness, although they added greatly to his comfort, could not stay the hand of Death. Slowly but surely the Destroyer came and claimed the young life. It was a sweet, calm evening when the summons came. The sea was like glass, with only that long, gentle swell which tells even in the profoundest calm of Ocean's instability. The sky was intensely blue, save on the western horizon, where the sun turned it into gold. It seemed as if all Nature were quietly indifferent to the sufferings of the shipwrecked men, some of whom had reached that terrible condition of starvation when all the softer feelings of humanity seem dead, for, although no whisper of their intention passed their lips, their looks told all too plainly that they awaited the death of the cabin-boy with impatience, that they might appease the intolerable pangs of hunger by resorting to cannibalism.

Charlie Brooke, who had been comforting the dying lad all day, and whispering to him words of consolation from God's book from time to time, knew well what those looks meant. So did the mate, who sat grim, gaunt and silent at his post, taking no notice apparently of what went on around him. Fortunately the poor boy was too far gone to observe the looks of his mates.

There was a can of paraffin oil, which had been thrown into the boat under the impression that it was something else. This had been avoided hitherto by the starving men, who deemed it to be poisonous. That evening the man called Jim lost control of himself, seized the can, and took a long draught of the oil. Whether it was the effect of that we cannot tell, but it seemed to drive him mad, for no sooner had he swallowed it than he uttered a wild shout, drew his knife, sprang up and leaped towards the place where the cabin-boy lay.

The mate, who had foreseen something of the kind, drew and levelled his revolver, but before he could fire Charlie had caught the uplifted arm, wrested the knife from the man, and thrust him violently back. Thus foiled Jim sprang up again and with a maniac's yell leaped into the sea, and swam resolutely away.

Even in their dire extremity the sailors could not see a comrade perish with indifference. They jumped up, hastily got out the oars, and pulled after him, but their arms were very weak; before they could overtake him the man had sunk to rise no more.

It was while this scene was being enacted that the spirit of the cabin-boy passed away. On ascertaining that he was dead Charlie covered him with a tarpaulin where he lay, but no word was uttered by any one, and the mate, with revolver still in hand, sat there—grim and silent— holding the tiller as if steering, and gazing sternly on the horizon. Yet it was not difficult to divine the thoughts of those unhappy and sorely tried men. Some by their savage glare at the cover that concealed the dead body showed plainly their dreadful desires. Brooke, Darvall, and the mate showed as clearly by their compressed lips and stern brows that they would resist any attempt to gratify these.

Suddenly the mate's brow cleared, and his eyes opened wide as he muttered, under his breath, "A sail!"

"A sail! a sail!" shrieked the man in the bow at the same moment, as he leaped up and tried to cheer, but he only gasped and fell back in a swoon into a comrade's arms.

It was indeed a sail, which soon grew larger, and ere long a ship was descried bearing straight towards them before a very light breeze. In less than an hour the castaways stood upon her deck—saved.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

INGRATITUDE.

A year or more passed away, and then there came a cablegram from New York to Jacob Crossley, Esquire, from Captain Stride. The old gentleman was at breakfast when he received it, and his housekeeper, Mrs Bland, was in the act of setting before him a dish of buttered toast when he opened the envelope. At the first glance he started up, overturned his cup of coffee, without paying the least attention to the fact, and exclaimed with emphasis—"As I expected. It is lost!"

"'Ow could you expect it, sir, to be anythink else, w'en you've sent it all over the table-cloth?" said Mrs Bland, in some surprise.

"It is not that, Mrs Bland," said Mr Crossley, in a hurried manner; "it is my ship the Walrus. Of course I knew long ago that it must have been lost," continued the old gentleman, speaking his thoughts more to himself than to the housekeeper, who was carefully spooning up the spilt coffee, "but the best of it is that the Captain has escaped."

"Well, I'm sure, sir," said Mrs Bland, condescending to be interested, and to ignore, if not to forget, the coffee, "I'm very glad to 'ear it, sir, for Captain Stride is a pleasant cheery sort of man, and would be agreeable company if 'e didn't use so much sea-langwidge, and speak so much of 'is missis. An' I'm glad to 'ear it too, sir, on account o' that fine young man that sailed with 'im—Mr Book, I think, was—"

"No, Mrs Bland, it was Brooke; but that's the worst of the business," said the old gentleman; "I'm not quite sure whether young Brooke is among the saved. Here is what the telegram says:—

"'From Captain Stride to Jacob Crossley. Just arrived, (that's in New York, Mrs Bland); Walrus lost. All hands left her in three boats.

"'Our boat made uninhabited island, and knocked to pieces. Eight months on the island. Rescued by American barque. Fate of other boats unknown. Will be home within a couple of weeks.'"

"Why, it sounds like Robinson Crusoe, sir, don't it? which I read when I was quite a gurl, but I don't believe it myself though they do say it's all true. Young Mr Leather will be glad to 'ear the good noos of 'is friend—"

"But this is not good news of his friend; it is only uncertain news," interrupted the old gentleman quickly. "Now I think of it, Mrs Bland, Mr Leather is to call here by appointment this very morning, so you must be particularly careful not to say a word to him about this telegram, or Captain Stride, or anything I have told you about the lost ship—you understand, Mrs Bland?"

"Certainly, sir," said the housekeeper, somewhat hurt by the doubt thus implied as to the capacity of her understanding. "Shall I bring you some more toast, sir?" she added, with the virtuous feeling that by this question she was returning good for evil.

"No, thank you. Now, Mrs Bland, don't forget. Not a word about this to any one."

"'Ooks an' red-'ot pincers wouldn't draw a syllable out of me, sir," returned the good woman, departing with an offended air, and leaving her master to understand that, in her opinion, such instruments might have a very different effect upon him.

"Ass that I was to speak of it to her at all," muttered Mr Crossley, walking up and down the room with spectacles on forehead, and with both hands in his trousers-pockets creating disturbance among the keys and coppers. "I might have known that she could not hold her tongue. It would never do to let Mrs Brooke remain on the tenter-hooks till Stride comes home to clear the matter up. Poor Mrs Brooke! No wonder she is almost broken down. This hoping against hope is so wearing. And she's so lonely. To be sure, sweet May Leather runs out and in like a beam of sunshine; but it must be hard, very hard, to lose an only son in this way. It would be almost better to know that he was dead. H'm! and there's that good-for-nothing Shank. The rascal! and yet he's not absolutely good for nothing—if he would only give up drink. Well, while there's life there's hope, thank God! I'll give him another trial."

The old man's brow was severely wrinkled while he indulged in these mutterings, but it cleared, and a kindly look beamed on his countenance as he gave vent to the last expression.

Just then the door bell rang. Mr Crossley resumed the grave look that was habitual to hint and next minute Shank Leather was ushered into the room.

The youth was considerably changed since we last met him. The year which had passed had developed him into a man, and clothed his upper lip with something visible to the naked eye. It had also lengthened his limbs, deepened his chest, and broadened his shoulders. But here the change for the better ended. In that space of time there had come over him a decided air of dissipation, and the freshness suitable to youth had disappeared.

