Pondering on these things I crossed my garden and proceeded towards the Home, which stood on a conspicuous eminence near the docks, at the east end of the town.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE SAILORS' HOME AND THE MAD SKIPPER.

The Sailors' Home in Wreckumoft was a neat, substantial, unpretending edifice, which had been built by a number of charitable people, in order to provide a comfortable residence, with board at moderate terms, for the numerous seamen who frequented our port. It also served as a place of temporary refuge to the unfortunate crews of the numerous wrecks which occurred annually on our shores.

Here I found Haco Barepoles, the skipper of a coal sloop, seated on the side of his bed in one of the little berths of the Home, busily engaged in stuffing tobacco into the bowl of a great German pipe with the point of his little finger. Susan, who had outstripped me, was seated beside him with her head on his shoulder.

"Oh, father!" I heard Susan say, as I walked along the passage between the rows of sleeping berths that lined each side of the principal dormitory of our Home; "I shall lose you some day, I fear. How was it that you came so near bein' wrecked?"

Before the skipper could reply I stood in the doorway of his berth.

"Good-day, Haco," said I; "glad to see you safe back once more."

"Thankee, Cap'n Bingley—same to you, sir," said Haco, rising hastily from the bed and seizing my hand, which he shook warmly, and, I must add, painfully; for the skipper was a hearty, impulsive fellow, apt to forget his strength of body in the strength of his feelings, and given to grasp his male friends with a gripe that would, I verily believe, have drawn a roar from Hercules.

"I've come back to the old bunk, you see," he continued, while I sat down on a chest which served for a chair. "I likes the Home better an' better every time I comes to it, and I've brought all my crew with me; for you see, sir, the 'Coffin's' a'most fallin' to pieces, and will have to go into dock for a riglar overhaul."

"The Coffin?" said Susan, interrogatively.

"Yes, lass; it's only a nickname the old tub got in the north, where they call the colliers coal-coffins, 'cause it's ten to one you'll go to the bottom in 'em every time ye go to sea."

"Are they all so bad as to deserve the name?" inquired Susan.

"No, not 'xactly all of 'em; but there's a good lot as are not half so fit for sea as a washin' tub. You see, they ain't worth repairin', and owners sometimes just take their chance o' makin' a safe run by keepin' the pumps goin' the whole time."

I informed Haco that I had called for the purpose of telling him that I had applied to Mr Stuart, who owned his little coal sloop, to give a few wrecked Russians a passage to London, in order that they might be handed over to the care of their consul; but that I would have to find a passage for them in some other vessel, as the "Coffin" was so unseaworthy.

"Don't be in too great a hurry, sir," said Haco, with a peculiar smile and twinkle in his eye; "I'm inclined to think that Mr Stuart will send her back to London to be repaired there—"

"What!" exclaimed Susan, with a flush of indignation, "an' risk your life, father?"

"As to that, lass, my life has got to be risked anyhow, and it ain't much worth, to say the truth; so you needn't trouble yourself on that pint."

"It's worth a great deal to me," said Susan, drawing herself closer to the side of her rugged parent.

I could not help smiling as I looked at this curious specimen of a British seaman shaking his head gravely and speaking so disparagingly of himself, when I knew, and every one in the town knew, that he was one of the kindest and most useful of men. He was a very giant in size, with a breadth of shoulder that would have made him quite ridiculous had it not been counterbalanced by an altitude of six feet four. He had a huge head of red hair, and a huge heart full of tenderness. His only fault was utter recklessness in regard to his own life and limbs—a fault which not unfrequently caused him to place the lives and limbs of others in jeopardy, though he never could be brought to perceive that fact.

"Whatever your life may be worth, my friend," said I, "it is to be hoped that Mr Stuart will not risk it by sending you to sea in the 'Coffin' till it is thoroughly overhauled."

"Come in!" shouted the skipper, in answer to a rap at the door.

The invitation to enter was not accepted, but the rap was repeated.

"Go, Susan," said I, "see who it is."

Susan obeyed—with unusual alacrity, as I fancied, but did not return with equal quickness. We heard her whispering with some one; then there was a sound as if of a suppressed scream, followed by something that was marvellously like a slap applied to a cheek with an open hand. Next moment Susan re-appeared with a letter and a very flushed face.

"A letter, sir," said Susan, dropping her eyes.

"Who brought it?" I inquired.

"Mr Horsey, sir." Susan stammered the name, and looked confused. "He waits an answer, sir."

Haco Barepoles had been eyeing his daughter gravely the while. He now sprang up with the wild energy that was his peculiar characteristic, and flinging the door wide-open with a crash that shook the whole framework of the berth, stood face to face with Dan Horsey.

Intense gravity marked the features of the groom, who stood, hat in hand, tapping the side of his top-boot with a silver-mounted riding-whip. He met Haco's steady frown with a calm and equally steady gaze of his clear grey eyes; and then, relaxing into a smile, nodded familiarly, and inquired if the weather was fine up there, bekaise, judgin' from his, (Haco's), face he would be inclined to think it must be raither cowld!

Haco smiled grimly: "Ye was to wait an answer, was ye?"

"If I may venture to make so bowld as to say so in the presence of your highness, I was."

"Then wait," said Haco, smiling a little less grimly.

"Thank ye, sir, for yer kind permission," said Dan in a tone and with an air of assumed meekness.

The skipper returned to the bed, which creaked as if taxed to its utmost, when he sat down on it, and drew Susan close to his side.

"This is from Mr Stuart, Haco," said I, running my eye hastily over the note; "he consents to my sending the men in your vessel, but after what you have told me—"

"Don't mind wot I told ye, Captain Bingley. I'll see Mr Stuart to-day, an'll call on you in the afternoon. The 'Coffin' ain't quite so bad as she looks. Have 'ee any answer to send back?"

"No," said I, turning to Dan, who still stood at the door tapping his right boot with a jaunty air; "tell your master, with my compliments, that I will see him about this matter in the evening."

"And hark'ee, lad," cried Haco, again springing up and confronting the groom, "d'ye see this young 'ooman?" (pointing to Susan.)

"Sure I do," replied Dan, with a smile and a nod to Susan, "an' a purty cratur she is, for the eye of man to rest upon."

"And," shouted Haco, shaking his enormous fist within an inch of the other's nose, "d'ye see them there knuckles?"

Dan regarded them steadfastly for a moment or two without winking or flinching.

"They're a purty bunch o' fives," he said at length, drawing back his head, and placing it a little on one side in order to view the "bunch," with the air of a connoisseur; "very purty, but raither too fat to do much damage in the ring. I should say, now, that it would get 'puffy' at the fifth round, supposin' that you had wind and pluck left, at your time of life, to survive the fourth."

"Well now, lad," retorted the skipper, "all I've to say is, that you've seed it, an' if you don't mind yer eye ye'll feel it. 'A nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse.'"

Haco plunged the "bunch of fives" into his coat-pocket, and sat down again beside his agitated daughter.

"I can speak purfessionally," said Dan, "in regard to yer last obsarvation consarnin' blind hosses, and I belave that ye're c'rect. It don't much matter whether ye nod or wink to a blind hoss; though I can't spake from personal exparience 'caise I niver tried it on, not havin' nothin' to do with blind hosses. Ye wouldn't have a weed, would ye, skipper?" he added, pulling out a neat leather case from which he drew a cigar!

"Go away, Dan, directly," said I with some asperity, for I was nettled at the impudence of the man in my presence, and not a little alarmed lest the angry Haco should kick him down-stairs.

Dan at once obeyed, bowing respectfully to me, and, as I observed, winking to Susan as he turned away. He descended the stair in silence, but we heard him open the door of the public room and address the Russians, who were assembled there, warming themselves at the fire, and enjoying their pipes.

"Hooray! my hearties," said Dan; "got yer broken legs rewived I hope, and yer spurrits bandaged up? Hey,—och! I forgot ye can swaller nothin' but Toorko—cum, squaki lorum ho po, doddie jairum frango whiskie looro—whack?—eh! Arrah! ye don't need to answer for fear the effort opens up yer wounds afresh. Farewell, lads, or may be it's wishin' ye fair-wind would be more nat'ral."

So saying he slammed the door, and we heard him switching his boots as he passed along the street under the windows, whistling the air of "The girls we left behind us," followed, before he was quite out of earshot, by "Oh my love is like the red red rose, that's newly sprung in June."

Immediately after Dan's departure I left Haco and Susan together, and they held the following conversation when left alone. I am enabled to report it faithfully, reader, because Susan told it word for word to her mistress, who has a very reprehensible habit of listening to the gossip of her maid. Of course Mrs B told it to me, because she tells everything to me, sometimes a good deal more than I care to hear. This I think a very reprehensible habit also. I am bound to listen, because when my strong-minded wife begins to talk I might as well try to stop a runaway locomotive as attempt to silence her. And so it comes about that I am now making the thing public!

"Susan," said Haco, earnestly looking at his daughter's downcast face, on which the tell tale blood was mantling. "Are you fond o' that—that feller?"

"Ye-yes, father," replied Susan, with some hesitation.

"Humph! an' is he fond o' you?"

"Oh, isn't he, just," said Susan, with a little confused laugh.

"Susan," continued Haco, with increasing earnestness, "Are ye sure he's worthy of you?"

"Yes, father, I'm quite sure of that."

"Well then, Susan, you're a sensible girl, and you ought to know best; but I don't feel easy about ye, 'cause you're just as like as two peas to your dear mother, what went to the bottom in the last coal-coffin I commanded, an' you would ha' gone too, darlin', if I hadn't bin spared to swim ashore with ye on my back. It was all I could do. Ah, Susan! it was a black night for you an' me that. Well, as I was a sayin', you're as like yer mother as two peas, and she was as trustful as you are, an' little knew wot a bad lot she got when she set her heart on me."

"Father, that's not true."

"Ain't it, lass? Well, let it pass, but then this feller, this Dan Hursey—"

"Horsey, father," said Susan.

"Well, well, it ain't much better; this Horsey is an Irishman, an' I don't like Irishmen."

"Father, you'd get to like 'em if you only knew 'em better," said Susan earnestly. "What bell's that?" she added, as a loud ringing echoed through the house.

