"The scene in Gaff's cottage when the body was carried in and laid on the bed, was heartrending for the woe occasioned to poor Mrs Gaff by the recent loss of her husband and little boy was, as it were, poured upon her head afresh, and for some time she was inconsolable. My good niece went frequently to read the Bible and pray with her, and I believe it was the blessed influence of God's word that brought her at length to a state of calm resignation. What made her case worse was the fact, that, both husband and brother-in-law being taken away, she was left in a state of absolute destitution. Now, at this point she began to feel the value of the noble institution of which I have the happiness of being an honorary agent—I mean the Shipwrecked Fishermen and Mariners' Society. Poor Furby had been a member for several years, and regularly paid his annual sum of three shillings. Stephen Gaff had also become a member, just before starting on his last voyage, having been persuaded thereto by Haco Barepoles, who is a stanch adherent and advocate of our cause. Many a sailor has Haco brought to me to enrol as a member, and many a widow and fatherless child has had occasion to thank God that he did so. Although Gaff had only paid his first year's contribution of three shillings, I took upon me to give the sum of 5 pounds to Mrs Gaff and her little girl, and the further sum of 3 pounds because of Furby's membership. This sum was quite sufficient to relieve her from want at the time, so that, in the midst of her deep affliction, she was spared the additional pains and anxieties of destitution."

"The society is a most noble one," said Miss Flouncer, with a burst of enthusiasm.

"It is," said I, much pleased with her warmth of manner; "I think—at least if my memory does not play me false—you are a contributor to its funds, are you not?"

"Well, a—no. I have not the pleasure—a—"

Miss Flouncer was evidently a little put out.

"Then I trust, my dear madam," said I, hasting to her relief by affording her an opportunity of being generous, "that you will allow me to put down your name as an annual subscriber."

Miss Flouncer, being a very strong-minded woman, had recovered herself very suddenly, and replied with calm deliberation, accompanied by an undulation—

"No, Captain Bingley, I have made it a rule never to give charity from impulse; I always give, when I do give—"

"Ahem!" coughed Gildart slightly.

"When I do give," repeated Miss Flouncer, "from principle, and after a careful examination of the merits of each particular case."

"Indeed!" said Sir Richard, with an appearance of faint surprise; "what a bore you must find the examination of the cases!"

"By no means, Sir Richard. Very little time suffices for each case, for many of them, I find, almost intuitively, merit dismissal on the spot; and I assure you it saves a great deal of money. You would be surprised if you knew how little I find it necessary to give away in charity in the course of the year."

Miss Flouncer undulated at Sir Richard as she gave utterance to this noble sentiment, and Mrs Bingley applauded it to Mr Stuart, who took no notice of the applause, and indicated no opinion on the point whatever.

"Now," continued Miss Flouncer, firmly, "before I become a subscriber to your society, Captain Bingley. I must be quite certain that it accomplishes much good, that it is worthy of support."

Being somewhat fired by the doubt that was implied in this speech, I replied with warmth—

"My dear madam, nothing will gratify me more than to enlighten you."

Hereupon I began an address, the substance of which is set down in the following chapter.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

JACK TAR BEFORE AND AFTER THE INSTITUTION OF THE S.F.M.S.

One beautiful evening in autumn, many years ago, a sailor was observed to approach an English village which lay embosomed among trees, near the margin of a small stream whose waters gleamed in the rays of the setting sun.

The village was an inland one, far removed alike from the roar and the influences of the briny ocean. It must have cost the sailor some pain to reach it; for he walked with a crutch, and one of his bare feet was bandaged, and scarcely touched the ground at each step. He looked dusty and fatigued, yet he was a stout, well-favoured, robust young fellow, so that his hapless condition was evidently the result of recent misfortune and accident—not of prolonged sickness or want. He wore the picturesque blue jacket, wide trousers, and straw hat of a man-of-war's man; and exposed a large amount of brown chest beneath his blue flannel shirt, the broad collar of which was turned well over.

Going straight to the inn of the village, he begged for a night's food and lodging. Told a sad story, in off-hand fashion, of how he had been shipwrecked on the western isles of Scotland, where he had lost all he possessed, and had well-nigh lost his life too; but a brave fisherman had pulled him out of the surf by the hair of the head, and so he was saved alive, though with a broken leg, which took many weeks to mend. When he was able to travel, he had set out with his crutch, and had walked two hundred miles on his way to Liverpool, where his poor wife and two helpless children were living in painful ignorance of his sad fate!

Of course this was enough to arouse all the sympathies of the villagers, few of whom had ever seen a real sailor of any kind in their lives—much less a shipwrecked one. So the poor fellow was received with open arms, entreated hospitably, lodged and fed at the public expense, and in the morning sent on his way rejoicing.

All the forenoon of that day the shipwrecked sailor limped on his way through a populous district of old England in the midst of picturesque scenery, gathering pence and victuals, ay, and silver and even gold too, from the pitying inhabitants as he went along. Towards the afternoon he came to a more thinly peopled district, and after leaving a small hamlet in which he had reaped a rich harvest he limped to the brow of the hill at the foot of which it lay, and gazed for a few minutes at the prospect before him.

It was a wide stretch of moorland, across which the road went in almost a straight line. There were slight undulations in the land, but no houses or signs of the presence of man.

Having limped on until the village was quite hidden from view, the sailor quietly put his crutch across his broad shoulder, and brightening up wonderfully, walked across the moor at the rate of full five miles an hour, whistling gaily in concert with the larks as he sped along.

An hour and a half of such walking brought him to a small patch of scrubby underwood, from the neighbourhood of which a large town could be seen looming against the evening sky in the far distance. The sailor entered the underwood with the air of a man who had aimed at the spot as a goal, and who meant to rest there a while. He reached an open space, in the centre of which grew a stunted tree. Here he sat down, and taking off his wallet, ate a hearty supper of scraps of excellent bread, cheese, and meat, which he washed down with a draught of gin. Afterwards he lit his pipe, and, while enjoying himself thus, reclining at the foot of the tree, proceeded to increase his enjoyment by counting out his gains.