With a look that was somewhat defiant he entered the room and looked boldly at his employer.

"Be seated, Mr Leather," said the old gentleman in a voice so soft that the young man evidently felt abashed, but he as evidently steeled himself against better feelings, for he replied—

"Thank you, Mr Crossley, I'd rather stand."

"As you please," returned the other, restraining himself. "I sent for you, Mr Leather, to tell you that I have heard with sincere regret of your last outbreak, and—"

"Yes, sir," said Shank, rudely interrupting, "and I came here not so much to hear what you have to say about my outbreak—as you are pleased to style a little jollification—as to tell you that you had better provide yourself with another clerk, for I don't intend to return to your office. I've got a better situation."

"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Crossley in surprise.

"Yes, indeed," replied Shank insolently.

It was evident that the youth was, even at that moment, under the influence of his great enemy, else his better feelings would have prevented him from speaking so rudely to a man who had never shown him anything but kindness. But he was nettled by some of his bad companions having taunted him with his slavery to his besetting sin, and had responded to Mr Crossley's summons under the impression that he was going to get what he styled a "wigging." He was therefore taken somewhat aback when the old gentleman replied to his last remark gently.

"I congratulate you, Mr Leather, on getting a better situation (if it really should turn out to be better), and I sincerely hope it may—for your mother's sake as well as your own. This therefore disposes of part of my object in asking you to call—which was to say that I meant to pass over this offence and retain you in my employment. But it does not supersede the necessity of my urging you earnestly to give up drink, not so much on the ground that it will surely lead you to destruction as on the consideration that it grieves the loving Father who has bestowed on you the very powers of enjoyment which you are now prostituting, and who is at this moment holding out His hands to you and waiting to be gracious."

The old man stopped abruptly, and Shank stood with eyes fixed on the floor and frowning brow.

"Have you anything more to say to me?" asked Mr Crossley.

"Nothing."

"Then good-morning. As I can do nothing else to serve you, I will pray for you."

Shank found himself in the street with feelings of surprise strong upon him.

"Pray for me!" he muttered, as he walked slowly along. "It never occurred to me before that he prayed at all! The old humbug has more need to pray for himself!"



CHAPTER NINE.

SHANK REVEALS SOMETHING MORE OF HIS CHARACTER.

Taking his way to the railway station Shank Leather found himself ere long at his mother's door.

He entered without knocking.

"Shank!" exclaimed Mrs Leather and May in the same breath.

"Ay, mother, it's me. A bad shilling, they say, always turns up. I always turn up, therefore I am a bad shilling! Sound logic that, eh, May?"

"I'm glad to see you, dear Shank," said careworn Mrs Leather, laying her knitting-needles on the table; "you know I'm always glad to see you, but I'm naturally surprised, for this visit is out of your regular time."

"Has anything happened?" asked May anxiously. And May looked very sweet, almost pretty, when she was anxious. A year had refined her features, developed her mind and body, and almost converted her into a little woman. Indeed, mentally, she had become more of a woman than many girls in her neighbourhood who were much older. This was in all likelihood one of the good consequences of adversity.

"Ay, May, something has happened," answered the youth, flinging himself gaily into an arm-chair and stretching out his legs towards the fire; "I have thrown up my situation. Struck work. That's all."

"Shank!"

"Just so. Don't look so horrified, mother; you've no occasion to, for I have the offer of a better situation. Besides—ha! ha! old Crossley— close-fisted, crabbed, money-making, skin-flint old Crossley—is going to pray for me. Think o' that, mother—going to pray for me!"

"Shank, dear boy," returned his mother, "don't jest about religious things."

"You don't call old Crossley a religious thing, do you? Why, mother, I thought you had more respect for him than that comes to; you ought at least to consider his years!"

"Come, Shank," returned Mrs Leather, with a deprecating smile, "be a good boy and tell me what you mean—and about this new situation."

"I just mean that my friend and chum and old schoolfellow Ralph Ritson— jovial, dashing, musical, handsome Ralph—you remember him—has got me a situation in California."

"Ralph Ritson?" repeated Mrs Leather, with a little sigh and an uneasy glance at her daughter, whose face had flushed at the mention of the youth's name.

"Yes," continued Shank, in a graver tone, for he had observed the flush on May's face. "Ralph's father, who is manager of a gold mine in California, has asked his son to go out and assist him at a good salary, and to take a clerk out with him—a stout vigorous fellow, well up in figures, book-keeping, carpenting, etcetera, and ready to turn his hand to anything, and Ralph has chosen me! What d'ee think o' that?"

From her silence and expression it was evident that the poor lady's thoughts were not quite what her son had hoped.

"Why don't you congratulate me, mother?" he asked, somewhat petulantly.

"Would it not be almost premature," she replied, with a forced smile, "to congratulate you before I know anything about the salary or the prospects held out to you? Besides, I cannot feel as enthusiastic about your friend Ralph as you do. I don't doubt that he is a well-meaning youth, but he is reckless. If he had only been a man like your former friend, poor Charlie Brooke, it would have been different, but—"

"Well, mother, it's of no use wishing somebody to be like somebody else. We must just take folk as we find them, and I find Ralph Ritson a remarkably fine, sensible fellow, who has a proper appreciation of his friends. And he's not a bad fellow. He and Charlie Brooke were fond of each other when we were all schoolboys together—at least he was fond of Charlie, like everybody else. But whether we like him or not does not matter now, for the thing is fixed. I have accepted his offer, and thrown old Jacob overboard."

"Dear Shank, don't be angry if I am slow to appreciate this offer," said the poor lady, laying aside her knitting and clasping her hands before her on the table, as she looked earnestly into her son's face, "but you must see that it has come on me very suddenly, and I'm so sorry to hear that you have parted with good old Mr Crossley in anger—"

"We didn't part in anger," interrupted Shank. "We were only a little less sweet on each other than usual. There was no absolute quarrel. D'you think he'd have promised to pray for me if there was?"

"Have you spoken yet to your father?" asked the lady.

"How could I? I've not seen him since the thing was settled. Besides, what's the use? He can do nothing for me, an' don't care a button what I do or where I go."

"You are wrong, Shank, in thinking so. I know that he cares for you very much indeed. If he can do nothing for you now, he has at least given you your education, without which you could not do much for yourself."

"Well, of course I shall tell him whenever I see him," returned the youth, somewhat softened; "and I'm aware he has a sort of sneaking fondness for me; but I'm not going to ask his advice, because he knows nothing about the business. Besides, mother, I am old enough to judge for myself, and mean to take the advice of nobody."

"You are indeed old enough to judge for yourself," said Mrs Leather, resuming her knitting, "and I don't wish to turn you from your plans. On the contrary, I will pray that God's blessing and protection may accompany you wherever you go, but you should not expect me to be instantaneously jubilant over an arrangement which will take you away from me, for years perhaps."

This last consideration seemed to have some weight with the selfish youth.