"The dinner bell, lass. Come an' see wot a comf'rable feed they git. I can tell 'ee that them Sailors' Homes is the greatest blessin' that was ever got up for us sea-dogs. We ain't 'xactly such soft good natur'd ignorant big babies as some o' your well-meanin' pheelanthropists would make us out; but we are uncommon hard put to it when we git ashore, for every port is alive with crimps an' land-sharks to swaller us up when we come off a long voyage; an' the wust of it is, that we're in a wild reckless humour for the most part when we git ashore with our pockets full o' yellow boys, an' are too often quite willin' to be swallered up, so that lots of us are constantly a-goin' to sticks an' stivers. An' then before the Homes was set a-goin', the fellers as wanted to get quiet lodgin's didn't find it easy to know where to look for 'em, an' was often took in; an' when they wanted to send cash to their wives or mothers, they didn't well know how to manage it; but now, wherever there's a Home you can git cheap board, good victuals, help in the way o' managin' yer cash, an' no end of advice gratis. It's only a pity there ain't one or two of 'em in every port in the kingdom.

"See here," continued Haco, warming with his subject as he led Susan past the dormitories where the Russians, who had been maimed during the recent wrecks, were being supplied with dinner in their berths, "see here,—another o' the best o' the institootions o' this land looks arter them poor fellers, an' pays their shot for 'em as long as they're here, an' sends them to their homes free of expense—that's the Shipwrecked Fishermen's and Mariners' Society. You've heerd o' that Society, Susan, haven't 'ee?"

"No father, never."

"What, never heerd o' the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society with its hundreds o' honorary agents all round the coast, who have done more to dry the tears o' orphans an' comfort widders' hearts than tongue can tell?—Never heerd o' it, an' you a sailor's daughter?"

"I daresay I'm very stupid for being so ignorant, father; but I never heard of it. You know I've spent most o' my life inland with old Auntie Bess, an' only come here this year.

"Mayhap," continued Haco, shaking his head gravely, "you've never heer'd, neither, o' the Lifeboat Institootion."

"Never," said Susan meekly. "I've seen the lifeboat we have here, you know, but I never heard of the Institootion."

"Well, well, Susan, I needn't be surprised, for, to say truth, there's many in this country, who think no small beer o' theirselves, that know precious little about either the one or the other, although they're the most valooable Institootions in the country. I'll tell 'ee about 'em, lass, some other time—how they saves hundreds o' lives, an' relieves no end o' distress annooally. It's enough just now to say that the two Institootions is what I calls brother an' sister—the Lifeboat one bein' the brother; the Shipwrecked Mariners' one bein' the sister. The brother, besides savin' thousands o' pounds worth o' goods, saves hundreds o' lives every year. But when the brother has saved the shipwrecked sailor, his work is done. He hands him over to the sister, who clothes him, feeds him, warms him—as you see bein' done to them there Roosians—and then sends him home. Every sailor in the country should be a member o' the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, say I. I've been one myself for many years, an' it only costs me three shillings a year. I'll tell 'ee some other time what good it does me; but just now you an' I shall go an' have some grub."

"Where shall we go to get it, father?"

"To the refreshment room below, lass. It won't do to take ye to the dinin' hall o' the Home for three reasons,—first, 'cause ye're a 'ooman, an' they ain't admitted; second, 'cause it wouldn't be pleasant for ye to dine wi' forty or fifty Jack-tars; and, thirdly, if ye wanted it ever so much yer old father wouldn't let ye—so come along, lass, to dinner."



CHAPTER TEN.

THE DINNER IN THE RESTAURANT—HACO MEETS AN OLD FRIEND AND BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE.

The room to which Haco led his daughter was a small oblong one, divided off into compartments similar to those with which we are familiar in eating-houses and restaurants of the poorer class. It formed part of the Home, but was used by the general public as well as by seamen, who wished to order a meal at any time and pay for it.

Haco Barepoles, being at the time a boarder in the home, was entitled to his dinner in the general mess-room, but being bent on enjoying his meal in company with Susan, he chose to forego his rights on that occasion.

Being the hour at which a number of seamen, labourers, clerks, and others were wont to experience the truth of the great fact that nature abhors a vacuum, the room was pretty full, and a brisk demand was going on for soup, tea, coffee, rolls, and steaks, etcetera, all of which were supplied on the most moderate terms, in order to accommodate the capacities of the poorest purse.

In this temple of luxury you could get a small bowl of good soup for one penny, which, with a halfpenny roll, might form a dinner to any one whose imagination was so strong as to enable him to believe he had had enough. Any one who was the fortunate possessor of threepence, could, by doubling the order, really feel his appetite appeased. Then for those whose poverty was extreme, or appetite unusually small, a little cup of tea could be supplied for one halfpenny—and a good cup of tea too, not particularly strong, it is true, but with a fair average allowance of milk and sugar.

"Waiter," cried Haco Barepoles in a voice that commanded instant attention.

"Yessir."

"Soup for two, steaks an' 'taties for ditto to foller."

"Yessir."

"Please, father, I would like a cup of coffee after the soup instead of a steak. I don't feel very hungry."

"All right, lass. Waiter, knock off one o' the steaks an' clap a cup o' coffee in its place."

"Yessir. Roll with it, Miss?"

"Of course," said Haco.

"Butter, Miss?"

"Sartinly. An' double allowance o' milk an' sugar," replied the skipper. "S'pose you han't got cream?"

"No sir."

"Never mind. Look alive now, lad. Come, Susan, here's a box with only one man in't, we'll—Hallo! shiver my timbers if it ain't—no—it can't be—Stephen Gaff, eh! or his ghost?"

"Just so," said Stephen, laying down his knife and fork, and shaking warmly the hand which Haco stretched across the table to him; "I'm always turnin' up now an' again like a bad shillin'. How goes life with 'ee, Haco? you don't seem to have multiplied the wrinkles since I last saw ye."

"Thank 'ee, I'm pretty comf'rable. This is my darter Susan," said Haco, observing that his friend glanced inquiringly at his fair companion—"The world always uses me much the same. I find it a roughish customer, but it finds me a jolly one, an' not easily put out. When did I see ye last? Let me see,—two years come Christmas. Why, I've been wrecked three times since then, run down twice, an' drownded at least half-a-dozen times; but by good luck they always manages to bring me round—rowsussitate me, as the doctors call it."

"Ay, you've had hard times of it," observed Gaff, finishing his last morsel of meat, and proceeding to scrape up the remains of gravy and potato with his knife; "I've bin wrecked myself sin' we last met, but only once, and that warn't long ago, just the last gale. You coasters are worse off than we are. Commend me to blue water, and plenty o' sea-room."

"I believe you, my boy," responded the skipper. "There's nothin' like a good offing an' a tight ship. We stand but a poor chance as we go creepin' 'long shore in them rotten tubs, that are well named 'Coal-Coffins.' Why, if it comes on thick squally weather or a gale when yer dodgin' off an' on, the 'Coal-Coffins' go down by dozens. Mayhap at the first burst o' the gale you're hove on your beam-ends, an' away go the masts, leavin' ye to drift ashore or sink; or p'raps you're sharp enough to get in sail, and have all snug, when, just as ye're weatherin' a headland, away goes the sheet o' the jib, jib's blowed to ribbons, an' afore ye know where ye are, 'breakers on the lee bow!' is the cry. Another gust, an' the rotten foretops'l's blow'd away, carryin' the fore-topmast by the board, which, of course, takes the jib-boom along with it, if it an't gone before. Then it's 'stand by to let go the anchor.' 'Let go!' 'Ay, ay, sir.' Down it goes, an' the 'Coffin's' brought up sharp; not a moment too soon, mayhap, for ten to one but you see an' hear the breakers, roarin' like mad, thirty yards or so astern. It may be good holdin' ground, but what o' that?—the anchor's an old 'un, or too small; the fluke gives way, and ye're adrift; or the cable's too small, and can't stand the strain, so you let go both anchors, an' ye'd let go a dozen more if ye had 'em for dear life; but it's o' no use. First one an' then the other parts; the stern is crushed in a'most afore ye can think, an' in two minutes more, if not less, it's all up with ye, unless there's a lifeboat at hand."

"Ah! pity there's not more of 'em on the coast," said Gaff.

"True," rejoined Haco, "many a poor feller's saved every year by them blessed boats, as would otherwise have gone to the bottom, an' left widder and childer to weep for him, an' be a burden, more or less, on the country."

The waiter appeared at this point in the conversation with the soup, so Haco devoted himself to dinner, while Gaff ordered a plate of bread and cheese extra in order to keep him company. For some minutes they all ate in silence. Then Haco, during the interval between the courses, informed Gaff that he expected to return to the port of London in a day or two; whereupon Gaff said that he just happened to be lookin' out for a ship goin' there, as he had business to do in the great city, and offered to work his way. The skipper readily promised to ship him as an extra hand, if the owner chose to send the 'Coffin' to sea without repairs, "which," observed Haco, "is not unlikely, for he's a close-fisted customer."

"Who is he?" inquired Gaff.

"Stuart of Seaside Villa," said Haco.

"Ha! he is a tough un," observed Gaff, with a significant grin. "I knows him well. He don't much care riskin' fellers' lives, though I never heard of him riskin' his own."

"He'd very near to answer for mine this voyage," said Haco, as well as he could through a mouthful of steak and potato.

"How was that?"

"This is how it was," answered the skipper, bolting the mouthful, "you see the 'Coffin's' not in a fit state for sea; she's leaky all over, an' there's a plank under the starboard quarter, just abaft the cabin skylight, that has fairly struck work, caulk it and pitch it how you please, it won't keep out the sea no longer, so when we was about to take in cargo, I wrote to Mr Stuart tellin' him of it, an' advisin' repairs, but he wrote back, sayin' it was very awk'ard at this time to delay that cargo, an' askin' if I couldn't work the pumps as I had used to do, besides hintin' that he thought I must be gettin' timid as I grew old! You may be sure I didn't think twice. Got the cargo aboard; up sail an' away.

"Well, it was blowin' a stiff nor'-wester when we got away, an' we couldn't have beat into port again if our lives depended on it. So I calls the crew aft, an' told 'em how the matter stood. 'Now, lads,' says I, 'to speak plain English, the sloop is sinkin' so you had as well turn to an' pump for yer lives, an' I'll show ye how.' With that I off coat an' set to work, an' took my turn the whole voyage. But it was touch an' go with us. We nigh sank in the harbour here, an' I had to run her ashore to perwent her goin' down in deep water. They're patchin' up the rotten plank at this minute, an' if old Stuart won't go in for a general overhaul, we'll be ready for sea in a day or two, and you'll have the pleasure o' navigatin' a lot o' wrecked Roosians to London. Now, waiter, ahoy!—"

"Yessir."