While thus agreeably engaged, a rustling of the bushes caused him to bundle the gains hastily up in a handkerchief, which he thrust into his pocket, while he leaped nimbly to his feet, and seized his crutch.

"Oh, it's only you, Bill! why, I declare I thought it was—well, well, never mind. How have ye got on?"

The individual addressed entered the enclosure, and sat down at the foot of the tree with a sigh, which might, without much exaggeration, have been termed a growl. Bill was also, strange to say, a sailor, and a wounded one, (doubtless a shipwrecked one), because his left arm was in a sling.

"It's tough work, Jim, an' little pay," said the newcomer. "Why, I've walked twenty mile good, an' only realised two pun' ten. If it don't improve, I'll take to a better trade."

"You're a discontented dog," replied Jim, spreading out his treasures. "Here have I limped the same distance, an' bin an' got five pun' two."

"Whew!" whistled the other. "You don't say that? Well—we go 'alves, so I'm better—'ere pass that bottle. I'll drink to your good 'ealth. 'Ow did you ever come by it, Bill?"

To this Bill replied that he had fallen in with several ladies, whose hearts were so touched by his pitiful tale that most of them gave him crown pieces, while two, who actually shed tears while he spoke, gave him half a sovereign each!

"I drink to them 'ere two ladies," exclaimed Bill, applying the gin bottle to his mouth, which was already full of bread and beef.

"So does I," said Jim, snatching the bottle from his comrade, "not so much for the sake of them there ladies, 'owever, as to get my fair share o' the tipple afore you."

The remainder of the sentence was drowned by gin; and after they had finished the bottle, which was only a pint one however, these two men sat down together to count their ill-gotten gains; for both of them were vile impostors, who had never been on the salt water in the whole course of their worthless lives.

"Now, madam," said I, pointedly addressing Miss Flouncer, who had listened with rapt attention, "this circumstance happened before the existence of the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, and similar cases happened frequently. In fact, the interior of our land was at that time constantly visited by shipwrecked sailors of this kind."

"Indeed!" said Miss Flouncer, undulating to me, with a benignant smile.

"Yes, madam," said I. "Now observe another side of this picture."

Hereupon I resumed my address, the substance of which was as follows:

It chanced that when impostor Jim started away over the moor at the slapping pace I have already referred to, he was observed by two of the village boys, who were lying in a hollow by the road-side amusing themselves. These urchins immediately ran home, and told what they had seen. The gossips of the place congregated round the inn door, and commented on the conduct of the pretended seaman in no measured terms— at the same time expressing a wish that they only had him there, and they would let him smell the peculiar odour of their horse-pond. At this point the courage and the ire of three stout young ploughmen, who had been drinking deeply, was stirred up so much that they vowed to be revenged, and set off in pursuit of the offender. As they ran nearly all the way, they soon came to the spot where Jim and Bill had been enjoying themselves, and met these villains just as they were issuing from the underwood to continue their journey.

A fight immediately ensued, but Jim made such play with his crutch that the ploughmen were driven back. Bill, too, who had been a London prize-fighter, unslung his left arm, and used it so vigorously that the rustics, after having had all their eyes blackened and all their noses bled, were fain to turn round and fly!

This event, as you may suppose, made a considerable sensation in the neighbourhood; travellers and carriers conveyed the news of it along the road from village to village; and the thing was thoroughly canvassed, and the impostors duly condemned.

Well, about three weeks afterwards a great storm arose; a ship was wrecked on the coast, and all the crew and passengers drowned except one man—a powerful seaman, who chanced to be a good swimmer, and who nearly lost his own life in his gallant efforts to save the life of the only female who was on board. This man swam to the shore with one arm, while with the other he supported the woman.

He could barely crawl up the beach through the heavy surf, dragging his burden after him. But he succeeded, and then lay for some time insensible. When he recovered, he found that the woman appeared to be dead. Anxious, however, to do all in his power to restore her, he tried to chafe her limbs; but seeing that he could make no impression, he hastened away to search for human dwellings and send help. Four miles did he stagger along before he came to a fishing village.

Here he told his tale; the men of the place hurried away to the scene of the wreck, but arrived too late to be of any use.

The sailor remained some days with the fishermen, who received him kindly, and gave him a few pence to help him on his way to the nearest town, where he received a few shillings from some charitable persons, and then set off to walk on foot to his native place, which happened to be on the opposite coast of England.

The poor fellow got on very well until he came to the road which led to the village where Jim had been so successful. All along this road he was scouted as an impostor, and, but for his imposing size and physical strength, would doubtless have received more kicks than halfpence. As it was he was well-nigh starved.

Arriving one afternoon, famishing and almost knocked up, at the village, he went in despair to the inn door, and began to tell his sorrowful tale. He told it to unsympathetic ears. Among his auditors were the three ploughmen who had been so roughly handled by Jim and Bill. These only heard the first two or three sentences when they rushed upon the sailor, calling on their comrades, who were numerous, to help them to duck the rascal in the horse-pond.

The stout tar, although taken by surprise and overpowered, was not disposed to submit without a struggle. He was a very Samson in strength. Rising up by main force with two of his foes on his back, he threw them off, drove his right fist into the eye of one, his foot into the stomach of a second, flattened the nose of a third on his face with a left-hander, and then wheeling round at random, plunged his elbow into the chest of another who was coming on behind, and caused him to measure his length on the ground. Before the rustics recovered from their surprise at the suddenness of these movements, two more of their number were sprawling in the dust, and the rest stood off aghast!

"Now, then," shouted the indignant tar, as he clapped his back to the side of the inn, "come on! the whole of 'ee. I hope yer wills is made. What! ye're afeard, are ye? Well, if ye won't come on I'll bid ye good afternoon, ye low minded, cowardly land-lubbers!"

And with that he made a rush at them. They tumbled over each other in heaps, trying to get out of his way, so that he could only get a passing dig at one or two of them, and cleared away as fast as he could run.

They did not follow him far, so Jack soon stopped and sat down on the road-side, in a very savage state of mind, to wipe the blood from his face and knuckles.