"Well, well, mother," he said, rising, "don't take on about that. Travelling is not like what it used to be. A trip over the Atlantic and the Rocky Mountains is nothing to speak of now—a mere matter of a few weeks—so that a fellow can take a run home at any time to say 'How do' to his people. I'm going down now to see Smithers and tell him the news."

"Stay, I'll go with you—a bit of the way," cried May, jumping up and shaking back the curly brown hair which still hung in native freedom— and girlish fashion—on her shoulders.

May had a charming and rare capacity for getting ready to go out at a moment's notice. She merely threw on a coquettish straw hat, which had a knack of being always at hand, and which clung to her pretty head with a tenacity that rendered strings or elastic superfluous. One of her brother's companions—we don't know which—was once heard to say with fervour that no hat would be worth its ribbons that didn't cling powerfully to such a head without assistance! A shawl too, or cloak, was always at hand, somehow, and had this not been so May would have thrown over her shoulders an antimacassar or table-cloth rather than cause delay,—at least we think so, though we have no absolute authority for making the statement.

"Dear Shank," she said, clasping both hands over his arm as they walked slowly down the path that led to the shore, "is it really all true that you have been telling us? Have you fixed to go off with—with Mr Ritson to California?"

"Quite true; I never was more in earnest in my life. By the way, sister mine, what made you colour up so when Ralph's name was mentioned? There, you're flushing again! Are you in love with him?"

"No, certainly not," answered the girl, with an air and tone of decision that made her brother laugh.

"Well, you needn't flare up so fiercely. You might be in love with a worse man. But why, then, do you blush?"

May was silent, and hung down her head.

"Come, May, you've never had any secrets from me. Surely you're not going to begin now—on the eve of my departure to a foreign land?"

"I would rather not talk about him at all," said the girl, looking up entreatingly.

But Shank looked down upon her sternly. He had assumed the parental role. "May, there is something in this that you ought not to conceal. I have a right to know it, as your brother—your protector."

Innocent though May was, she could not repress a faint smile at the idea of a protector who had been little else than a cause of anxiety in the past, and was now about to leave her to look after herself, probably for years to come. But she answered frankly, while another and a deeper blush overspread her face—

"I did not mean to speak of it, Shank, as you knew nothing, and I had hoped would never know anything about it, but since you insist, I must tell you that—that Mr Ritson, I'm afraid, loves me at least he—"

"Afraid! loves you! How do you know?" interrupted Shank quickly.

"Well, he said so—the last time we met."

"The rascal! Had he the audacity to ask you to marry him?—him—a beggar, without a sixpence except what his father gives him?"

"No, Shank, I would not let him get the length of that. I told him I was too young to—to think about such matters at all, and said that he must not speak to me again in such a way. But I was so surprised, flurried, and distressed, that I don't clearly remember what I said."

"And what did he say?" asked Shank, forgetting the parental role for a moment, and looking at May with a humorous smile.

"Indeed I can hardly tell. He made a great many absurd protestations, begged me to give him no decided answer just then, and said something about letting him write to me, but all I am quite sure of is that at last I had the courage to utter a very decided No, and then ran away and left him."

"That was too sharp, May. Ralph is a first-rate fellow, with capital prospects. His father is rich and can give him a good start in life. He may come back in a few years with a fortune—not a bad kind of husband for a penniless lass."

"Shank!" exclaimed May, letting go her brother's arm and facing him with flashing eyes and heightened colour, "do you really think that a fortune would make me marry a man whom I did not love?"

"Certainly not, my dear sis," said the youth, taking May's hand and drawing it again through his arm with an approving smile. "I never for a moment thought you capable of such meanness, but that is a very different thing from slamming the door in a poor fellow's face. You're not in love with anybody else. Ralph is a fine handsome young fellow. You might grow to like him in time—and if you did, a fortune, of course, would be no disadvantage. Besides, he is to be my travelling companion, and might write to you about me if I were ill, or chanced to meet with an accident and were unable to write myself—don't you know?"

"He could in that case write to mother," said May, simply.

"So he could!" returned Shank, laughing. "I never thought o' that, my sharp sister."

They had reached the shore by that time. The tide was out; the sea was calm and the sun glinted brightly on the wavelets that sighed rather than broke upon the sands.

For some distance they sauntered in silence by the margin of the sea. The mind of each was busy with the same thought. Each was aware of that, and for some time neither seemed able to break the silence. The timid girl recovered her courage before the self-reliant man!

"Dear Shank," she said, pressing his arm, "you will probably be away for years."

"Yes, May—at least for a good long time."

"Oh forgive me, brother," continued the girl, with sudden earnestness, "but—but—you know your—your weakness—"

"Ay, May, I know it. Call it sin if you will—and my knowledge of it has something to do with my present determination, for, weak though I am, and bad though you think me—"

"But I don't think you bad, dear Shank," cried May, with tearful eyes; "I never said so, and never thought so, and—"

"Come, come, May," interrupted the youth, with something of banter in his manner, "you don't think me good, do you?"

"Well, no—not exactly," returned May, faintly smiling through her tears.

"Well, then, if I'm not good I must be bad, you know. There's no half-way house in this matter."

"Is there not, Shank? Is there not very good and very bad?"

"Oh, well, if you come to that there's pretty-good, and rather-bad, and a host of other houses between these, such as goodish and baddish, but not one of them can be a half-way house."

"Oh yes, one of them can—must be."

"Which one, you little argumentative creature?" asked Shank.

"Why, middling-good of course."

"Wrong!" cried her brother, "doesn't middling-bad stand beside it, with quite as good a claim to be considered half-way? However, I won't press my victory too far. For the sake of peace we will agree that these are semi-detached houses in one block—and that will block the subject. But, to be serious again," he added, stopping and looking earnestly into his sister's face, "I wanted to speak to you on this weakness—this sin—and I thank you for breaking the ice. The truth is that I have felt for a good while past that conviviality—"

"Strong drink, brother, call it by its right name," said May, gently pressing the arm on which she leaned.

"Well—have it so. Strong drink has been getting the better of me—mind I don't admit it has got the better of me yet—only is getting—and convivial comrades have had a great deal to do with it. Now, as you know, I'm a man of some decision of character, and I had long ago made up my mind to break with my companions. Of course I could not very well do this while—while I was—well, no matter why, but this offer just seemed to be a sort of godsend, for it will enable me to cut myself free at once, and the sea breezes and Rocky Mountain air and gold-hunting will, I expect, take away the desire for strong drink altogether."

"I hope it will—indeed I am sure it will if it is God's way of leading you," said May, with an air of confidence.

"Well, I don't know whether it is God who is leading me or—"

"Did you not call it a god-send just now—"

"Oh, but that's a mere form of speech, you know. However, I do know that it was on this very beach where we now stand that a friend led me for the first time to think seriously of this matter—more than a year ago."

"Indeed—who was it?" asked May eagerly.

"My chum and old school-fellow, poor Charlie Brooke," returned Shank, in a strangely altered voice.