"Fetch me a pannikin o' tea, for it's dry work tellin' a anikdot. You see, Gaff, I'm a reg'lar teetotaller—never go the length o' coffee even without a doctor's surtificate. Another cup, Susan?"

"No thank 'ee, father, I couldn't."

"Werry good. Now, Gaff, what's the 'ticklers o' your case. Time about's fair play, you know."

Gaff, feeling a gush of confidence come over him, and having ascertained that, in regard to secrecy, Susan was as "safe as the bank," related the circumstances of the wreck, and his having left Emmie at her grandfather's villa; the relation of all which caused Haco Barepoles to give vent to a series of low grunts and whistles, expressive of great surprise.

"Now," said Gaff in conclusion, "there's a land-shark, (by which I means a lawyer), in London what writes to me that there's somethin' I'll hear of to my advantage if I calls on him."

"Don't go," said Haco, stoutly, as he struck the table with his fist, causing the crockery to rattle again; "take the advice of an old friend, an' don't go. If you do, he'll do you."

"Thank'ee, an' I'd foller yer advice, but I happens to know this land-shark. He's an old acquaintance, an' I can trust him."

"Oh, that alters the case—well?"

"Well, but before I go," continued Gaff, "I wants to write a letter to old Stuart to warn him to look arter Emmie; a very partikler letter."

"Ay, how much partikler a one?" inquired Haco.

"A hambigoo-ous one," replied his friend.

"A ham—what?" said Haco interrogatively.

"A ham-big-oo-ous one."

"What sort of a one may that be, mate?"

"Well," said Gaff, knitting his heavy brows, and assuming altogether a learned aspect, "it's a one that you can't make head nor tail of nohow; one as'll read a'rnost as well back'ard as for'ard, an' yet has got a smack o' somethin' mysterious in it, w'ich shows, so to speak, to what pint o' the compass your steerin' for—d'ye see?"

"H'm—rather hazy ahead," answered the skipper with a deeply sagacious look; "a difficult letter to write in my opinion. How d'ye mean to do it?"

"Don't mean to do it at all. Couldn't do it to save my life; but I'll get a clerk to do it for me, a smart young clerk too; you know who I mean."

"Ay, who'll it be? I'll never guess; never guessed a guess in my life."

"You know my darter Tottie?"

"What, blue-eyed Tottie? oh, yer jokin'!"

"Not a bit. That child's a parfec' cooriosity of intelligence. She can write and read most wonderful for her age."

"But she'll never be able to do the ham—what d'ye call it?" suggested Haco.

"Of course not; she's too young for that, but the wife'll do that. You've no notion how powerful hambigoo-ous she is now an' again. We'll manage it amongst us. Tottie can write like a parson, my wife can read, though she can't write, an'll see that it's all c'rect, specially the spellin' an' the makin' of it hambigoo-ous; an' I'll supply the idees, the notions like, an' superintend, so to speak, an' we'll make little Billy stand by wi' the blottin'-paper, just to keep him out o' mischief."

Haco regarded his friend with deepening admiration. The idea of producing a "hambigoo-ous" letter by such an elaborate family combination, in which each should supply his co-labourer's deficiency, was quite new and exceedingly interesting to him. Suddenly his countenance became grave, as it occurred to him that there was no call for such a letter at all, seeing that Kenneth Stuart was sure to do his best to induce his father to take care of the child. On observing this to his friend, the latter shook his head.

"I'm not quite sure o' Mister Kenneth," said he, "it's likely that he'll do the right thing by her, but 'like father, like son' is an old proverb. He may be a chip o' the old block."

"That he is not," interrupted Haco warmly. "I know the lad well. He takes after his poor mother, and I'm sartin sure ye may trust him."

"Well, I must trust him," said Gaff, "but I've had no experience of him; so I mean to 'make assurance doubly sure,' as the prophet says, if it wasn't the poet—an' that's why I'll write this letter. If it don't do no good, it won't do no harm."

"I'm not so sure o' that," said Haco, shaking his head as they rose to depart, "hows'ever, you know best. Now mind, Susan, not a word o' this to any one."

Susan promised, and in the course of the evening related the whole affair to Daniel Horsey "in confidence;" her conscience being apparently relieved by the idea that having told it only in strict confidence she had not broken her word!

Dan made her promise solemnly that she would tell the tale to no one else on earth, either in confidence or otherwise, and thus he checked the stream of gossip as close to its fountain-head as possible.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE WRITING OF THE "HAMBIGOO-OUS" LETTER.

When Stephen Gaff approached his own cottage, he beheld his wife belabouring the Bu'ster with both hands and tongue unmercifully. What special piece of mischief Billy had been doing is not of much consequence. It is enough to state that he suddenly planted the heel of his naked foot somewhat effectively on his mother's little toe, which chanced to be resting on a sharp stone at the moment, burst from her grasp, and rushed down the steep bank to the beach cheering, weeping, and laughing all at once, in a sort of hysterical triumph.

Mrs Gaff shouted at the top of her voice to the cherub to come back and get mauled; but the cherub declined the invitation until he heard his father's voice, when he returned joyously, and took shelter under his wing. Mrs Gaff, who could change at a moment's notice from the extreme of anger to perfect quiescence, contented herself with shaking her fist at the Bu'ster, and then relapsed from the condition of a fury into a quiet, good-looking dame.

This appears to be the normal condition of fisher-folk, who would seem to require to make use of an excessive amount of moral and physical suasion in order suitably to impress their offspring.

"Now, Jess," said Gaff, leading his son by the hand; "let's set to work at once wi' that there letter."

"What's all the hurry, Stephen?"

"I've just seed my old shipmate, Haco Barepoles, an' it's not unlikely he'll be ready for sea day arter to-morrow; so the sooner we turn this little job out o' hands the better. Come, Tottie, you're a good girl; I see you've purvided the paper and ink. Get the table cleaned, lass, and you, Billy, come here."

The Bu'ster, who had suddenly willed to have a shy at the household cat with a small crab which he had captured, and which was just then endeavouring vainly to ascend the leg of a chair, for a wonder did not carry out his will, but went at once to his sire.

"Whether would ye like to go play on the beach, lad, or stop here and hold the blottin'-paper while we write a letter?"

Billy elected to hold the blotting-paper and watch proceedings, being curious to know what the letter was to be about.

When all was ready—the table cleared of everything except what pertained to the literary work then in hand—Stephen Gaff sat down at one end of the table; his wife drew her chair to the other end; Tottie, feeling very proud and rather nervous, sat between them, with a new quill in her hand, and a spotless sheet of foolscap before her. The Bu'ster stood by with the blot-sheet, looking eager, as if he rather wished for blots, and was prepared to swab them up without delay.

"Are ye ready, Tot?" asked Gaff.

"Yes, quite," answered the child.

"Then," said Gaff; with the air of a general officer who gives the word for the commencement of a great fight, "begin, an' fire away."

"But what am I to say, daddy?"

"Ah, to be sure, you'd better begin, Tottie," said Gaff, evidently in perplexity; "you'd better begin as they teach you to at the school, where you've larnt to write so butiful."

Here Mrs Gaff advised, rather abruptly, that she had better write, "this comes hoping you're well;" but her husband objected, on the ground that the words were untrue, inasmuch as he did not care a straw whether the person to be written to was well or ill.

"Is't to a man or a 'ooman we're a-writin', daddie?" inquired the youthful scribe.

"It's a gentleman."

"Then we'd better begin 'dear sir,' don't you think?"

"But he an't dear to me," said Gaff.

"No more is he to me," observed his wife.

"Make it 'sir,' plain 'sir' means nothin' in partickler, I b'lieve," said Gaff with animation, "so we'll begin it with plain 'sir.' Now, then, fire away, Tottie."

"Very well," said Tottie, dipping her pen in the ink-bottle, which was a stone one, and had been borrowed from a neighbour who was supposed to have literary tendencies in consequence of his keeping such an article in his cottage. Squaring her elbows, and putting her head very much on one side, to the admiration of her parents, she prepared to write.

The Bu'ster clutched the blotting-paper, and looked on eagerly, not to say hopefully.

"Oh!" exclaimed Tottie, "it's red ink; see."

She held up the pen to view, and no one could deny the fact, not even Billy, who, feeling that he had repressed his natural flow of spirits rather longer than he was accustomed to, and regarding the incident as in some degree destructive of his mother's peace of mind, hailed the discovery with an exulting cheer.

Mrs Gaff's palm instantly exploded like a pistol-shot on Billy's ear, and he measured his length—exactly three feet six—on the floor.

To rise yelling, and receive shot number two from his mother, which sent him headlong into the arms of his father, who gave him the red ink-bottle, and bade him cut away and get it changed as fast as he could scuttle—to do all this, I say, was the work of a moment or two.

Presently Billy returned with the same bottle, and the information that the literary neighbour had a black-ink-bottle, but as there was no ink in it he didn't think it worth while to send it. A kind offer was made of a bottle of shoe-blacking if the red ink would not do.

"This is awk'ard," said Gaff, rubbing his nose.

"Try some tar in it," suggested Mrs Gaff.

Gaff shook his head; but the suggestion led him to try a little soot, which was found to answer admirably, converting the red ink into a rich dark brown, which might pass for black.

Supplied with this fluid, which having been made too thick required a good deal of water to thin it, Tottie again squared her elbows on the table; the parents sat down, and the Bu'ster re-mounted guard with the blotting-paper, this time carefully out of earshot.

"Now, then, 'dear sir,'" said Tottie, once more dipping her pen.

"No, no; didn't I say, plain 'Sir,'" remonstrated her father.

"Oh, I forgot, well—there—it—is—now, 'Plane sur,' but I've not been taught that way at school yet."

"Never mind what you've bin taught at school," said Mrs Gaff somewhat sharply, for her patience was gradually oozing out, "do you what you're bid."

"Why, it looks uncommon like two words, Tottie," observed her father, eyeing the letters narrowly. "I would ha' thought, now, that three letters or four at most would have done it, an' some to spare."

"Three letters, daddie!" exclaimed the scribe with a laugh, "there's eight of 'em no less."

"Eight!" exclaimed Gaff in amazement. "Let's hear 'em, dear."