While he was thus engaged, an elderly gentleman in the garb of a clergyman approached him.

"What has happened to you, my man?" he asked.

"That's none o' your business," answered Jack with angry emphasis. "Ax no questions, an' you'll be told no lies!"

"Excuse me, friend," replied the clergyman gently, "I did not mean to annoy you; but you seem to have been badly wounded, and I would assist you if you will allow me."

"I ax yer parding, sir," said Jack, a little softened, though by no means restored to his wonted good-humour; "no offence meant, but I've been shamefully abused by the scoundrels in yonder village, an' I am riled a bit. It's only a scratch, sir, you don't need to consarn yerself."

"It is more than a scratch, if I may judge from the flow of blood. Permit me to examine."

"Oh, it'll be all right d'rectly," said Jack; but as he said so he fell back on the grass, fainting from loss of blood which flowed from a large wound on his head.

When the sailor's senses were restored, he found himself in a bed in the clergyman's dwelling, with his head bandaged up, and his body a good deal weaker than he had ever before felt it. The clergyman took care of him until he recovered; and you may be sure that he did not miss the opportunity to urge the sailor to think of his soul, and to come to Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the world, whose name is Love, and whose teaching is all summed up in this, "Do unto others as ye would that they should do unto you."

When Jack was quite recovered, the clergyman gave him some money to enable him to reach his home without begging his way.

Now this case also occurred before the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society was instituted. I cannot say that such cases of rough handling were frequent; but cases in which true-blue shipwrecked tars were treated as impostors were numerous, so that, in those days, knaves and rascals often throve as wrecked seamen, while the genuine and unfortunate men were often turned rudely from door to door. This state of things does not exist now. It cannot exist now, for honorary agents of the society are to be found on every part of our coasts, so that the moment a wrecked man touches the land, no matter whether he be a Briton or a foreigner, he is at once taken care of, clothed, housed, fed, supplied with a little money, and forwarded to his home, or to the nearest consul of his nation. The society has therefore accomplished two great and good objects, for which the entire nation owes it a debt of gratitude; it has rid the land of begging impostors clad in sailors' clothes, and it has provided relief and assistance to the shipwrecked among our brave and hardy seamen who are in every sense the bulwarks of our island, and without whose labours, in the most perilous of all callings, Great Britain would be one of the poorest and most uninfluential kingdoms on the face of the earth.

But the society does a great deal more than that, for it comforts and assists with money and advice hundreds and thousands of widows and orphans whose husbands, fathers, or brothers have been drowned; and this it does from year to year regularly—as regularly as the storms come and scatter death and destruction on our shores. It cannot be too earnestly impressed on the people of England, and especially on those who dwell inland, that at least a thousand lives are lost, two thousand ships are wrecked, and two millions sterling are thrown away upon the coasts of this country every year.

It is owing to the untiring energy of the National Lifeboat Institution that those figures are not much, very much higher; and it is the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society that alleviates much, very much, of the woe resulting from storms and wrecks upon our shores. Sailors and fishermen know this well, and support both institutions largely. I would that ladies and gentlemen knew this better, and felt that they have a positive duty incumbent on them in regard to these societies, for they are not local but national.

"Now, madam," said I, again addressing myself pointedly to Miss Flouncer, "would you like to hear a few interesting facts in reference to the objects of this Society?"

Miss Flouncer smiled and undulated in order to express her readiness to listen; at the same time she glanced at Sir Richard, who, I observed, was sound asleep. I also noticed that Mrs Bingley sniffed impatiently; but I felt that I had a duty to perform, so with unalterable resolution I prepared to continue my address, when Miss Peppy, who had been nearly asleep during the greater part of the time I was speaking, suddenly said to Miss Flouncer—

"Well, it is a most surprising state of things that people will go to sea and get wrecked just to let societies like these spring up like mushrooms all over the land. For my part, I think I would rather do without the things that ships bring to us from foreign lands than always hear of those dreadful wrecks, and—but really one cannot expect the world to alter just to please one, so I suppose people must go on being drowned and saved by rocket-boats and lifeboats; so we had better retire to the drawing-room, my dear."

The last observation was addressed to Mrs Bingley, who responded to it with a bow of assent as she drew on her gloves.

Immediately after, the ladies rose, and I was thus constrained to postpone my narration of interesting facts, until another opportunity should offer.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

MRS. GAFF ENDEAVOURS FRUITLESSLY TO UNDERSTAND THE NATURE OF CASH, PRINCIPAL, AND INTEREST.

At first, as I have said, poor Mrs Gaff was quite inconsolable at the bereavements she had sustained in the loss of her husband and son and brother. For a long time she refused to be comforted, or to allow her spirit to be soothed by the visits, (the "angel visits" as she styled them), of Lizzie Gordon, and the entrance of God's Word into her heart.

Much of the violence of the good woman's character was the result of training and example on an impulsive and sanguine, yet kindly spirit. She had loved Stephen and Billy with a true and ardent love, and she could not forgive herself for what she styled her "cruelty to the dear boy." Neither could she prevail on herself to enjoy or touch a single penny of the money which ought, she said, to have been her husband's.

Night after night would Mrs Gaff sit down by the cottage fireside to rest after her day of hard toll, and, making Tottie sit down on a stool at her feet, would take her head into her lap, and stroke the hair and the soft cheek gently with her big rough hand, while she discoursed of the good qualities of Stephen, and the bravery of her darling boy, to whom she had been such a cruel monster in days gone by.

Poor Tottie, being of a sympathetic nature, would pat her mother's knee and weep. One evening while they were sitting thus she suddenly seemed to be struck with a new idea.

"Maybe, mother," said she, "Daddy an' Billy will come back. We've never hearn that they's been drownded."

"Tottie," replied Mrs Gaff earnestly, "I've thoughten o' that afore now."

Little more was said, but from that night Mrs Gaff changed her manner and her practice. She set herself earnestly and doggedly to prepare for the return of her husband and child!

On the day that followed this radical change in her feelings and plans, Mrs Gaff received a visit from Haco Barepoles.