Then he went on to tell of the conversation he and his friend had had on that beach, and it was not till he had finished that he became aware that his sister was weeping.

"Why, May, you're crying. What's the matter?"

"God bless him!" said May in fervent yet tremulous tones as she looked up in her brother's face. "Can you wonder at my feeling so strongly when you remember how kind Charlie always was to you—to all of us indeed—ever since he was a little boy at school with you; what a true-hearted and steady friend he has always been. And you called him poor Charlie just now, as if he were dead."

"True indeed, it is very, very sad, for we have great reason to fear the worst, and I have strong doubt that I shall never see my old chum again. But I won't give up hope, for it is no uncommon thing for men to be lost at sea, for years even, and to turn up at last, having been cast away on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe, or something of that sort."

The thoughts which seemed to minister consolation to Shank Leather did not appear to afford much comfort to his sister, who hung her head and made no answer, while her companion went on—

"Yes, May, and poor Charlie was the first to make me feel as if I were a little selfish, though that as you know, is not one of my conspicuous failings! His straightforwardness angered me a little at first, but his kindness made me think much of what he said, and—well, the upshot of it all is that I am going to California."

"I am glad—so glad and thankful he has had so much influence over you, dear Shank, and now, don't you think—that—that if Charlie were with you at this moment he would advise you not to go to Mr Smithers to consult about your plans?"

For a few moments the brother's face betrayed a feeling of annoyance, but it quickly cleared away.

"You are right, May. Smithers is too much of a convivial harum-scarum fellow to be of much use in the way of giving sound advice. I'll go to see Jamieson instead. You can have no objection to him—surely. He's a quiet, sober sort of man, and never tries to tempt people or lead them into mischief—which is more than can be said of the other fellow."

"That is a very negative sort of goodness," returned May, smiling. "However, if you must go to see some one, Jamieson is better than Smithers; but why not come home and consult with mother and me?"

"Pooh! what can women know about such matters? No, no, May, when a fellow has to go into the pros and cons of Californian life it must be with men."

"H'm! the men you associate with, having been at school and the desk all their lives up till now, must be eminently fitted to advise on Californian life! That did not occur to me at the first blush!" said May demurely.

"Go home, you cynical baggage, and help mother to knit," retorted Shank, with a laugh. "I intend to go and see Jamieson."

And he went. And the negatively good Jamieson, who never led people into temptation, had no objection to be led into that region himself, so they went together to make a passing call—a mere look in—on Smithers, who easily induced them to remain. The result was that the unselfish man with decision of character returned home in the early hours of morning—"screwed."



CHAPTER TEN.

HOME-COMING AND UNEXPECTED SURPRISES.

Upwards of another year passed away, and at the end of that time a ship might have been seen approaching one of the harbours on the eastern seaboard of America. Her sails were worn and patched. Her spars were broken and spliced. Her rigging was ragged and slack, and the state of her hull can be best described by the word 'battered.' Everything in and about her bore evidence of a prolonged and hard struggle with the elements, and though she had at last come off victorious, her dilapidated appearance bore strong testimony to the deadly nature of the fight.

Her crew presented similar evidence. Not only were their garments ragged, threadbare, and patched, but the very persons of the men seemed to have been riven and battered by the tear and wear of the conflict. And no wonder; for the vessel was a South Sea whaler, returning home after a three years' cruise.

At first she had been blown far out of her course; then she was very successful in the fishing, and then she was stranded on the reef of a coral island in such a position that, though protected from absolute destruction by the fury of the waves, she could not be got off for many months. At last the ingenuity and perseverance of one of her crew were rewarded by success. She was hauled once more into deep water and finally returned home.

The man who had been thus successful in saving the ship, and probably the lives of his mates—for it was a desolate isle, far out of the tracks of commerce—was standing in the bow of the vessel, watching the shore with his companions as they drew near. He was a splendid specimen of manhood, clad in a red shirt and canvas trousers, while a wide-awake took the place of the usual seafaring cap. He stood head and shoulders above his fellows.

Just as the ship rounded the end of the pier, which formed one side of the harbour, a small boat shot out from it. A little boy sculled the boat, and, apparently, had been ignorant of the ship's approach, for he gave a shout of alarm on seeing it, and made frantic efforts to get out of its way. In his wild attempts to turn the boat he missed a stroke and went backwards into the sea.

At the same moment the lookout on the ship gave the order to put the helm hard a-starboard in a hurried shout.

Prompt obedience caused the ship to sheer off a little, and her side just grazed the boat. All hands on the forecastle gazed down anxiously for the boy's reappearance.

Up he came next moment with a bubbling cry and clutching fingers.

"He can't swim!" cried one.

"Out with a lifebelt!" shouted another.

Our tall seaman bent forward as they spoke, and, just as the boy sank a second time, he shot like an arrow into the water.

"He's all safe now," remarked a seaman quietly, and with a nod of satisfaction, even before the rescuer had reappeared.

And he was right. The red-shirted sailor rose a moment later with the boy in his arms. Chucking the urchin into the boat he swam to the pier-head with the smooth facility and speed of an otter, climbed the wooden piles with the ease of an athlete, walked rapidly along the pier, and arrived at the head of the harbour almost as soon as his own ship.

"That's the tenth life he's saved since he came aboard—to say nothin' o' savin' the ship herself," remarked the Captain to an inquirer, after the vessel had reached her moorings. "An' none o' the lives was as easy to manage as that one. Some o' them much harder."

We will follow this magnificent seaman for a time, good reader.

Having obtained permission to quit the South Sea whaler he walked straight to the office of a steam shipping company, and secured a fore-cabin passage to England. He went on board dressed as he had arrived, in the red shirt, ducks, and wide-awake—minus the salt water. The only piece of costume which he had added to his wardrobe was a huge double-breasted pilot-cloth coat, with buttons the size of an egg-cup. He was so unused, however, to such heavy clothing that he flung it off the moment he got on board the steamer, and went about thereafter in his red flannel shirt and ducks. Hence he came to be known by every one as Red Shirt.

This man, with his dark-blue eyes, deeply bronzed cheeks, fair hair, moustache, and beard, and tall herculean form, was nevertheless so soft and gentle in his manners, so ready with his smile and help and sympathy, that every man, woman, and child in the vessel adored him before the third day was over. Previous to that day, many of the passengers, owing to internal derangements, were incapable of any affection, except self-love, and to do them justice they had not much even of that!

Arrived at Liverpool, Red Shirt, after seeing a poor invalid passenger safely to his abode in that city, and assisting one or two families with young children to find the stations, boats, or coaches that were more or less connected with their homes, got into a third-class carriage for London. On reaching the metropolis he at once took a ticket for Sealford.

Just as the train was on the point of starting, two elderly gentlemen came on the platform, in that eager haste and confusion of mind characteristic of late passengers.

"This way, Captain," cried one, hailing the other, and pointing energetically with his brown silk umbrella to the Sealford carriages.

"No, no. It's at the next platform," returned the Captain frantically.

"I say it is here," shouted the first speaker sternly. "Come, sir, obey orders!"