Tottie spelled them off quite glibly. "P-l-a-n-e, that's plane; s-u-r, that's sur."

"Oh, Tot," said Gaff with a mingled expression of annoyance and amusement, "I didn't want ye to write the word 'plain.' Well, well," he added, patting the child on the head, while she blushed up to the roots of her hair and all down her neck and shoulders, "it's not much matter, just you score it out; there, go over it again, once or twice, an' scribble through it,—that's your sort. Now, can ye read what it was?"

"No, daddie."

"Are ye sure?"

"Quite sure, for I've scratched it into a hole right through the paper."

"Never mind, it's all the better."

"Humph!" interjected Mrs Gaff. "He'll think we began 'dear sir,' and then changed our minds and scratched out the 'dear!'"

To this Gaff replied that what was done couldn't be undone, and ordered Tottie to "fire away once more."

"What next," asked the scribe, a good deal flurried and nervous by this time, in consequence of which she dipped the pen much too deep, and brought up a globule of ink, which fell on the paper just under the word that had been written down with so much pains, making a blot as large as a sixpence.

The Bu'ster came down on it like lightning with the blot-sheet, and squashed it into an irregular mass bigger than half-a-crown.

For this he received another open-hander on the ear, and was summarily dismissed to the sea-beach.

By this time the family tea-hour had arrived, so Mrs Gaff proposed an adjournment until after tea. Tottie, who was now blotting the letter with an occasional tear, seconded the motion, which was carried by acclamation. While the meal was being prepared, Gaff fondled Tottie until she was restored to her wonted equanimity, so that after tea the task was resumed with spirit. Words and ideas seemed to flow more easily, and the letter was finally concluded, amid many sighs of relief, about bed-time.

Much blotted, and almost unreadable though it was, I think it worthy of being presented to my readers without correction.

"I beggs to stait that ittle bee for yoor int'rest for to look arter that air gurl cald Eme as was left yoor doar sum dais bak, if yoo doant ittle bee wors for yer, yood giv yer eer an noas too to no wot i nos abowt that gurl, it's not bostin nor yet threttenin I am, no, I'm in Downrite arnist wen I sais as yool bee sorrie if yoo doant do it."

(This part was at first written, "if you doant look arter the gurl," but by the advice of Mrs Gaff the latter part was cut out, and "doant do it" substituted as being more hambigoo-ous and alarming! The letter continued:—)

"Now sur, i must cloas, not becaws my papers dun, no nor yet my idees, but becaws a nods as good as a wink—yoo no the rest. Wot ive said is troo as gospl it's of no use tryn to find owt hoo i am, caws whi—yoo kant, and if yoo cood it wood doo yoo no good.

"Yoors to comand,

"The riter."

When this letter was placed in Mr Stuart's hands the following morning he was in the act of concluding a conversation with Haco Barepoles.

"Well, Haco," he said, regarding the ill-folded and dirty epistle with suspicion, as it lay on the table before him; "of course I have no wish that men should risk their lives in my service, so you may lay up the sloop in dock and have her overhauled; but I have always been under the impression until now that you were a fearless seaman. However, do as you please."

Mr Stuart knew well the character of the man with whom he had to do, and spoke thus with design. Haco fired at once, but he displayed no temper.

"Very likely I am gittin' summat fusty an' weak about the buzzum," he said, almost sadly. "A man can't expect to keep young and strong for ever, Mr Stuart. Hows'ever, I'll look at her bottom again, an' if she can float, I'll set sail with the first o' the ebb day arter to-morrow. Good-day, sir." Haco bowed and left the room quite modestly, for he hated the very appearance of boasting; but when he was in the passage his teeth snapped together like nut-crackers as he compressed his lips, and on gaining the street he put on his hat with a bang that would have ruinously crushed it had it not been made of some glazed material that was evidently indestructible.

Going straight to the docks he gave orders to the carpenter to have all tight before next morning—this in a tone that the carpenter knew from experience meant, "fail if you dare."

Then he went up to the Home, and ordered his men and the Russians to get ready for sea. Thereafter he went away at full speed to Cove, with his red locks and his huge coat-tails flowing in the breeze. Rapping at the door he was bid to enter.

"How are 'ee, lad?" said Haco to Uncle John, who was seated at the fireside smoking.

"Thank'ee, rather shaky. I must ha' bin pretty nigh finished that night; but I feel as if I'd be all taught and ready for sea in a few days."

"That's right!" said Haco heartily. "Is Gaff hereabouts to-day?"

The man in request entered at the moment.

"Good-day, skipper," said Gaff, "I seed 'ee comin'. Ony news?"

"Ay, the 'Coffin' starts day arter to-morrow. I just run down to let you know. Sink or swim, fair or foul, it's up anchor with the first o' the mornin' ebb. I'm goin' up to see Cap'n Bingley now. Not a moment to spare."

"Avast heavin'," said Gaff, pulling on a pilot coat; "I'm goin' with 'ee. Goin' to jine the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society. Since my last swim I've bin thinkin' that three shillin's a year is but a small sum, and the good that they'd do to my widder and childer, if I was drownded, would be worth while havin'."

"Right, lad, right; every sailor and fisherman should jine it. But come along; no time for talkin' here. My respects to the missus. Good-bye, lad."

Shaking hands with Uncle John, the restless skipper once more put on the imperishable hat with inconceivable violence and left the hut, followed by his friend.

Returning to Mr Stuart, we find him perusing the ambiguous letter. His first glance at the contents called forth a look of indignation, which was succeeded by one of surprise, and that was followed by a smile of contempt, mingled with amusement.

"Kenneth," he said, tossing the letter to his son, who entered at the moment, "can you make anything of that?"

"Not much," replied Kenneth, who at once guessed that it came from Gaff. "The persons who left the child here would appear to be mad, and anxious to get rid of their own offspring. But I came to tell you of sad forebodings that fill my breast, father."

"Don't give way to forebodings, Kenneth," said the father gravely; "it is unmanly, unreasonable."

"Well, suspicions, if you think the word more appropriate. I fear much, very much, that my dear sister and poor Tom Graham were lost in the last storm—"

"Why do you omit the child?" asked Mr Stuart quietly, almost coldly.

"I was thinking only of those whom I had known and loved when I spoke," replied Kenneth with some emotion.

"There is no certainty that they are lost," observed Mr Stuart.

Kenneth thought there was a slight tremor in his father's voice, but, on glancing at his stern features, he felt that he must have been mistaken.

"We know that the ship was telegraphed as having been seen in the Channel; we have heard that they were passengers in her, and nothing has been heard or seen of her since the night of the storm."

"There is no certainty in all that," reiterated the other; "they may not have come in that vessel; if they did, some of them may have escaped. We cannot tell."

Mr Stuart looked so cold and so sternly immovable as he said this, while carelessly turning over some papers, that Kenneth, who had come prepared to reveal all, resolved to keep his secret, believing that there was no pity left in his father's breast.

As he lay awake and sorrowing that night he heard his father's step pacing to and fro incessantly during the whole night, and hoped that the loss he had in all probability sustained would break up the ice; but next morning at breakfast he was as cold as ever. He looked very pale, indeed, but he was sterner and even more irascible than usual in regard to the merest trifles, so Kenneth's resolution not to confide in his father was confirmed.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE BU'STER WILLS TO ACCOMPLISH MISCHIEF, AND GETS INTO TROUBLE.

"At sea."—How differently do human beings regard that phrase! To one it arouses feelings akin to rapture; to another it is suggestive of heavings and horror. To him whose physical condition is easily and disagreeably affected by aquatic motion, "at sea" savours of bad smells and misery. To him who sings of the intensity of his love for "a ride on the fierce, foaming, bursting tide," "at sea" sounds like the sweet ringing of a silver bell floating towards him, as if from afar, fraught with the fragrance and melody of distant climes—such as coral isles, icy mountains, and golden sands.

Let us regard the phrase in its pleasant aspect just now, good reader.

I have always loved the sea myself, from the hour I first set foot on board a man-of-war and skylarked with the middies, to that sad and memorable day when, under the strong—I might almost say irresistible— influence of my strong-minded wife, I bade adieu to the royal navy for ever, and retired into private life. Alas! But what is the use of sighing? If a man will get born in his wrong century, he ought to lay his account with being obliged to suffer much from the strange, I had almost said childish, fallacies, follies, and inconsistencies peculiar to the more early period in which his lot has been cast by mistake.

You see, reader, I have accepted my position. There is a bare possibility that those who have assigned it to me may be wrong, but I have long ago ceased to dispute that point.

At sea! Haco's sloop is there now, just out of sight of land, although not far from it, and resting on as glassy a sheet of water as is ever presented by the ocean in a deep dead calm. Haco himself, big, hairy, jovial, ruddy, is seated on the after skylight, the sole occupant of the deck.

To look at him one might fancy that Neptune having found a deserted ship, had clambered upon deck and sat him down to take a complacent view of his wide domains, and enjoy a morning pipe.

It is early morning, and the other inhabitants of that floating house are asleep below.

The "Coal-Coffin," albeit an unseaworthy vessel, is a picturesque object. Its dirty sails are of a fine rich colour, because of their very dirtiness. Its weather-worn and filthy spars, and hull and rigging, possess a harmony of tone which can only be acquired by age. Its cordage being rotten and very limp, hangs, on that account, all the more gracefully in waving lines of beauty and elegant festoons; the reef points hang quite straight, and patter softly on the sails—in short, the tout ensemble of the little craft is eminently picturesque— draped, as it were, with the mellowness of antiquity; and the whole— hull, spars, sails, cordage, and reef points,—clearly and sharply reflected in the depths below.

"Wot a splendid mornin'!" said Stephen Gaff, putting his head and shoulders out of the after hatchway, and yawning violently.

"So 'tis, shipmet," responded the skipper, "a'most too butiful for this world."

Both men spoke in subdued tones, as if unwilling to disturb the delightful stillness of nature. Gaff, having slowly raised himself out of the hole in the deck which served as a door to the bandbox, termed, out of courtesy, the cabin, looked up at the mast-head to see if the vane indicated any wind; then he gazed slowly round the horizon. Meeting with nothing particular there to arrest his eyes, he let them fall on Haco, who was gazing dreamily at the bowl of his German pipe.

"Dead calm," said Gaff.

"Won't last long," said Haco.

"Won't it?"

"No. Glass fallin' fast."