"How d'ye find yerself to-day, Mrs Gaff?" said the big skipper, seating himself carefully on a chair, at which he cast an earnest glance before sitting down.

This little touch of anxiety in reference to the chair was the result of many years of experience, which told him that his weight was too much for most ordinary chairs, unless they were in sound condition.

"Well and hearty," replied Mrs Gaff, sitting down and seizing Tottie's head, which she began to smooth. She always smoothed Tottie, if she were at hand, when she had nothing better to do.

"Heh!" exclaimed Haco, with a slight look of surprise. "Glad to hear it, lass. Nothin' turned up, has there?"

"No, nothin'; but I've bin busy preparin' for Stephen and Billy comin' home, an' that puts one in good spirits, you know."

A shade of anxiety crossed Haco's brow as he looked earnestly into the woman's face, under the impression that grief had shaken her reason, but she returned his glance with such a calm self-possessed look that he felt reassured.

"I hope they'll come, lass," he said sadly; "what makes ye think they will?"

"I feel sure on it. I feel it here," replied the woman, placing her hand on her breast. "Sweet Miss Lizzie Gordon and me prayed together that the Lord would send 'em home if it was His will, an' ever since then the load's bin off my heart."

Haco shook his head for a moment, then nodded it, and said cheerily, "Well, I hope it may be so for your sake, lass. An' what sort o' preparations are ye goin' to make?"

Mrs Gaff smiled as she rose, and silently went to a cupboard, which stood close to the Dutch clock with the horrified countenance, and took therefrom a tea-caddy, which she set on the table with peculiar emphasis. Tottie watched her with an expression of awe, for she had seen her mother weeping frequently over that tea-caddy, and believed that it must certainly contain something very dreadful.

"The preparations," said Mrs Gaff, as she searched her pocket for the key of the box, "will depend on what I'm able to afford."

"You'll be able to afford a good deal, then, if all that's reported be true, for I'm told ye've got ten thousand pounds."

"Is that the sum?" asked Mrs Gaff, still searching for the key, which, like all other keys in like circumstances, seemed to have gone in for a game of hide-and-seek; "I'm sure I ought to know, for the lawyer took great pains to teach me that; ay, there ye are," (to the key); "found ye at last. Now then, Haco, we'll have a look at the book and see."

To Tottie's surprise and no small disappointment, the only object that came out of the mysterious tea-caddy was a small book, which Mrs Gaff, however, seemed to look upon with respect, and to handle as if she half-expected it would bite.

"There, that's my banker's book. You read off the figures, Haco, for I can't. To be sure if I had wanted to know, Tottie could have told me, but I haven't had the heart to look at it till to-day."

"Ten thousand, an' no mistake!" said Haco, looking at the figures with intense gravity.

"Now, then, the question is," said Mrs Gaff, sitting down and again seizing Tottie's head for stroking purposes, while she put the question with deep solemnity—"the question is, how long will that last?"

Haco was a good deal puzzled. He bit his thumb nail, and knit his shaggy brows for some time, and then said—

"Well, you know, that depends on how much you spend at a time. If you go for to spend a thousand pounds a day, now, it'll just last ten days. If you spend a thousand pounds a year, it'll last ten years. If you spend a thousand pounds in ten years, it'll last a hundred years—d'ye see? It all depends on the spendin'. But, then, Mrs Gaff," said the skipper remonstratively, "you mustn't go for to live on the principal, you know."

"What's the principal?" demanded Mrs Gaff.

"Why, the whole sum; the money itself, you know."

"D'ye suppose that I'm a born fool, Mr Barepoles, that I should try to live on the money itself? I never heerd on anybody bilin' up money in a kettle an' suppin' goold soup, and I'm not a-goin' for to try."

With infinite difficulty, and much futile effort at illustration, did Haco explain to Mrs Gaff the difference between principal and interest; telling her to live on the latter, and never on any account to touch the former, unless she wished to "end her days in a work'us."

"I wonder what it's like," said Mrs Gaff.

"What what's like?" inquired the skipper.

"Ten thousand pounds."

"Well, that depends too, you know, on what it's made of—whether copper, silver, goold, or paper."

"What! is it ever made o' paper?"

In attempting to explain this point, Haco became unintelligible even to himself, and Mrs Gaff became wildly confused.

"Well, well," said the latter, "never mind; but try to tell me how much I'll have a year."

"That depends too—"

"Everything seems to depend," cried Mrs Gaff somewhat testily.

"Of course it does," said Haco, "everything does depend on somethin' else, and everything will go on dependin' to the end of time: it depends on how you invest it, and what interest ye git for it."

"Oh, dearie me!" sighed Mrs Gaff, beginning for the first time to realise in a small degree the anxieties and troubles inseparable from wealth; "can't ye tell me what it's likely to be about?"

"Couldn't say," observed Haco, drawing out his pipe as if he were about to appeal to it for information; "it's too deep for me."

"Well, but," pursued Mrs Gaff, becoming confidential, "tell me now, d'ye think it would be enough to let me make some grand improvements on the cottage against Stephen and Billy's return?"

"Why, that depends on what the improvements is to be," returned Haco with a profound look.

"Ay, just so. Well, here are some on 'em. First of all, I wants to get a noo grate an' a brass tea-kettle. There's nothing like a cheery fire of a cold night, and my Stephen liked a cheery fire—an' so did Billy for the matter o' that; but the trouble I had wi' that there grate is past belief. Now, a noo grate's indispens'ble."

"Well?" said Haco, puffing his smoke up the chimney, and regarding the woman earnestly.

"Well; then I want to get a noo clock. That one in the corner is a perfit fright. A noo table, too, for the leg o' that one has bin mended so often that it won't never stand another splice. Then a noo tea-pot an' a fender and fire-irons would be a comfort. But my great wish is to get a big mahogany four-post bed with curtains. Stephen says he never did sleep in a four-poster, and often wondered what it would be like—no more did I, so I would like to take him by surprise, you see. Then I want to git—"

"Well?" said Haco, when she paused.