They both made for an open carriage-door. It chanced to be a third class. A strong hand was held out to assist them in.

"Thank you," said the eldest elderly gentleman—he with the brown silk umbrella—turning to Red Shirt as he sat down and panted slightly.

"I feared that we'd be late, sir," remarked the other elderly gentleman on recovering breath.

"We are not late, Captain, but we should have been late for certain, if your obstinacy had held another half minute."

"Well, Mr Crossley, I admit that I made a mistake about the place, but you must allow that I made no mistake about the hour. I was sure that my chronometer was right. If there's one thing on earth that I can trust to as reg'lar as the sun, it is this chronometer (pulling it out as he spoke), and it never fails. As I always said to my missus, 'Maggie,' I used to say, 'when you find this chronometer fail—' 'Oh! bother you an' your chronometer,' she would reply, takin' the wind out o' my sails—for my missus has a free-an'-easy way o' doin' that—"

"You've just come off a voyage, young sir, if I mistake not," said Crossley, turning to Red Shirt, for he had quite as free-and-easy a way of taking the wind out of Captain Stride's sails as the "missus."

"Yes; I have just returned," answered Red Shirt, in a low soft voice, which scarcely seemed appropriate to his colossal frame. His red garment, by the way, was at the time all concealed by the pilot-coat, excepting the collar.

"Going home for a spell, I suppose?" said Crossley.

"Yes."

"May I ask where you last hailed from?" said Captain Stride, with some curiosity, for there was something in the appearance of this nautical stranger which interested him.

"From the southern seas. I have been away a long while in a South Sea whaler."

"Ah, indeed?—a rough service that."

"Rather rough; but I didn't enter it intentionally. I was picked up at sea, with some of my mates, in an open boat, by the whaler. She was on the outward voyage, and couldn't land us anywhere, so we were obliged to make up our minds to join as hands."

"Strange!" murmured Captain Stride. "Then you were wrecked somewhere— or your ship foundered, mayhap—eh?"

"Yes, we were wrecked—on a coral reef."

"Well now, young man, that is a strange coincidence. I was wrecked myself on a coral reef in the very same seas, nigh three years ago. Isn't that odd?"

"Dear me, this is very interesting," put in Mr Crossley; "and, as Captain Stride says, a somewhat strange coincidence."

"Is it so very strange, after all," returned Red Shirt, "seeing that the Pacific is full of sunken coral reefs, and vessels are wrecked there more or less every year?"

"Well, there's some truth in that," observed the Captain. "Did you say it was a sunk reef your ship struck on?"

"Yes; quite sunk. No part visible. It was calm weather at the time, and a clear night."

"Another coincidence!" exclaimed Stride, becoming still more interested. "Calm and clear, too, when I was wrecked!"

"Curious," remarked Red Shirt in a cool indifferent tone, that began to exasperate the Captain.

"Yet, after all, there are a good many calm and clear nights in the Pacific, as well as coral reefs."

"Why, young man," cried Stride in a tone that made old Crossley smile, "you seem to think nothing at all of coincidences. It's very seldom— almost never—that one hears of so many coincidences happening on this side o' the line all at once—don't you see."

"I see," returned Red Shirt; "and the same, exactly, may be said of the other side o' the line. I very seldom—almost never—heard of so many out there; which itself may be called a coincidence, d'ee see? a sort of negative similarity."

"Young man, I would suspect you were jesting with me," returned the Captain, "but for the fact that you told me of your experiences first, before you could know that mine would coincide with them so exactly."

"Your conclusions are very just, sir," rejoined Red Shirt, with a grave and respectful air; "but of course coincidences never go on in an unbroken chain. They must cease sooner or later. We left our wreck in three boats. No doubt you—"

"There again!" cried the Captain in blazing astonishment, as he removed his hat and wiped his heated brow, while Mr Crossley's eyes opened to their widest extent. "We left our wreck in three boats! My ship's name was—"

"The Walrus," said Red Shirt quietly, "and her Captain's name was Stride!"

Old Crossley had reached the stage that is known as petrified with astonishment. The Captain, being unable to open his eyes wider, dropped his lower jaw instead.

"Surely," continued Red Shirt, removing his wide-awake, and looking steadily at his companions, "I must have changed very much indeed when two of my—"

"Brooke!" exclaimed Crossley, grasping one of the sailor's hands.

"Charlie!" gasped the Captain, seizing the other hand.

What they all said after reaching this point it is neither easy nor necessary to record. Perhaps it may be as well to leave it to the reader's vivid imagination. Suffice it to say, that our hero irritated the Captain no longer by his callous indifference to coincidences. In the midst of the confusion of hurried question and short reply, he pulled them up with the sudden query anxiously put—

"But now, what of my mother?"

"Well—excellently well in health, my boy," said Crossley, "but woefully low in spirits about yourself—Charlie. Yet nothing will induce her to entertain the idea that you have been drowned. Of course we have been rather glad of this—though most of our friends, Charlie, have given you up for lost long ago. May Leather, too, has been much the same way of thinking, so she has naturally been a great comfort to your mother."

"God bless her for that. She's a good little girl," said Charlie.

"Little girl," repeated both elderly gentlemen in a breath, and bursting into a laugh. "You forget, lad," said the Captain, "that three years or so makes a considerable change in girls of her age. She's a tall, handsome young woman now; ay, and a good-looking one too. Almost as good-lookin' as what my missus was about her age—an' not unlike my little Mag in the face—the one you rescued, you remember—who is also a strappin' lass now."

"I'm very glad to hear they are well, Captain," said Charlie; "and, Shank, what of—"

He stopped, for the grave looks of his friends told him that something was wrong.

"Gone to the dogs," said the Captain.

"Nay, not quite gone—but going—fast."

"And the father?"

"Much as he was, Charlie, only somewhat more deeply sunk. The fact is," continued Crossley, "it is this very matter that takes us down to Sealford to-day. We have just had fresh news of Shank—who is in America—and I want to consult with Mrs Leather about him. You see I have agents out there who may be able to help us to save him."

"From drink, I suppose," interposed our hero.

"From himself, Charlie, and that includes drink and a great deal more. I dare say you are aware—at least, if you are not, I now tell you—that I have long taken great interest in Mrs Leather and her family, and would go a long way, and give a great deal, to save Shank. You know— no, of course you don't, I forgot—that he threw up his situation in my office—Withers and Company. (Ay, you may smile, my lad, but we humbugged you and got the better of you that time. Didn't we, Captain?) Well, Shank was induced by that fellow Ralph Ritson to go away to some gold-mine or other worked by his father in California, but when they reached America they got news of the failure of the Company and the death of old Ritson. Of course the poor fellows were at once thrown on their own resources, but, instead of facing life like men, they took to gambling. The usual results followed. They lost all they had and went off to Texas or some such wild place, and for a long time were no more heard of. At last, just the other day, a letter came from Ritson to Mrs Leather, telling her that her son is very ill—perhaps dying—in some out o' the way place. Ritson was nursing him, but, being ill himself, unable to work, and without means, it would help them greatly if some money could be sent—even though only a small sum."