This seemed to be as much mental food as Gaff could comfortably digest at that time, for he made no rejoinder, but, drawing a short black pipe from his vest-pocket, sat down beside his friend, and filled and smoked it in silence.

"How's the Roosians?" he inquired, after a long pause.

"All square," said the skipper, who was addicted somewhat to figurative language and hyperbole in the form of slang, "another week in the doctor's hands, an' the grub of the London Home, will set 'em up taught an' trim as ever."

"Goin' to blow hard, think 'ee?" asked Gaff.

"Great guns," said Haco, puffing a cloud of smoke from his mouth, which was at that time not a bad imitation of a little gun.

"Soon?" inquired Gaff.

"P'r'aps yes, p'r'aps no."

Once more the seamen relapsed into a silence which was not again broken until two of the crew and several Russians came on deck.

Haco gave orders to have the topsail reefed, and then commencing to pace to and fro on the small deck, devoted himself entirely to smoke and meditation.

Soon after, there was a loud cheer from Billy Gaff. The Bu'ster had suddenly awakened from an unbroken sleep of twelve hours, tumbled incontinently out of his berth, rushed up the ladder, thrust his head above the hatchway, and, feeling the sweet influences of that lovely morning, vented his joy in the cheer referred to.

Billy had begged hard to be taken to London, and his father, thinking that, the sooner he began the seafaring life to which he was destined, the better, had consented to take him.

Billy willed to accomplish a great number of pieces of mischief during the five minutes which he spent in gazing breathlessly round the ship and out upon the glittering sea; but he was surrounded by so many distracting novelties, and the opportunities for mischief were so innumerable, that, for the first time in his life, he felt perplexed, and absolutely failed to accomplish anything for a considerable time.

This calm, however, like the calm of nature, was not destined to last long.

"Daddy," said the cherub suddenly, "I'm a-goin' up the shrouds."

"Very good, my lad," said Gaff, "ye'll tumble down likely, but it don't much matter."

Billy clambered up the side, and seized the shrouds, but missing his foothold at the first step, he fell down sitting-wise, from a height of three feet.

There was a sounding thud on the deck, followed by a sharp gasp, and the boy sat staring before him, considering, apparently, whether it were necessary or not to cry in order to relieve his feelings. Finding that it was not, he swallowed his heart with an effort, got up, and tried it again.

The second effort was more successful.

"That'll do, lad, come down," said Gaff, when his son had got half-way up the mast, and paused to look down, with a half-frightened expression.

Contrary to all precedent, Billy came down, and remained quiet for ten minutes. Then he willed to go out on the bowsprit, but, being observed in a position of great danger thereon, was summarily collared by a sailor, and hauled inboard. He was about to hurl defiance in the teeth of the seaman, and make a second effort on the bowsprit, when Haco Barepoles thrust his red head up the after-hatch, and sang out—"breakfast!"

"Breakfast, Billy," repeated Gaff.

To which the cherub responded by rushing aft with a cheer, and descending the square hole after his father.

Having been horribly sea-sick the first day of his voyage, and having now quite recovered, Billy was proportionably ravenous, and it was a long time before he ceased to demand and re-demand supplies of biscuit, butter, and tea. With appetite appeased at last, however, he returned to the deck, and, allowing quarter of an hour for digestion and reflection, began to consider what should next be done.

The opportunity for some bold stroke was a rare one, for the crew, consisting of five men and a boy, were all forward, earnestly endeavouring to pick acquaintance by means of signs with the convalescent Russians, while Gaff and Haco were still below at breakfast, so that Billy had the after part of the sloop all to himself.

He began operations by attempting to get at the needle of the compass, but finding that this was secured powerfully by means of glass and brass, he changed his mind, and devoted himself heart and soul to the wheel. Turning it round until the helm was hard down, he looked up at the sails, and with some curiosity awaited the result, but the vessel having no motion no result followed.

Failing in this he forced the wheel round with all his might and let it go suddenly, so that it spun round with the recoil, and narrowly missed knocking him down!

This was a pleasant source of amusement, uniting, as it did, considerable effort and some danger, with the prospect of a smash in some of the steering tackle, so Billy prepared to indulge himself; but it struck him that the frequent recurrence of the accompanying noise would bring the skipper on deck and spoil the fun, so on second thoughts he desisted, and glanced eagerly about for something else, afraid that the golden opportunity would pass by unimproved.

Observing something like a handle projecting from a hole, he seized it, and hauled out a large wooden reel with a log-line on it. With this he at once began to play, dipping the log into the sea and hauling it up repeatedly as though he were fishing, but there was want of variety in this. Looking about him he espied a lead-line near the binnacle; he cut the lead from this, and fastening it to the end of the log-line, began forthwith to take deep-sea soundings. This was quite to his taste, for when he stood upon the vessel's side, in order to let the line run more freely, and held up the reel with both hands, the way in which it spun round was quite refreshing to his happy spirit. There must have been a hitch in the line, however, for it was suddenly checked in its uncoiling, and the violence of the stoppage wrenched the reel from his grasp, and the whole affair disappeared beneath the calm water!

The Bu'ster's heart smote him. He had not meant anything so wicked as that.

"Ha! you young rascal, I saw you," said one of the men coming up at that moment.

Billy turned round with a start, and in doing so fell headlong into the sea.

The sailor stood aghast as if paralysed for a moment, then—as Billy rose to the surface with outstretched hands and staring eyes, and uttered a yell which was suddenly quenched in a gurgling cry—he recovered himself, and hastily threw a coil of rope towards the boy.

Now it is a curious and quite unaccountable fact, that comparatively few sailors can swim. At all events no one can deny the fact that there are hundreds, ay, thousands, of our seafaring men and boys who could not swim six yards to save their lives. Strange to say, of all the men who stood on the deck of that sloop, at the time of the accident to Billy, (Russians included), not one could swim a stroke. The result was that they rushed to the stern of the vessel and gazed anxiously over the side; some shouting one thing, and some another, but not one venturing to jump overboard, because it was as much as his life was worth to do so!

Several ropes were instantly thrown over the drowning boy, but being blinded both by terror and salt water, he did not see them. Then one of the men hastily fastened the end of a line round his waist, intending to spring over and trust to his comrades hauling him on board. At the same moment several men rushed to the stern boat, intent on lowering her. All this occurred in a few brief seconds. Billy had risen a second time with another wild cry when his father and the skipper sprang up the after-hatch and rushed to the side. Haco dashed his indestructible hat on the deck, and had his coat almost off, when Gaff went overboard, head first, hat, coat, and all, like an arrow, and caught Billy by the hair when he was about four feet below the surface.

Of course Gaff's re-appearance with his son in his arms was greeted with heartfelt and vociferous cheers; and, of course, when they were hauled on board, and Gaff handed Billy to the skipper, in order that he might the more conveniently wring a little of the superabundant water from his garments, another and a still more hearty cheer was given; but Gaff checked it rather abruptly by raising himself and saying sternly—

"Shame on you, lads, for not bein' able to swim. The child might ha' drownded for all you could do to help him. A soldier as don't know how to shoot is not much wuss than a sailor as don't know how to swim. Why, yer own mothers—yer own sweet-hearts—might be a-drownin' afore yer eyes, an' you'd have to run up an' down like helpless noodles, not darin' to take to the water, (which ought to be your native element), any more than a blue-nosed Kangaroo. Shame on ye, I say, for not bein' able to swim."

"Amen to that, say I," observed Haco with emphasis. "Shame on stout hulkin' fellers like you for not bein' able to swim, and shame on them as steers the ship o' State for not teachin' ye. You can put that in yer pipes and smoke it, lads, an' if it don't smoke well, ye can make a quid of it, and chew it. If I could make quids o' them there sentiments, I'd set up a factory an' send a inexhaustible supply to the big-wigs in parlymint for perpetooal mastication. There now, don't stare, but go for'ard, an' see, two of you take in another reef o' the mains'l. If the glass speaks true, we'll be under my namesake— barepoles—before long; look alive, boys!"

It was something new to the crew of the "Coal-Coffin" to be thus checked in an enthusiastic cheer, and to be rebuked by the object of their admiration for not being able to swim.

Deep and long was the discussion they had that evening around the windlass on this subject. Some held that it was absurd to blame men for not being able, "when p'raps they couldn't if they wor to try." Others thought that they might have tried first before saying that "p'raps they couldn't." One admitted that it was nothing but laziness that had prevented him from learning, whereupon another opined that dirtiness had something to do with it too. But all agreed in wishing earnestly that they had learned the noble and useful art, and in regretting deeply that they had not been taught it when young.

The boy, who formed one of the crew, silently congratulated himself that he was young, and resolved in his own mind that he would learn as soon as possible.

The sun set in the west, and the evening star arose to cheer the world with her presence, while the greater luminary retired. Slowly the day retreated and dusky night came on. One by one the stars shone out, faintly at first, as if too modest to do more than glimmer, but stronger and brighter, and more numerous by degrees, until the whole sky became like a great resplendent milky way.

Still there was no evidence that a double-reef in the mainsail was necessary; no indication that the weather-glass had told a truthful tale.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE STORM, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

It came at length with awful speed and fury.

At first there was a stifling heat in the atmosphere; then clouds began to dim the sky. Mysterious and solemn changes seemed to be taking place in nature—noiselessly for a time. Ere long the war began with a burst of heaven's artillery. It was distant at first; muttering, prolonged, and fitful, like the rattling musketry of advancing skirmishers. Soon a roar of deafening thunder rent the sky. Another and another followed, with blinding flashes of lightning between, while rain came down in torrents.

The order had been given to take in the mainsail, and the little vessel was almost under bare poles, when the storm burst upon it, and threw it nearly on its beam-ends.

Righting from the first shock, it sprang away like a living creature trying to escape from some deadly foe. Ere long the waves were up and the storm was raging in all its fury.

"If it holds like this till to-morrow, we'll be in port by noon," said Haco Barepoles to Gaff as they stood near the wheel, holding on to the backstays, and turning their backs to the seas that swept heavily over the side from time to time.

"You speak as if you wor sure o' gettin' in," said Gaff.

"Well, we an't sure o' nothin' in this world," replied the skipper; "if Providence has willed it otherwise, we can't help it, you know. We must submit whether we will or no."

"D'ye know," rejoined Gaff, "it has often bin in my mind, that as Christian men, (which we profess to be, whether we believe our own profession or not), we don't look at God's will in the right way. The devil himself is obliged to submit to God whether he will or no, because he can't help it. Don't 'ee think it would be more like Christians if we was to submit because it is His will?"