"I'm awful keen to git a carpit, but I doubt I'm thinkin' o' too many things. D'ye think the first year's—what d'ye call it?"

"Interest," said Haco.

"Ay, interest—would pay for all that?"

"Yes, an' more," said the skipper confidently.

"If I only knew how much it is to be," said Mrs Gaff thoughtfully.

At that moment the door opened, and Kenneth Stuart entered, followed by his friend Gildart Bingley. After inquiring as to her welfare Kenneth said:

"I've come to pay you the monthly sum which is allowed you by the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society. Mr Bingley asked me to call as he could not do so; but from all accounts I believe you won't need it. May I congratulate you on your good fortune, Mrs Gaff."

Kenneth took out his purse as he spoke to pay the sum due to her.

Mrs Gaff seemed to be struck with a sudden thought. She thanked Kenneth for his congratulations, and then said:

"As to my not needin' the money you've brought me, young man, I take leave to say that I do need it; so you'll obleege me by handin' it over."

Kenneth obeyed in surprise not unmingled with disappointment in finding such a grasping spirit in one whom he had hitherto thought well of. He paid the money, however, in silence, and was about to take his leave when Mrs Gaff stopped him.

"This sum has bin paid to me riglarly for the last three months."

"I believe it has," said Kenneth.

"And," continued Mrs Gaff, "it's been the means o' keepin' me and my Tottie from starvation."

"I'm glad to hear it," returned Kenneth, who began to wonder what was to follow; but he was left to wonder, for Mrs Gaff abruptly asked him and Gildart to be seated, as she was anxious to find out a fact or two in regard to principal and interest.

Gildart could scarce avoid laughing as he glanced at his companion.

"Now," began Mrs Gaff, seating herself opposite Kenneth, with a hand on each knee, "I wants to know what a principal of ten thousand pounds comes to in the way of interest in a twel'month."

"Well, Mrs Gaff," said Kenneth, "that depends—"

"Dear me!" cried Mrs Gaff petulantly, "every mortial thing that has to do with money seeps to depend. Could ye not tell me somethin' about it, now, that doesn't depend?"

"Not easily," replied Kenneth with a laugh; "but I was going to say that if you get it invested at five per cent, that would give you an income of five hundred pounds a year."

"How much?" inquired Mrs Gaff in a high key, while her eyes widened with astonishment.

Kenneth repeated the sum.

"Young man, you're jokin'."

"Indeed I am not," said Kenneth earnestly, with an appealing glance at Gildart.

"True—as Johnson's Dictionary," said the middy. Mrs Gaff spent a few moments in silent and solemn reflection.

"The Independent clergyman," she said in a low meditative tone, "has only two hundred a year—so I'm told; an' the doctor at the west end has got four hundred, and he keeps a fine house an' servants; an' Sam Balls, the rich hosier, has got six hundred—so they say; and Mrs Gaff, the poor critter, has only got five hundred! That'll do," she continued, with a sudden burst of animation, "shake out the reefs in yer tops'ls, lass, slack off yer sheets, ease the helm, an' make the most on it while the fair wind lasts."

Having thus spoken, Mrs Gaff hastily folded up in a napkin the sum just given her, and put it, along with the bank-book, into the tea-caddy, which she locked and deposited safely in the corner cupboard. Immediately after, her visitors, much surprised at her eccentric conduct, rose and took their leave.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

MRS. GAFF BECOMES A WOMAN OF BUSINESS, AND FINDS IT AWFULLY HARD WORK.

Soon after the conversation narrated in the last chapter, the clerks in the bank of Wreckumoft were not a little interested by the entrance of a portly woman of comely appearance and large proportions. She was dressed in a gaudy cotton gown and an enormously large bonnet, which fluttered a good deal, owing as much to its own magnitude and instability as to the quantity of pink ribbons and bows wherewith it was adorned.

The woman led by the hand a very pretty little girl, whose dress was much the same in pattern, though smaller in proportion. Both woman and child looked about them with that air of uncertainty peculiar to females of the lower order when placed in circumstances in which they know not exactly how to act.

Taking pity upon them, a clerk left his perch, and going forward, asked the woman what she wanted.

To this she replied promptly, that she wanted money.

She was much flushed and very warm, and appeared to have come some distance on foot, as well as to be in a state of considerable agitation, which, however, she determinedly subdued by the force of a strong will.

"If you go to yonder rail and present your cheque," replied the clerk kindly, "you'll get the money."

"Present what, young man?"

"Your cheque," replied the clerk.

"What's that?"

"Have you not a cheque-book—or a slip of paper to—"

"Oh! ay, a book. Of course I've got a book, young man."

Saying this, Mrs Gaff, (for it was she), produced from a huge bag the bank-book that had erstwhile reposed in the mysterious tea-caddy.

"Have you no other book than this?"

"No, young man," replied Mrs Gaff, feeling, but not exhibiting, slight alarm.

The clerk, after glancing at the book, and with some curiosity at its owner, then explained that a cheque-book was desirable, although not absolutely necessary, and went and got one, and showed her the use of it,—how the sum to be drawn should be entered with the date, etcetera, on the margin in figures, and then the cheque itself drawn out in words, "not in figures," and signed; after which he advised Mrs Gaff to draw out a cheque on the spot for what she wanted.

"But, young man," said Mrs Gaff, who had listened to it all with an expression of imbecility on her good-looking face, "I never wrote a stroke in my life 'xcept once, when I tried to show my Billy how to do it, and only made a big blot on his copy, for which I gave him a slap on the face, poor ill-used boy."

"Well, then, tell me how much you want, and I will write it out for you," said the clerk, sitting down at a table and taking up a pen.

Mrs Gaff pondered for a few seconds, then she drew Tottie aside and carried on an earnest and animated conversation with her in hoarse whispers, accompanied by much nodding and quivering of both bonnets, leading to the conclusion that what the one propounded the other heartily agreed to.

Returning to the table, Mrs Gaff said that she wanted a hundred pounds.

"How much?" demanded the clerk in surprise.