Charlie Brooke listened to this narrative with compressed brows, and remained silent a few seconds. "My poor chum!" he exclaimed at length. Then a flash of fire seemed to gleam in his blue eyes as he added, "If I had that fellow Ritson by the—"

He stopped abruptly, and the fire in the eyes died out, for it was no part of our hero's character to boast—much less to speak harshly of men behind their backs.

"Has money been sent?" he asked.

"Not yet. It is about that business that I'm going to call on poor Mrs Leather now. We must be careful, you see. I have no reason, it is true, to believe that Ritson is deceiving us, but when a youth of no principle writes to make a sudden demand for money, it behoves people to think twice before they send it."

"Ay, to think three times—perhaps even four or five," broke in the Captain, with stern emphasis. "I know Ralph Ritson well, the scoundrel, an' if I had aught to do wi' it I'd not send him a penny. As I said to my—"

"Does your mother know of your arrival?" asked Mr Crossley abruptly.

"No; I meant to take her by surprise."

"Humph! Just like you young fellows. In some things you have no more brains than geese. Being made of cast-iron and shoe-leather you assume that everybody else is, or ought to be, made of the same raw material. Don't you know that surprises of this sort are apt to kill delicate people?"

Charlie smiled by way of reply.

"No, sir," continued the old gentleman firmly, "I won't let you take her by surprise. While I go round to the Leathers my good friend Captain Stride will go in advance of you to Mrs Brooke's and break the news to her. He is accustomed to deal with ladies."

"Right you are, sir," said the gratified Captain, removing his hat and wiping his brow. "As I said, no later than yesterday to—"

A terrific shriek from the steam-whistle, and a plunge into the darkness of a tunnel stopped—and thus lost to the world for ever—what the Captain said upon that occasion.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

TELLS OF HAPPY MEETINGS AND SERIOUS CONSULTATIONS.

Whether Captain Stride executed his commission well or not we cannot tell, and whether the meeting of Mrs Brooke with her long-lost son came to near killing or not we will not tell. Enough to know that they met, and that the Captain—with that delicacy of feeling so noticeable in seafaring men—went outside the cottage door and smoked his pipe while the meeting was in progress. After having given sufficient time, as he said, "for the first o' the squall to blow over," he summarily snubbed his pipe, put it into his vest pocket, and re-entered.

"Now, missus, you'll excuse me, ma'am, for cuttin' in atween you, but this business o' the Leathers is pressin', an' if we are to hold a confabulation wi' the family about it, why—"

"Ah, to be sure, Captain Stride is right," said Mrs Brooke, turning to her stalwart son, who was seated on the sofa beside her. "This is a very, very sad business about poor Shank. You had better go to them, Charlie. I will follow you in a short time."

"Mr Crossley is with them at this moment. I forgot to say so, mother."

"Is he? I'm very glad of that," returned the widow. "He has been a true friend to us all. Go, Charlie. But stay. I see May coming. The dear child always comes to me when there is anything good or sorrowful to tell. But she comes from the wrong direction. Perhaps she does not yet know of Mr Crossley's arrival."

"May! Can it be?" exclaimed Charlie in an undertone of surprise as he observed, through the window, the girl who approached.

And well might he be surprised, for this, although the same May, was very different from the girl he left behind him. The angles of girlhood had given place to the rounded lines of young womanhood. The rich curly brown hair, which used to whirl wildly in the sea-breezes, was gathered up in a luxuriant mass behind her graceful head, and from the forehead it was drawn back in two wavy bands, in defiance of fashion, which at that time was beginning to introduce the detestable modern fringe. Perhaps we are not quite un-biassed in our judgment of the said fringe, far it is intimately associated in our mind with the savages of North America, whose dirty red faces, in years past, were wont to glower at us from beneath just such a fringe, long before it was adopted by the fair dames of England!

In other respects, however, May was little changed, except that the slightest curl of sadness about her eyebrows made her face more attractive than ever, as she nodded pleasantly to the Captain, who had hastened to the door to meet her.

"So glad to see you, Captain Stride," she said, shaking hands with unfeminine heartiness. "Have you been to see mother? I have just been having a walk before—"

She stopped as if transfixed, for at that moment she caught sight of Charlie and his mother through the open door.

Poor May flushed to the roots of her hair; then she turned deadly pale, and would have fallen had not the gallant Captain caught her in his arms. But by a powerful effort of will she recovered herself in time to avoid a scene.

"The sight of you reminded me so strongly of our dear Shank!" she stammered, when Charlie, hastening forward, grasped both her hands and shook them warmly. "Besides—some of us thought you were dead."

"No wonder you thought of Shank," returned Charlie, "for he and I used to be so constantly together. But don't be cast down, May. We'll get Shank out of his troubles yet."

"Yes, and you know he has Ritson with him," said Mrs Brooke; "and he, although not quite as steady as we could wish, will be sure to care for such an old friend in his sickness. But you'd better go, Charlie, and see Mrs Leather. They will be sure to want you and Captain Stride. May will remain here with me. Sit down beside me, dear, I want to have a chat with you."

"Perhaps, ma'am, if I make so bold," interposed the Captain, "Mr Crossley may want to have Miss May also at the council of war."

"Mr Crossley! is he with my mother?" asked the girl eagerly.

"Yes, Miss May, he is."

"Then I must be there. Excuse me, dear Mrs Brooke."

And without more ado May ran out of the house. She was followed soon after by Charlie and the Captain, and Mrs Brooke was left alone, expressing her thankfulness and joy of heart in a few silent tears over her knitting.

There was a wonderful similarity in many respects between Mrs Brooke and her friend Mrs Leather. They both knitted—continuously and persistently. This was a convenient if not a powerful bond, for it enabled them to sit for hours together—busy, yet free to talk. They were both invalids—a sympathetic bond of considerable strength. They held the same religious views—an indispensable bond where two people have to be much together, and are in earnest. They were both poor—a natural bond which draws people of a certain kind very close together, physically as well as spiritually—and both, up to this time at least, had long-absent and semi-lost sons. Even in the matter of daughters they might be said, in a sense, to be almost equal, for May, loving each, was a daughter to both. Lastly, in this matter of similarity, the two ladies were good—good as gold, according to Captain Stride, and he ought to have been an authority, for he frequently visited them and knew all their affairs. Fortunately for both ladies, Mrs Brooke was by far the stronger-minded—hence they never quarrelled!

In Mrs Leather's parlour a solemn conclave was seated round the parlour table. They were very earnest, for the case under consideration was urgent, as well as very pitiful. Poor Mrs Leather's face was wet with tears, and the pretty brown eyes of May were not dry. They had had a long talk over the letter from Ritson, which was brief and to the point but meagre as to details.

"I rather like the letter, considering who wrote it," observed Mr Crossley, laying it down after a fourth perusal. "You see he makes no whining or discontented reference to the hardness of their luck, which young scapegraces are so fond of doing; nor does he make effusive professions of regret or repentance, which hypocrites are so prone to do. I think it bears the stamp of being genuine on the face of it. At least it appears to be straightforward."