Before Haco could answer, an enormous wave came curling over the stern.

"Mind your helm, lad!"

The words were scarce uttered when a heavy mass of water fell inboard, almost crushing down the deck. For some moments it seemed as if the little vessel were sinking, but she cleared herself, and again rushed onward.

That night the wind chopped round, and Haco was obliged to lay-to until daylight, as the weather was thick. Before morning the gale took off and at sunrise had moderated into a stiff breeze. All that day they beat slowly and heavily against the wind, which, however, continued to decrease. At night the wind again veered round to the northward, enabling the "Coal-Coffin" to spread most of her canvass, keep her course, and bowl pleasantly along before the breeze. But the weather was still thick, necessitating a sharp look-out.

During most of this time our friend Billy was confined, much against his will, to the bandbox cabin, where he did as much mischief as he could in the circumstances.

Towards midnight, while Haco and Gaff were standing by the man on the look-out, who was on the heel of the bowsprit, they fancied they observed something looming up against the dark sky on the weather bow.

The look-out gave a shout.

"Port! port! hard a-port!" roared the skipper, at the same moment bounding aft.

"Port it is!" replied the man at the wheel, obeying with promptitude.

The sloop sheered away to leeward. At the same instant the hull of a great vessel bore right down upon them. The yell of the steam-whistle betrayed her character, while the clanging of the fog-bell, and shouts of those on board, proved that the sloop had been observed. At the same time the seething sea that flowed like milk round her bow, showed that the engines had been reversed, while the captain's voice was heard distinctly to shout "starboard! starboard hard!" to the steersman.

The promptitude with which these orders were given and obeyed, prevented the steamer from running down the sloop altogether. A collision, however, was unavoidable. The crew of the sloop and the Russians, seeing this, rushed to the place where they expected to be struck, in order to leap, if possible, into the head of the steamer. Even the steersman left his post, and sprang into the weather shrouds in the hope of catching some of the ropes or chains below the bowsprit.

On came the steamer like a great mountain. Her way had been so much checked that she seemed merely to touch the side of the sloop; but the touch was no light one. It sent the cutwater crashing through bulwark, plank, and beam, until the "Coal-Coffin" was cut right down amidships, within a foot of the water-line. There was a wild cry from the men as they leaped towards their destroyer. Some succeeded in grasping ropes, others missed and fell back bruised and stunned on the sloop's deck.

Billy had been standing beside his father when the steamer was first observed, and naturally clung to him. Gaff put his left arm tight round the boy, and with the others prepared for a spring, believing, as did all the rest, that the sloop would be sunk at once.

Not so Haco Barepoles, who went to the wheel of his little vessel, and calmly awaited the result.

Gaff's spring at the chains of the cutwater was successful, but in making it he received a blow on the head from one of the swinging blocks of the sloop which almost stunned him, insomuch that he could only cling to the chain he had caught with the tenacity of despair.

One of the sailors observed him in this position of danger, and instantly descending with a rope fastened it under his chest, so that he and Billy were safely hauled on board, and the former was led below to have his head examined by the surgeon.

Meanwhile the men in the bow of the steamer shouted to Haco to come on board.

"No, thank'ee," replied the skipper, "shake yourself clear o' my riggin' as fast as ye can, and let me continoo my voyage."

"Your sloop is sinking," urged the captain of the steamer.

"Not sinkin' yet; I'll stick to her as long as she can float."

"But you've none of your men left on board, have you?"

"No; better without 'em if they're so easy frightened."

As he said this one of his own men slid quickly down a rope that hung from the steamer's bowsprit, and dropt on the deck of the sloop, exclaiming—

"It'll never be said o' Tom Grattan that he forsack his ship so long as a man wos willin' to stick by her."

Haco took Tom by the hand as he went aft and shook it.

"Any more comin'?" he said, glancing at the faces of the men that stared down upon him.

There was no reply.

"You can't expect men to volunteer to go to the bottom," said the captain of the steamer. "You're mad, both of you. Think better of it."

"Back your ship off, sir!" said Haco in a deep stern voice.

The order was given to back off, and the vessels were soon clear. Haco put his sloop at once on the larboard tack, and looking over the side observed that the bottom of the yawning gap was thus raised nearly three feet out of the water.

"Tom," said he, resuming his place at the wheel, "go and nail a bit of canvas over that hole. You'll find materials down below. We'll have to steer into port on this tack, 'cause if we try to go on the other, she'll sink like a stone. I only hope the wind'll hold as it is. Look alive now!"

In a few minutes the little craft was away and the captain of the steamer, seeing that she did not sink, continued his course.

Next day Haco Barepoles steered the "Coal-Coffin" triumphantly into the port of London, with a hole in her side big enough, if Tom Grattan's report is to be believed, "to admit of a punt bein' row'd d'rect from the sea into the hold!"



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

GAFF AND BILLY BECOME THE SPORT OF FORTUNE, AND SEE STRANGE THINGS.

The steamer which had run down the sloop of Haco Barepoles was a large iron one, which had just set out on a voyage to the West Indies.

Being anxious to send on shore the men whom he had so unexpectedly picked up at sea, the captain hailed the first inward-bound vessel he met with, and put them on board. It was found, however, that the blow received by Stephen Gaff had been more severe than was at first imagined, and the doctor advised that he should not be moved until farther down the Channel. He and Billy were therefore retained on board; but when the steamer passed the Isle of Wight, the weather became thick and squally, and continued so for several days, so that no vessel could be spoken with.

In these circumstances the captain was compelled to carry Gaff and his boy away to sea, much to the regret of the former, who was curious to know what the news could be that was to be to his advantage in London, besides being grieved at the anxiety his sudden disappearance with Billy would cause to his wife.

The Bu'ster did not by any means share the regret or grief of his father. To that amiable cherub the whole affair was a piece of unexpected and unparalleled good fortune. It was the realisation to some extent of his rapturous dreams of travel and adventure in foreign lands, and it freed him, at one fell swoop, from the iron yoke of his mother.

Billy, although he congratulated himself on the deliverance, did, strange to say, shed a few tears in memory of his mother, for the boy had an affectionate disposition, and really loved his mother, and would have shown his love too if she would have let him.

Gaff feared there was but little prospect of being speedily delivered from the steamer; nevertheless he begged the captain to put him on board the first homeward-bound vessel they should meet with. To this request the captain agreed.

An opportunity occurred sooner than had been expected. On the afternoon of the fifth day out, a large barque hove in sight. On nearing this vessel the captain ran up his colours, and the signal was replied to by the Union Jack. On being asked as to where they were bound, the port of Liverpool was signalled in answer.

"You're in luck. Gaff," said the captain; "I'll put you on board of that barque if you choose."

"Thank 'ee, sir, I'd like it well."

"I rather think that your little boy would prefer to go with us," added the captain, laughing.

Billy at once admitted that he would, and begged to be allowed to stay where he was, but this request could not be granted.

"Now, Gaff," said the captain confidentially, "if you're short o' cash I'll be happy to—"

"Thank'ee, sir, I've as much as I require."

"Very well, then, you'd better get ready, and I'll order a boat to be lowered."

Half an hour afterwards Gaff stood on the deck of the barque, waving his hat to the few friends he had made during his short stay in the steamer.

The barque turned out to be a South Sea whaler from New York, which had suffered severely in a recent gale which had driven her far out of her course to the northward. She was obliged to run to Liverpool for repairs. The captain, whose name was Graddy, and who was one of the most ill-favoured and ill-mannered men that Gaff had ever set eyes on, agreed to take the newcomer to England on condition that he should work his way besides paying for his rations.

There was something about this vessel which was very offensive to the critical eye of Gaff. The nature of her work might account for her being so dirty; but that was no reason for the slovenliness of her rigging and general management, the surliness and tyranny of her captain, and the semi-mutinous condition of her crew.

The crew was a mixed one. There seemed to be representatives of at least half a dozen nations. The captain himself was of mixed blood, and no one could have told from his look or speech to what nation he belonged. He was a big powerful man, much feared by the crew, who hated him cordially. He was well aware of this, and returned the hatred with interest. Besides this, being monarch of the ship, he worried them in every way that lay in his power.

It is awful to think of the ruinous effects of sin, and how nearly men can come to resemble devils. This monster actually laid plots to entrap his men in order that he might have an excuse to vent his hatred on them.

Gaff soon found that he had got into a nest, so to speak, of evil spirits. Before he had been two days with them, he would have given all he possessed, or ever hoped to possess, in order to escape from the "Rattlesnake," which was the vessel's name.

As for Billy, his heart sank to a depth of woe he had never hitherto conceived of. Every one kicked and cuffed him and swore at him for being in the way, and when he was wanted he was kicked, cuffed, and sworn at for being out of the way. Poor boy! his dreams had never presented him with this species of adventure.

So bad did the state of things become that the men began to talk among themselves of deserting the moment they should reach port, no matter what should be the consequences. This threat reached the captain's ears, and he frustrated it by telling the mate that he thought the needful repairs could be managed on board by the ship's carpenters; and so gave orders to alter the course for South America!

Deep and fierce were the counsels that went on in the forecastle that night among the men. Some hinted darkly at murder. Others suggested that the captain should be put on shore on a desert island and left to his fate. All agreed that something must be done, that a decisive blow must be struck, with the exception of Gaff, who remained silent while his shipmates were discussing the matter.

Observing this they called upon him for his opinion.

"Lads," said he in decided tones, "I've got no opinion to offer. I am— at least I strive to be—a Christian man; an', to be plain with ye, I won't go for to consult or act with murderers, or mutineers, or pirates, which it appears you intend to become, if you're not that a'ready. One opinion I will give ye, however, an' one piece of advice I'll offer. The opinion is, that if you go on as you've bin a-goin' on since I came aboard, you'll all live to be hanged. The advice is, that you should face yer troubles like men—take things as ye find 'em, an' if ye can't mend 'em, why grin and bear 'em."

The crew received this in varied mood. Some laughed, others swore, and one suggested that Gaff should be thrown overboard.

This latter, who was a big strong man, and a sort of bully among his mates, shook his fist at Gaff, and said—

"Now, I'll tell ye wot it is, Mister Toogood, if you go for to tell the cap'n wot we've bin a-talkin' about, I'll knock yer two daylights into one, so see that ye keep yer tongue in order."