"A hundred pound, young man," repeated Mrs Gaff, somewhat sternly, for she had made up her mind to go through with it come what might; "if ye have as much in the shop just now—if not I'll take the half, and call back for the other half to-morry—though it be raither a longish walk fro' Cove and back for a woman o' my size."

The clerk smiled, wrote out the cheque, and bade her sign it with a cross. She did so, not only with a cross, but with two large and irregular blots. The clerk then pointed to a partition about five feet six in height, where she was to present it. Going to the partition she looked about for a door by which to enter, but found none. Looking back to the clerk for information, she perceived that he was gone. Pickpockets and thieves instantly occurred to her, but, on searching for the bank-book and finding that it was safe, she felt relieved. Just as she was beginning to wonder whether she was not being made game of, she heard a voice above her, and, looking up, observed a man's head stretched over the top of the partition and looking down at her.

"Now, then, good woman, what do you want?" said the head.

"I wants a hundred pound," said Mrs Gaff, presenting her cheque in a somewhat defiant manner, for she began to feel badgered.

The head put over a hand, took the cheque, and then both disappeared.

Mrs Gaff stood for some time waiting anxiously for the result, and as no result followed, she began again to think of thieves and pickpockets, and even meditated as to the propriety of setting up a sudden cry of thieves, murder, and fire, in order to make sure of the clerk being arrested before he should get quite clear of the building, when she became aware of a fluttering of some sort just above her. Looking up she observed her cheque quivering on the top of the partition. Wondering what this could mean, she gazed at it with an expression of solemn interest.

Twice the cheque fluttered, with increasing violence each time, as though it were impatient, and then the head re-appeared suddenly.

"Why don't you take your cheque?" it demanded with some asperity.

"Because I don't want it, young man; I wants my money," retorted Mrs Gaff, whose ire was beginning to rise.

The head smiled, dropped the cheque on the floor, and, pointing with its nose to a gentleman who stood behind a long counter in a sort of stall surrounded with brass rails, told her to present it to the teller, and she'd get the money. Having said which the head disappeared; but it might have been noted by a self-possessed observer, that as soon as Mrs Gaff had picked up the cheque, (bursting two buttons off her gown in the act), the head re-appeared, grinning in company with several other heads, all of which grinned and watched the further movements of Mrs Gaff with interest.

There were four gentlemen standing behind the long counter in brazen stalls. Three of these Mrs Gaff passed on her way to the one to whom she had been directed by the head's nose.

"Now, sir," said Mrs Gaff, (she could not say "young man" this time, for the teller was an elderly gentleman), "I hope ye'll pay me the money without any more worrittin' of me. I'm sure ye might ha' done it at once without shovin' about a poor ignorant woman like me."

Having appealed to the teller's feelings in this last observation, Mrs Gaff's own feelings were slightly affected, and she whimpered a little. Tottie, being violently sympathetic, at once began to weep silently.

"How would you like to have it, my good woman?" asked the teller kindly.

"Eh?" exclaimed Mrs Gaff.

"Would you like to have it in notes or gold?" said the teller.

"In goold, of course, sir."

Tottie here glanced upwards through her tears. Observing that her mother had ceased to whimper, and was gazing in undisguised admiration at the proceedings of the teller, she turned her eyes in his direction, and forgot to cry any more.

The teller was shovelling golden sovereigns into a pair of scales with a brass shovel as coolly as if he were a grocer's boy scooping out raw sugar. Having weighed the glittering pile, he threw them carelessly out of the scale into the brass shovel, and shot them at Mrs Gaff, who suddenly thrust her ample bosom against the counter, under the impression that the coins were about to be scattered on the floor. She was mistaken. They were checked in their career by a ledge, and lay before her unbelieving eyes in a glittering mass.

Suddenly she looked at the teller with an expression of severe reproof.

"You've forgot to count 'em, sir."

"You'll find them all right," replied the teller, with a laugh.

Thereupon Mrs Gaff, in an extremely unbelieving state of mind, began to count the gold pieces one by one into a little cotton bag which had been prepared by her for this very purpose, and which Tottie held open with both hands. In ten minutes, after much care and many sighs, she counted it all, and found that there were two sovereigns too many, which she offered to return to the teller with a triumphant air, but that incredulous man smiled benignantly, and advised her to count it again. She did count it again, and found that there were four pieces too few. Whereupon she retired with the bag to a side table, and, in a state of profuse perspiration, began to count it over a third time with deliberate care.

Tottie watched and checked each piece like a lynx, and the sum was at last found to be correct!

Mrs Gaff quitted the bank with a feeling of intense relief, and met Lizzie Gordon walking with Emmie Wilson just outside the door.

"My dear Miss Gordon," exclaimed the poor woman, kissing Lizzie's hand in the fulness of her heart, "you've no ideer what agonies I've bin a-sufferin' in that there bank. If they're a-goin' to treat me in this way always, I'll draw out the whole o' my ten hundred thousand pound—if that's the sum—an' stow it away in my Stephen's sea-chest, what he's left behind him."

"Dear Mrs Gaff, what have they done to you?" asked Lizzie in some concern.

"Oh, it's too long a story to tell ye here, my dear. Come with me. I'm a-goin' straight to yer uncle's, Captain Bingley. Be he to home? But stop; did ye ever see a hundred golden pounds?"

Mrs Gaff cautiously opened the mouth of her bag and allowed Lizzie to peep in, but refused to answer any questions regarding her future intentions.

Meanwhile Emmie and Tottie had flown into each other's arms. The former had often seen my niece, both at the house of Mr Stuart and at my own, as our respective ladies interchanged frequent visits, and Miss Peppy always brought Emmie when she came to see us. Lizzie had taken such a fancy to the orphan that she begged Miss Peppy to allow her to go with her and me sometimes on our visits to the houses of distressed sailors and fishermen. In this way Emmie and Tottie had become acquainted, and they were soon bosom friends, for the gentle, dark-eyed daughter of Mrs Gaff seemed to have been formed by nature as a harmonious counterpart to the volatile, fair-haired orphan. Emmie, I may here remark in passing, had by this time become a recognised inmate of Mr Stuart's house. What his intentions in regard to her were, no one knew. He had at first vowed that the foundling should be cast upon the parish, but when the illness, that attacked the child after the ship-wreck, had passed away, he allowed her to remain without further remark than that she must be kept carefully out of his way. Kenneth, therefore, held to his first intention of not letting his father or any one else know that the poor girl was indeed related to him by the closest tie. Meanwhile he determined that Emmie's education should not be neglected.