"I'm so glad you think so, Mr Crossley," said Mrs Leather; "for Mr Ritson is such a pleasant young man—and so good-looking, too!"

The old gentleman and the Captain both burst into a laugh at this.

"I'm afraid," said the former, "that good looks are no guarantee for good behaviour. However, I have made up my mind to send him a small sum of money—not to Shank, Mrs Leather, so you need not begin to thank me. I shall send it to Ritson."

"Well, thank you all the same," interposed the lady, taking up her knitting and resuming operations below the table, gazing placidly all the while at her friends like some consummate conjuror, "for Ralph will be sure to look after Shank."

"The only thing that puzzles me is, how are we to get it sent to such an out-o'-the-way place—Traitor's Trap! It's a bad name, and the stupid fellow makes no mention of any known town near to it, though he gives the post-office. If I only knew its exact whereabouts I might get some one to take the money to him, for I have agents in many parts of America."

After prolonged discussion of the subject, Mr Crossley returned to town to make inquiries, and the Captain went to take his favourite walk by the sea-shore, where he was wont, when paying a visit to Sealford, to drive the Leathers' little dog half-mad with delight by throwing stones into the sea for Scraggy to go in for—which he always did, though he never fetched them out.

In the course of that day Charlie Brooke left his mother to take a stroll, and naturally turned in the direction of the sea. When half-way through the lane with the high banks on either side he encountered May.

"What a pleasant pretty girl she has become!" was his thought as she drew near.

"Nobler and handsomer than ever!" was hers as he approached.

The thoughts of both sent a flush to the face of each, but the colour scarcely showed through the bronzed skin of the man.

"Why, what a woman you have grown, May!" said Charlie, grasping her hand, and attempting to resume the old familiar terms—with, however, imperfect success.

"Isn't that natural?" asked May, with a glance and a little laugh.

That glance and that little laugh, insignificant in themselves, tore a veil from the eyes of Charlie Brooke. He had always been fond of May Leather, after a fashion. Now it suddenly rushed upon him that he was fond of her after another fashion! He was a quick thinker and just reasoner. A poor man without a profession and no prospects has no right to try to gain the affections of a girl. He became grave instantly.

"May," he said, "will you turn back to the shore with me for a little? I want to have a talk about Shank. I want you to tell me all you know about him. Don't conceal anything. I feel as if I had a right to claim your confidence, for, as you know well, he and I have been like brothers since we were little boys."

May had turned at once, and the tears filled her eyes as she told the sad story. It was long, and the poor girl was graphic in detail. We can give but the outline here.

Shank had gone off with Ritson not long after the sailing of the Walrus. On reaching America, and hearing of the failure of the company that worked the gold mine, and of old Ritson's death, they knew not which way to turn. It was a tremendous blow, and seemed to have rendered them reckless, for they soon took to gambling. At first they remained in New York, and letters came home pretty regularly, in which Shank always expressed hopes of getting more respectable work. He did not conceal their mode of gaining a livelihood, but defended it on the ground that "a man must live!"

For a time the letters were cheerful. The young men were "lucky." Then came a change of luck, and a consequent change in the letters, which came less frequently. At last there arrived one from Shank, both the style and penmanship of which told that he had not forsaken the great curse of his life—strong drink. It told of disaster, and of going off to the "Rockies" with a party of "discoverers," though what they were to discover was not mentioned.

"From that date till now," said May in conclusion, "we have heard nothing about them till this letter came from Mr Ritson, telling of dear Shank being so ill, and asking for money."

"I wish any one were with Shank rather than that man," said Charlie sternly; "I have no confidence in him whatever, and I knew him well as a boy."

"Nevertheless, I think we may trust him. Indeed I feel sure he won't desert his wounded comrade," returned May, with a blush.

The youth did not observe the blush. His thoughts were otherwise engaged, and his eyes were at the moment fixed on a far-off part of the shore, where Captain Stride could be seen urging on the joyful Scraggy to his fruitless labours.

"I wish I could feel as confident of him as you do, May. However, misfortune as well as experience may have made him a wiser, perhaps a better, man. But what troubles me most is the uncertainty of the money that Mr Crossley is going to send ever reaching its destination."

"Oh! if we only knew some one in New York who would take it to them," said May, looking piteously at the horizon, as if she were apostrophising some one on the other side of the Atlantic.

"Why, you talk as if New York and Traitor's Trap were within a few miles of each other," said Charlie, smiling gently. "They are hundreds of miles apart."

"Well, I suppose they are. But I feel so anxious about Shank when I think of the dear boy lying ill, perhaps dying, in a lonely place far far away from us all, and no one but Mr Ritson to care for him! If I were only a man I would go to him myself."

She broke down at this point, and put her handkerchief to her face.

"Don't cry, May," began the youth in sore perplexity, for he knew not how to comfort the poor girl in the circumstances, but fortunately Captain Stride caught sight of them at the moment, and gave them a stentorian hail.

"Hi! halloo! back your to-o-o-ps'ls. I'll overhaul ye in a jiffy."

How long a nautical jiffy may be we know not, but, in a remarkably brief space of time, considering the shortness and thickness of his sea-legs, the Captain was alongside, blowing, as he said, "like a grampus."

That night Charlie Brooke sat with his mother in her parlour. They were alone—their friends having considerately left them to themselves on this their first night.

They had been talking earnestly about past and present, for the son had much to learn about old friends and comrades, and the mother had much to tell.

"And now, mother," said Charlie, at the end of a brief pause, "what about the future?"

"Surely, my boy, it is time enough to talk about that to-morrow, or next day. You are not obliged to think of the future before you have spent even one night in your old room."

"Not absolutely obliged, mother. Nevertheless, I should like to speak about it. Poor Shank is heavy on my mind, and when I heard all about him to-day from May, I—. She's wonderfully improved, that girl, mother. Grown quite pretty?"

"Indeed she is—and as good as she's pretty," returned Mrs Brooke, with a furtive glance at her son.

"She broke down when talking about Shank to-day, and I declare she looked quite beautiful! Evidently Shank's condition weighs heavily on her mind."

"Can you wonder, Charlie?"

"Of course not. It's natural, and I quite sympathised with her when she exclaimed, 'If I were only a man I would go to him myself.'"

"That's natural too, my son. I have no doubt she would, poor dear girl, if she were only a man."

"Do you know, mother, I've not been able to get that speech out of my head all this afternoon. 'If I were a man—if I were a man,' keeps ringing in my ears like the chorus of an old song, and then—"

"Well, Charlie, what then?" asked Mrs Brooke, with a puzzled glance.

"Why, then, somehow the chorus has changed in my brain and it runs—'I am a man! I am a man!'"

"Well?" asked the mother, with an anxious look.

"Well—that being so, I have made up my mind that I will go out to Traitor's Trap and carry the money to Shank, and look after him myself. That is, if you will let me."