"What's past is past," said Gaff quietly; "but I tell ye plainly, that if you let your tongues go the same pace again in my hearin', I'll go aft and report ye. I'll be no spy, but I give ye fair warnin'."

At this the bully lost command of himself. Seizing an iron bar that lay on a chest close by, he rushed at Gaff with the evident intention of felling him. But the latter was on his guard. He was active and powerful too, besides being quite cool. Leaping nimbly aside, he avoided the bully's onset, and at the same moment laid him flat on the deck with one blow of his fist.

"Sarves him right!"

"So it does!" exclaimed several of the men, who were not sorry to see one whom they disliked so roughly handled.

"Well, so it does sarve him right," added one who had been a prominent speaker in the recent debates; "but hark'ee, friend," he said, turning to Gaff with a scowl, "you can't knock the whole crew down in that fashion. I advise ye, for your own sake, to mind what ye're about."

"I means to do so," said Gaff; "I'll stick to my dooty and to the cap'n."

"Very good," replied the other with a sneer, "then wotiver is the cap'n's fate you'll have the pleasure of sharin' it with him."

"Tumble up there! tumble up, an' reef tops'ls!" roared the captain down the hatch at that moment.

The men obeyed, and for the time their mutinous intentions seemed to have been dismissed. For many weeks after this Gaff heard nothing that could lead him to suppose that the men still harboured their dark designs. Yet the state of affairs on board became worse and worse. The captain cursed and tyrannised more than ever, and the men grew sulkier and more wretched, but no word of a murderous nature was ever uttered in the hearing of Gaff or his little son.

As for Billy his small mind had received such a rude shock by the sudden and terrible change in his circumstances, that he seemed to have lost all his wonted vivacity as well as his mischief. In fact, both qualities, or tendencies, had been thoroughly kicked out of him before he had been a week on board. He was protected to some extent by his father, who one day quietly knocked another of the men down for giving Billy an undeserved beating; but some of them kicked and cuffed the poor boy when his father was not present.

Billy was found to be active and useful in small matters and light duties suited to his age, and in the course of time was appointed to the position of steward's assistant, in which capacity he became deeply learned in the matter of washing cups, dishes, etcetera, besides acquiring a knowledge of baking, pudding-making, and many other useful arts more or less allied to cookery; in addition to which he had the inestimable benefit of being taught thoroughly submission and obedience—a lesson which the Bu'ster found very hard to learn, and thought particularly grievous, but which at his age, and considering his previous training, was an absolute blessing.

The way in which that cherub went about that ship in a little blue jacket, straw hat, and canvas trousers, rubbing and cleaning, and according prompt obedience at all times to every one, would have charmed his mother as much as it gratified his father, who was in consequence somewhat reconciled to his otherwise hard lot.

Now, philosophical reader—if such you be—do not suppose that I advocate kicking and cuffing as the best possible cure for general mischievousness and badness in a boy. By no means. My strong-minded wife says I do; but then she always forms, or rather partially forms, her opinions on assumptions, retains them in confusion, states them at haphazard, according to her mood at the time being, and, having stated them, sticks to them like a limpet to a rock.

You will judge differently when I explain my ideas on this point. I maintain that Billy Gaff, alias the Bu'ster, was taught to accord obedience—simple obedience and nothing else—by means of the kicking and cuffing he received on board of that whaler; and, further, that the method is a sure one. I do not say that it is the best one, but that does not affect the fact that it is almost infallible. It was reserved for Billy's father, however, by means of wise counsels, kindly given advice, and otherwise affectionate treatment, to save Billy from being turned into an obedient but misanthropic brute, and to lead him to accord his obedience, not because he could not help it, but because his father wished him to do it.

This appeal went right home to Billy's heart, because he loved his father fervently. He had always loved him in time past, now more than ever, for the poor boy regarded him much as a drowning man regards the solitary plank to which he clings as his last hope. Thus did Billy practically learn the great truth, that "Love is the fulfilling of the law."

Weeks rolled on; gales succeeded calms, and calms succeeded gales. The "line" was passed; southern seas were reached; new constellations glittered overhead; strange fish and luminous creatures gambolled in the sea, and the whalers' fishing-ground was entered. Latterly the men had ceased to grumble at the captain, although he had by no means ceased to swear at and bully the men, and Gaff began to hope that they had got over their bad fit, and were going to settle down to work peaceably.

The calm, however, was deceitful; it preceded a storm.

One sultry afternoon when Gaff was standing at the helm and the captain beside him, the men came aft in a body, and two of their number, with pistols in their hands, advanced to seize the captain.

He saw at once what they meant to do, and, springing back, seized a handspike.

"Lay that down and surrender, else I'll blow out yer brains," said one of the two, levelling his pistol.

Instead of obeying, the captain raised the heavy handspike, and the man pulled the trigger. At the same instant Gaff struck up the muzzle with his hand; the ball passed over the captain's head, and the handspike descended on the seaman's crown felling him at once.

Upon this the entire crew made a rush and overpowered Gaff and the captain. The latter, who struggled with the fury of a tiger, was kicked while down until he was nearly dead. Gaff at once gave in, knowing that any attempt at further resistance, besides being hopeless, would only render matters worse. He was therefore allowed to rise, and his hands were tied behind his back.

The captain, being similarly secured, was raised to his feet.

"Now, you tyrant," said the ringleader of the crew with a terrible oath, "how would you like to have your throat cut?"

The man slowly opened a long clasp-knife as he spoke, and felt its keen edge with his thumb. Blood was flowing down his face and breast from the wound inflicted by the handspike, and the fiendish expression of his countenance, added to the terribleness of his aspect, while it showed that his sarcastic question would certainly be followed by the murderous deed. But the other mutineers restrained him.

"It's too good for him, make him walk the plank and drown like a dog—as he is," cried one.

"Hang him up to the yard-arm," said another.

Several voices here expressed dissent, and an elderly seaman stepped forward and said that they didn't intend to become pirates, so they had better not begin with murder.

"Hear, hear!" from several voices emphatically.

"What'll we do with him, then?" inquired one in angry excitement.

Upon this they all began to consult noisily, and they were so much engrossed that they failed to perceive the movements of Billy, who, when his first alarm at the uproar was over, began to feel deep anxiety in regard to his father's bound and helpless condition. His active mind did not remain long paralysed; pulling out the clasp-knife which he always carried in his pocket, he quickly cut the cords that fastened Gaff's wrists. Before the latter could avail himself of his freedom the act was discovered, and he was secured again more firmly than before, while Billy was favoured with a slap on the ear so tremendous that it threw all those he had ever received from his mother utterly into the shade!

Recovering from this, he sat down on the deck at his father's feet, and wept silently.

In a few minutes the mutineers agreed among themselves. One of the smallest boats in the ship was lowered, and the captain and Gaff having been cast loose were ordered to get into it. The former obeyed at once, pronouncing a terrible curse on the crew as he went down the side.

One of the men at the same time threw a bag of biscuit into the boat.

"Come along, Billy," said Gaff, as he followed the captain.

The boy was about to do so, when one of the men seized him and pulled him back.

"No, no," said he, "the lad's useful, and will only eat up your biscuit faster than need be. We'll keep him aboard."

Gaff listened to this with an expression of agony on his rugged features.

"Oh, have mercy on my son!" he cried, as they cast the boat adrift. Then feeling that an appeal to such desperadoes was useless, he clasped his hands, and, looking up to Heaven, prayed God, for Christ's sake, to deliver him from the company of sinful men.

A light breeze was blowing, and the ship, which had been hove-to while the boat was being lowered, soon gathered way, and left the boat behind.

All of a sudden Billy broke away, and, rushing towards the stern, sprang wildly into the sea!

"Down with the helm! heave-to!" shouted some of the men.

"No, no, let the whelp go," cried others; "besides, he'd be able to peach on us."

This last argument was all-powerful. The ship held on her course, and Billy was left to his fate.

The moment that Gaff saw him take the leap he seized the oars, and applying all his strength to them, succeeded in catching hold of his son before his struggles had ceased.

Billy was none the worse for his adventure beyond the ducking. Gaff soon wrung the water out of his garments, and then placing him on his knee, sat down to watch the ship as it sailed slowly away.

The captain, who sat in the stern with his chin resting in his hand, and a dark scowl on his face, also watched the retreating vessel.

Soon it glimmered like the wing of a sea-mew on the horizon, and then, just as night began to set in, it disappeared, leaving the boat a solitary speck in the midst of the great wide sea.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE DINNER PARTY—A SUDDEN PIECE OF QUESTIONABLE GOOD FORTUNE BEFALLS MRS. GAFF.

"It is a most unfortunate piece of good fortune this that has befallen Mrs Gaff," said Mr George Stuart, "a very unfortunate thing indeed."

"Dear me, do you think so? Now I don't agree with you at all, brother," observed Miss Peppy. "I think that good fortune is always good fortune, and never can be bad fortune. I wish it would only come to me sometimes, but it never does, and when it does it never remains long. Only think how she'll flaunt about now, with a coach-and-four perhaps, and such like. I really think that fortune made a mistake in this case, for she has been used to such mean ways, not that I mean anything bad by mean, you know, but only low and common, including food and domestic habits, as well as society, that—that—dear me, I don't exactly know how to express myself, but it's a puzzle to me to know how she'll ever come to be able to spend it all, indeed it is. I wonder why we are subjected to such surprises so constantly, and then it's so perplexing too, because one will never be able to remember that she's not a fisherwoman as she used to be, and will call her Jessie in spite of one's-self; and how it ever came about, that's another puzzle. But after all there is no accounting for the surprising way in which things do come about, dear me, in this altogether unaccountable world. Take a little more soup, Captain Bingley?"

The above observations were made by Miss Peppy and my friend Stuart, from the head and foot respectively of their dinner-table, around which were assembled my wife, my niece Lizzie Gordon, an elderly spinster named Miss Eve Flouncer, a Miss Martha Puff, (niece to Miss Flouncer), a baronet named Sir Richard Doles, my son Gildart, and Kenneth Stuart.

I was seated beside Miss Peppy, opposite to Sir Richard Doles, who was one of the slowest, dullest, stupidest men I ever met with. He appeared to me to have been born without any intellect. When he told a story there was no end to it, indeed there seldom was anything worthy the name of a beginning to it, and it never by the remotest chance had any point.