Immediately on arriving at my residence, Mrs Gaff was, at her own request, ushered into my study, accompanied by Tottie.

I bade her good-day, and, after a few words of inquiry as to her health, asked if I could be of any service to her.

"No, capting, thank 'ee," she said, fumbling with her bag as if in search of something.

"No news of Stephen or Billy, I suppose?" said I in a sad tone.

"Not yet, capting, but I expect 'em one o' these days, an' I'm a-gettin' things ready for 'em."

"Indeed! what induces you to expect them so confidently?"

"Well, capting, I can't well tell 'ee, but I do, an' in the meantime I've come to thank 'ee for all yer kindness to Tottie an' me when we was in distress. Yer Society, capting, has saved me an' Tottie fro' starvation, an' so I've come for to give ye back the money ye sent me by Mr Stuart, for there's many a poor widder as'll need it more nor I do."

So saying, she placed the money on the table, and I thanked her heartily, adding that I was glad to be able to congratulate her on her recent good fortune.

"Moreover," continued Mrs Gaff, taking a small bag from the large one which hung on her arm, and laying it also on the table, "I feel so thankful to the Almighty, as well as to you, sir, that I've come to give ye a small matter o' goold for the benefit o' the Society ye b'longs to, an' there it be."

"How much is here?" said I, lifting up the bag.

"A hundred pound. Ye needn't count it, capting, for it's all c'rekt, though it was shovelled out to me as if it war no better than coals or sugar. Good-day, capting."

Mrs Gaff, turning hastily round as if to avoid my thanks, or my remonstrances at so poor a woman giving so large a sum, seized Tottie by the wrist and dragged her towards the door.

"Stop, stop, my good woman," said I; "at least let me give you a receipt."

"Please, capting, I doesn't want one. Surely I can trust ye, an' I've had my heart nigh broke with bits o' paper this good day."

"Well, but I am required by the rules of the Society to give a receipt for all sums received."

Mrs Gaff was prevailed on to wait for the receipt, but the instant it was handed to her, she got up, bounced out of the room, and out of the house into the street. I hastened to the window, and saw her and Tottie walking smartly away in the direction of Cove, with their enormous bonnets quivering violently, and their ribbons streaming in the breeze.

Half an hour afterwards, Dan Horsey, who had been sent to me with a note from my friend Stuart, went down into my kitchen, and finding Susan Barepoles there alone, put his arm round her waist.

"Don't," said Susan, struggling unsuccessfully to get free. "What d'ye think Mrs Gaff has bin an' done?"

"Don't know, my jewel, no more nor a pig as has niver seen the light o' day," said Dan.

"She's bin—and gone—and given—" said Susan, with great deliberation, "one—hundred—gold sovereigns—to the Shipwrecked thingumbob Society!"

"How d'ye know that, darlint?" inquired Dan.

"Master told Miss Lizzie, Miss Lizzie told missis, and missis told me."

"You don't say so! Well, I wish I wor the Shipwrecked thing-me-bob Society, I do," said Dan with a sigh; "but I an't, so I'll have to cut my stick, clap spurs to my horse, as the story books say, for Capting Bingley towld me to make haste. But there's wan thing, Susan, as I wouldn't guv for twice the sum."

"An' what may that be?" asked Susan shyly.

"It's that," said Dan, imprinting a kiss on Susan's lips, to the dismay of Bounder, who chanced to be in the back scullery and heard the smack.

Cook rushed to the kitchen, but when she reached it Dan was gone, and a few minutes later that worthy was cantering toward Seaside Villa, muttering to himself:

"Tin thousand pound! It's a purty little bit o' cash. I only wish as a brother o' mine, (if I had wan), would leave me half as much, an' I'd buy a coach and six, an' put purty Susan inside and mount the box meself, an' drive her to Africay or Noo Zealand, (not to mintion Ottyheity and Kangaroo), by way of a marriage trip! Hey! Bucephalus, be aisy now. It isn't Master Kenneth that's on yer back just now, so mind what yer about, or it'll be wus for ye, old boy."



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE OPEN BOAT ON THE PACIFIC—GAFF AND BILLY IN DREADFUL CIRCUMSTANCES— A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA, AND A MADMAN'S DEATH.

While these events are taking place in the busy seaport of Wreckumoft, let us return to the little boat which we left floating, a solitary speck, upon the breast of the great Pacific Ocean.

As long as the whale-ship continued visible, the three occupants of the boat sat immovable, gazing intently upon her in deep silence, as if each felt that when she disappeared his last hold upon earth was gone.

Billy was the first to break silence.

"She's gone, father," he whispered.

Both men started, and looked round at the boy.

"Ay, she's gone," observed Gaff with a sigh; "and now we'll have to pull for it, night an' day, as we are able."

He began slowly to get out one of the oars as he spoke.

"It would have been better if they had cut our throats," growled Captain Graddy with a fierce oath.

"You'd have been worse off just now if they had, captain," said Gaff, shaking off his depression of spirits by a strong effort of will. "Come, Cap'n Graddy, you an' I are in the same fix; let's be friends, and do our best to face the worst, like men."

"It makes little matter how we face it," said the captain, "it'll come to the same thing in the long run, if we don't manage to make it a short run by taking strong measures. (He touched the hilt of a knife which he wore at all times in his belt.) However, we may as well pull as not."

He rose and sulkily took an oar, while Gaff took another.

"Now, captain," said Gaff, "you know better than me how far we be fro' land, an' which is the way to pull."

"I should think we're five hundred miles from the nearest land," said Graddy, "in a nor'-east direction, an' there's no islands that I know of between us an' South America, so we may just pull about for exercise till the grub's done, an' then pull till we're dead."