"O Charlie! how can you talk of it?" said Mrs Brooke, with a distressed look. "I have scarcely had time to realise the fact that you have come home, and to thank God for it, when you begin to talk of leaving me again—perhaps for years, as before."

"Nay, mother mine, you jump to conclusions too hastily. What I propose is not to go off again on a long voyage, but to take a run of a few days in a first-class steamer across what the Americans call the big fish-pond; then go across country comfortably by rail; after that hire a horse and have a gallop somewhere or other; find out Shank and bring him home. The whole thing might be done in a few weeks; and no chance, almost, of being wrecked."

"I don't know, Charlie," returned Mrs Brooke, in a sad tone, as she laid her hand on her son's arm and stroked it. "As you put it, the thing sounds all very easy, and no doubt it would be a grand, a noble thing to rescue Shank—but—but, why talk of it to-night, my dear boy? It is late. Go to bed, Charlie, and we will talk it over in the morning."

"How pleasantly familiar that 'Go to bed, Charlie,' sounds," said the son, laughing, as he rose up.

"You did not always think it pleasant," returned the good lady, with a sad smile.

"That's true, but I think it uncommonly pleasant now. Good-night, mother."

"Good-night, my son, and God bless you."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

CHANGES THE SCENE CONSIDERABLY!

We must transport our reader now to a locality somewhere in the region lying between New Mexico and Colorado. Here, in a mean-looking out-of-the-way tavern, a number of rough-looking men were congregated, drinking, gambling, and spinning yarns. Some of them belonged to the class known as cow-boys—men of rugged exterior, iron constitutions, powerful frames, and apparently reckless dispositions, though underneath the surface there was considerable variety of character to be found.

The landlord of the inn—if we may so call it, for it was little better than a big shanty—was known by the name of David. He was a man of cool courage. His customers knew this latter fact well, and were also aware that, although he carried no weapon on his person, he had several revolvers in handy places under his counter, with the use of which he was extremely familiar and expert.

In the midst of a group of rather noisy characters who smoked and drank in one corner of this inn or shanty, there was seated on the end of a packing-case, a man in the prime of life, who, even in such rough company, was conspicuously rugged. His leathern costume betokened him a hunter, or trapper, and the sheepskin leggings, with the wool outside, showed that he was at least at that time a horseman. Unlike most of his comrades, he wore Indian moccasins, with spurs strapped to them. Also a cap of the broad-brimmed order. The point about him that was most striking at first sight was his immense breadth of shoulder and depth of chest, though in height he did not equal many of the men around him. As one became acquainted with the man, however, his massive proportions had not so powerful an effect on the mind of an observer as the quiet simplicity of his expression and manner. Good-nature seemed to lurk in the lines about his eyes and the corners of his mouth, which latter had the peculiarity of turning down instead of up when he smiled; yet withal there was a stern gravity about him that forbade familiarity.

The name of the man was Hunky Ben, and the strangest thing about him— that which puzzled these wild men most—was that he neither drank nor smoked nor gambled! He made no pretence of abstaining on principle. One of the younger men, who was blowing a stiff cloud, ventured to ask him whether he really thought these things wrong.

"Well, now," he replied quietly, with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm no parson, boys, that I should set up to diskiver what's right an' what's wrong. I've got my own notions on them points, you bet, but I'm not goin' to preach 'em. As to smokin', I won't make a smoked herrin' o' my tongue to please anybody. Besides, I don't want to smoke, an' why should I do a thing I don't want to just because other people does it? Why should I make a new want when I've got no end o' wants a'ready that's hard enough to purvide for? Drinkin's all very well if a man wants Dutch courage, but I don't want it—no, nor French courage, nor German, nor Chinee, havin' got enough o' the article home-growed to sarve my purpus. When that's used up I may take to drinkin'—who knows? Same wi' gamblin'. I've no desire to bust up any man, an' I don't want to be busted up myself, you bet. No doubt drinkin', smokin', an' gamblin' makes men jolly—them at least that's tough an' that wins!—but I'm jolly without 'em, boys,—jolly as a cottontail rabbit just come of age."

"An' ye look it, old man," returned the young fellow, puffing cloudlets with the utmost vigour; "but come, Ben, won't ye spin us a yarn about your frontier life?"

"Yes, do, Hunky," cried another in an entreating voice, for it was well known all over that region that the bold hunter was a good story-teller, and as he had served a good deal on the frontier as guide to the United States troops, it was understood that he had much to tell of a thrilling and adventurous kind; but although the men about him ceased to talk and looked at him with expectancy, he shook his head, and would not consent to be drawn out.

"No, boys, it can't be done to-day," he said; "I've no time, for I'm bound for Quester Creek in hot haste, an' am only waitin' here for my pony to freshen up a bit. The Redskins are goin' to give us trouble there by all accounts."

"The red devils!" exclaimed one of the men, with a savage oath; "they're always givin' us trouble."

"That," returned Hunky Ben, in a soft voice, as he glanced mildly at the speaker,—"that is a sentiment I heer'd expressed almost exactly in the same words, though in Capatchee lingo, some time ago by a Redskin chief—only he said it was pale-faced devils who troubled him. I wonder which is worst. They can't both be worst, you know!"

This remark was greeted with a laugh, and a noisy discussion thereupon began as to the comparative demerits of the two races, which was ere long checked by the sound of a galloping horse outside. Next moment the door opened, and a very tall man of commanding presence and bearing entered the room, took off his hat, and looked round with a slight bow to the company.

There was nothing commanding, however, in the quiet voice with which he asked the landlord if he and his horse could be put up there for the night.

The company knew at once, from the cut of the stranger's tweed suit, as well as his tongue, that he was an Englishman, not much used to the ways of the country—though, from the revolver and knife in his belt, and the repeating rifle in his hand, he seemed to be ready to meet the country on its own terms by doing in Rome as Rome does.

On being told that he could have a space on the floor to lie on, which he might convert into a bed if he had a blanket with him, he seemed to make up his mind to remain, asked for food, and while it was preparing went out to attend to his horse. Then, returning, he went to a retired corner of the room, and flung himself down at full length on a vacant bench, as if he were pretty well exhausted with fatigue.

The simple fare of the hostelry was soon ready; and when the stranger was engaged in eating it, he asked a cow-boy beside him how far it was to Traitor's Trap.

At the question there was a perceptible lull in the conversation, and the cow-boy, who was a very coarse forbidding specimen of his class, said that he guessed Traitor's Trap was distant about twenty mile or so.

"Are you goin' thar, stranger?" he asked, eyeing his questioner curiously.

"Yes, I'm going there," answered the Englishman; "but from what I've heard of the road, at the place where I stayed last night, I don't like to go on without a guide and daylight—though I would much prefer to push on to-night if it were possible."

"Wall, stranger, whether possible or not," returned the cow-boy, "it's an ugly place to go past, for there's a gang o' cut-throats there that's kep' the country fizzin' like ginger-beer for some time past. A man that's got to go past Traitor's Trap should go by like a greased thunderbolt, an' he should never go alone."