In virtue of his rank, not his capacity of course, Sir Richard was in great demand in Wreckumoft. He was chairman at every public meeting; honorary member of every society; a director in the bank, the insurance company, the railway, the poorhouse, and the Sailors' Home; in all of which positions and institutions he was a positive nuisance, because of his insane determination to speak as long as possible, when he had not the remotest notion of what he wished to say, so that business was in his presence brought almost to a dead lock. Yet Sir Richard was tolerated; nay, courted and toadied, because of his title.

My wife was seated opposite to Miss Eve Flouncer, who was one of the strong-minded women. Indeed, I think it is but just to say of her that she was one of the strongest-minded women in the town. In her presence the strength of Mrs Bingley's mind dwindled down to comparative weakness. In form she was swan-like, undulatory, so to speak. Her features were prononce; nose, aquiline; eyes, piercing; hair, black as night, and in long ringlets.

Miss Flouncer was, as I have said, an elderly spinster. Sir Richard was an elderly bachelor. Miss Flouncer thought of this, and often sighed. Sir Richard didn't think of it, and never sighed, except when, having finished a good dinner, he felt that he could eat no more. By the way, he also sighed at philanthropic meetings when cases of distress were related, such as sudden bereavement, coupled, perhaps, with sickness and deep poverty. But Sir Richard's sighs were all his contributions to the cause of suffering humanity. Sometimes, indeed, he gave it his blessing, though it would have puzzled the deepest philosopher to have said what that consisted in, but he never gave it his prayers, for this reason, that he never prayed for himself or anybody else. He held that this world was in a sufficiently satisfactory condition, and advised that men should let well alone, and contended that any attempt to interfere with its arrangements in the way of prayer was quite indefensible. He did indeed read his prayers in church on Sundays, in a very loud and distinct voice, to the great annoyance and distraction, not to say irritation, of all who sat within fifty yards of him, but this he regarded as a commendable institution of the country. But to return to Miss Flouncer.

This state of affairs between Sir Richard and herself did not augur much for her prospects; but then she was a very strong-minded woman, and had hopes; whereas Sir Richard was a very weak-minded man, and had no hopes of any kind worth mentioning, being perfectly satisfied—good, easy man—with things as they then stood.

Miss Martha Puff was niece to Miss Flouncer—age apparently sixteen. It struck me, as I sat looking at her placid face, that this young lady was well named. Her pink round visage was puffed up with something so soft that I could scarcely venture to call it fat. Her round soft arms were so puffy to look at, that one could not help fearing that an accidental prick from a pin would burst the skin and let them out. She seemed so like trifle in her pink muslin dress, that I could imagine a puff of wind blowing her away altogether. She could not be said to be puffed up with conceit, poor girl; but she dined almost exclusively on puff paste, to the evident satisfaction of my gallant son Gildart, who paid her marked attention during dinner.

Miss Puff never spoke except when spoken to, never asked for anything, never remarked upon anything, did not seem to care for anything, (puff paste excepted), and never thought of anything, as far as I could judge from the expression of her countenance. Gildart might as well have had a wax doll to entertain.

"To what unfortunate piece of good fortune does your brother refer, Miss Stuart?" asked Sir Richard when Miss Peppy had concluded her observations in regard to it.

"Is it possible that you have not heard of it?" exclaimed Miss Peppy in surprise. "Why, the town has been ringing with it for a fortnight at least, and those odious creatures, the gossips, (who never come near me, however, because they know I will not tolerate them), have got up all sorts of wild stories, showing that the man must have got the money by foul means, though I don't know, I'm sure, why he shouldn't have got a surprise as well as anybody else, for the unaccountable and astonishing way in which things do happen in this world, at least to human beings, for I do not believe that cows or sheep or horses ever experience them; the want of expression on their faces shows that, at all events they never leave their offspring at people's doors, and then go away without—"

"You'd better tell Sir Richard what piece of news you refer to, my dear," interrupted Mr Stuart, somewhat testily.

"Ah yes, I was forgetting—(a little more fowl, Captain Bingley? May I trouble you again, Sir Richard? thank you—a leg, if you please, I know that the Captain prefers a leg)—well, as I was saying—let me see, what was I saying?"

"You had only got the length of forgetting, ma'am," observed the baronet.

"Ah, to be sure, I was forgetting to tell you that Mrs Gaff has fallen heir to ten thousand pounds."

Sir Richard exclaimed, with an appearance of what might have been mistaken for surprise on his face, "Indeed!"

Miss Flouncer, to whom the news was also fresh, exclaimed, "You don't say so!" with strong emphasis, and an immensely swan-like undulation of her body.

"Indeed I do," continued Miss Peppy with much animation; "Mrs Gaff, the fisherman's wife, has got a fortune left her amounting to ten thousand pounds, which, at five per something or other, as my brother tells me, yields an annual income of 500 pounds."

"But who left it to her, and how?" asked Sir Richard.

"Ah, who left it, and how?" echoed Miss Flouncer.

"What a jolly thing to be left five hundred a year!" whispered Gildart. "Wouldn't you like some one to leave that to you, Miss Puff?"

"Yes," said Miss Puff.

"Have you any rich East Indian uncle or aunt who is likely to do it?" inquired Gildart with a desperate attempt at jocularity.

"No," answered Miss Puff.

These two words—yes and no—were the utmost extent to which Miss Puff had yet ventured into the dreaded sea of conversation. I could perceive by the fagged expression of his face that the middy was beginning to lose heart.

"Brother," said Miss Peppy, "you had better tell Sir Richard how it happened. I have such a memory—I really don't remember the details. I never could remember details of anything. Indeed I have often wondered why details were sent into this world to worry one so. It is so surprising and unaccountable. Surely we might have got on quite well without them."

"Well, you know," observed Gildart in a burst of reckless humour, "we could not get on very well, Miss Stuart, without some sorts of details. Ox-tails, for instance, are absolutely necessary to the soup which we have just enjoyed so much. So, in like manner, are pig-tails to Chinamen."

"Ay, and coat-tails to puppies," added Kenneth slyly, alluding to a bran new garment which the middy had mounted that day for the first time.

"Perhaps," interposed Miss Flouncer, "after such bright coruscations of wit, Mr Stuart may be allowed to go on with his—"

"Wittles," whispered Gildart in Miss Puff's ear, to the alarm of that young lady, who, being addicted to suppressed laughter, was in horror lest she should have a fit.

"Allowed to go on," repeated Miss Flouncer blandly, "with his tale of this unfortunate piece of good fortune, which I am sure Sir Richard is dying to hear."

"It can hardly be called a tale," said Mr Stuart, "but it is a curious enough circumstance. You remember Stephen Gaff, Sir Richard?"

"Perfectly. He is the man who appeared in the village of Cove rather mysteriously some months ago, is he not?"

"The same," returned Mr Stuart; "and it was he who accompanied Haco Barepoles in my sloop, which he persists in naming the 'Coffin,' although its proper name is the 'Betsy Jane,' on that memorable voyage when Haco sailed her into port on the larboard tack after she had been cut down to the water's edge on the starboard side. Well, it seems that Gaff went with him on that occasion in consequence of having received a letter from a London lawyer asking him to call, and he would hear something to his advantage.

"You all know the way in which the people were taken out of the sloop by the steamer which ran into her, and how they were all landed safely except Gaff and his son William, who were carried away to sea. You are aware, also, that the steamer has since then returned to England, telling us that Gaff and his boy were put on board a barque bound for Liverpool, and that this vessel has never made its appearance, so that we have reason to believe that it has perished in one of the great storms which occurred about that time.

"Well," continued Mr Stuart, helping Mrs Bingley to a glass of sherry, "not long ago I had occasion to send Haco Barepoles to London, and he bethought him of the lawyer who had written to Gaff, so he called on him and told him of his friend's disappearance. The lawyer then asked if Gaff's wife was alive, and on being informed that she was, he told Haco that Gaff had had a brother in Australia who had been a very successful gold digger, but whose health had broken down owing to the severity of the work, and he had left the diggings and gone to Melbourne, where he died. Before his death this brother made a will, leaving the whole of his fortune to Stephen. The will stated that, in the event of Stephen being dead, or at sea on a long voyage, the money should be handed over unconditionally to his wife. About three weeks ago the lawyer came here to see Mrs Gaff, and make arrangements and inquiries, and in the course of a short time this poor woman will be in possession of ten thousand pounds."

"It will be the ruin of her, I fear," said Sir Richard.

"No doubt of it," observed Miss Flouncer, emphatically.

"It is always the way," said my wife.

"D'ye think it would ruin you?" whispered Gildart.

This being an impertinent question, Miss Puff blushed, and made no reply.

"You need not be at all afraid of Mrs Gaff being ruined by prosperity," said Lizzie Gordon, with sudden animation. "I have seen a good deal of her during her recent sorrows, and I am quite sure that she is a good sensible woman."

"What sorrows do you refer to, Miss Gordon?" asked Sir Richard.

"To her husband and son's sudden disappearance, and the death of her brother-in-law John Furby," replied Lizzie. "Uncle, you can tell more about the matter than I can."

"Yes," said I; "it has been my lot to witness a good many cases of distress in my capacity of agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, and I can answer for it that this has been a very severe one, and the poor woman has borne up against it with Christian fortitude."

"How did it happen? Pray do tell us about it," cried Miss Flouncer, with an undulating smile.

"How does it happen, Miss Flouncer, that you are not already acquainted with these things?"

"Because I have been absent from home for more than two months, and, if I mistake not, Sir Richard's ignorance rests on somewhat similar foundation."

Miss Flouncer smiled and undulated towards the baronet, who, being thus pointedly appealed to, smiled and bowed in return, and begged that I would relate the facts of the case.

I observed that my son Gildart pressed Miss Puff to attempt another tart, and whispered something impertinent in her ear, for the poor thing's pink round face suddenly became scarlet, and she puffed out in a dangerously explosive manner with suppressed laughter.

"Well then," said I, addressing myself to Miss Flouncer, "a month or so before the lawyer brought Mrs Gaff tidings of her good fortune, her brother-in-law John Furby was drowned. The brave fellow, who, you are aware, was coxswain of our lifeboat, and has helped to save many a life since he was appointed to that post of danger, went off in his own fishing-boat one day. A squall upset the boat, and although the accident was seen from the shore, and several boats put off at once to the rescue, four of the crew perished, and Furby was one of these.