The captain burst into a loud, fierce laugh, as if he thought the last remark uncommonly witty.

Presently he said, "You may as well see how much we've got to eat an' drink before beginnin' our work."

"All right, my hearty!" cried Gaff, rising with alacrity to examine their store of provisions; "here's a small bag o' biscuit as'll last us three days, mayhap, on half allowance, so we'll be able to do with quarter allowance for the first few days, an' then reduce to an eighth, which'll make it spin out a few days longer. By that time we may fall in with a sail, who knows?"

"We're far beyond the track o' ships," said the captain bitterly. "Is there never a drop o' water in the boat?"

"Not a drop," replied Gaff, "I've searched all round, an' only found a empty bottle."

"Ay, meant for to smuggle brandy aboard when they got the chance, the brutes!" said the captain, referring to his recent crew. "Well, it don't matter. We've now the prospect of dyin' o' thirst before we die of starvation. For my part, I prefer to die o' starvation, so ye may put yourself an' your brat on full allowance as long as it lasts."

Poor Billy's horror at the prospect before him was much aggravated by the fierce and brutal manner of Graddy, and he would fain have gone and hid his face in his father's bosom; but he had been placed at the helm while the two were pulling, so he could not forsake his post.

It was a calm evening when they were thus cast adrift on the boundless sea, and as night advanced the calm deepened, so that the ocean became like a sea of ink, in which the glorious host of stars were faithfully mirrored.

Hour after hour the two men pulled at the oars with a slow-measured steady stroke, while Billy sat at the helm, and kept the boat's head in the direction of a certain star which the captain pointed out to him. At length the star became like a moon to Billy's gazing eyes; then it doubled itself, and then it went out altogether as the poor boy fell forward.

"Hallo, Billy! mind your helm!" cried his father.

"I felled asleep, daddy," said the Bu'ster apologetically, as he resumed his place.

"Well, well, boy; lie down and take a sleep. It's too hard on you. Eat a biscuit first though before you lie down, and I'll keep the boat's head right with the oar."

The captain made no remark, but the moon, which had just arisen, shone on his hard features, and showed that they were more fierce and lowering than at the beginning of the night.

Billy gladly availed himself of the permission, and took a biscuit out of the bag. Before he had eaten half of it he fell back in the stern-sheets of the boat, dropt into a sound sleep, and dreamed of home and his mother and Tottie.

Hour after hour the men pulled at the oars. They were strong men both of them, inured to protracted exertion and fatigue. Still the night seemed as if it would never come to an end, for in those high southern latitudes at that time of the year the days were very short and the nights were long.

At last both men stopped rowing, as if by mutual consent.

"It's a pity," said Gaff, "to knock ourselves up together. You'd better lie down, cap'n, an' I'll pull both oars for a spell."

"No, no, Gaff," replied Graddy, with sudden and unaccountable urbanity; "I'm not a bit tired, and I'm a bigger man than you—maybe a little stronger. So do you lie down beside the boy, an' I'll call ye when I want a rest."

Gaff remonstrated, protesting that he was game to pull for hours yet, but the captain would take no denial, so he agreed to rest; yet there was an uneasy feeling in his breast which rendered rest almost impossible. He lay for a long time with his eyes fixed on the captain, who now pulled the two oars slowly and in measured time as before.

At last, in desperation, Gaff gave Billy a poke in the ribs which roused him.

"Come, boy," said his father almost sternly, "you've slept long enough now; get up an' steer. Don't you see the cap'n's pullin' all alone!"

"All right, daddy," said Billy, uttering a loud yawn and stretching himself. "Where am I? Oh! oh!"

The question was put before he had quite recovered consciousness; the terminal "oh!" was something like a groan of despair, as his eye fell on the forbidding countenance of the captain.

Billy took the tiller in silence. After a little while Gaff drew his son's ear near to his mouth, and said in a low whisper—

"Billy, my lad, I must have a sleep, but I dursn't do it unless you keep a sharp eye on the captain. He's after mischief, I'm quite sure o' that, so give me a tremendous dig in the ribs if he offers to rise from his seat. Mind what I say now, lad. Our lives may depend on it."

Billy promised to be watchful, and in less than two minutes afterwards Gaff was sunk in deep repose.

The boy was faithful to his trust. Without appearing to be watching him, he never for one moment removed his eyes so far from where the captain sat labouring at the oars as to give him a chance of moving without being seen. As time passed by, however, Billy found it difficult to keep awake, and, in proportion as this difficulty increased, his staring at the captain became more direct and intense. Of course Graddy perceived this, and the sneering smile that crossed his visage showed that he had made a shrewd guess at the cause of the lad's attentions.

By degrees Billy's eyes began to droop, and he roused himself frequently with a strong effort, feeling desperately alarmed lest he should be overcome. But nature was not to be denied. Again and again did his head fall forward, again and again did he look up with a startled expression to perceive that Graddy was regarding him with a cold sardonic smile. Gradually Billy's eyes refused to convey a correct impression of what they rested on. The rower's head suddenly became twice as large as his body, a sight which so alarmed the boy that he started up and could scarce restrain a cry, but the head had shrunk into its ordinary proportions, and the sardonic smile was there as before.

Oh! what would not Billy have given at that time to have been thoroughly wide-awake and fresh! He thought for a moment of awaking his father, but the thought was only half formed ere sleep again weighed down his spirit, causing his eyelids to blink despite his utmost efforts to keep them open. Presently he saw Graddy draw the right oar quietly into the boat, without ceasing to row with the left one, and slowly draw the knife which hung at his belt.

The boy tried to shout and arouse his father, but he was paralysed with horror. His blood seemed to curdle in his veins. No sound would issue from his lips, neither could he move hand or foot while the cold glassy eye of the captain rested on him.

Suddenly Graddy sprang up, and Billy's voice found vent in a shrill cry. At the same moment Stephen Gaff awoke, and instinctively his hand grasped the tiller. He had no time to rise, but with the same force that drew the tiller from its socket in the helm he brought it forward with crashing violence on the forehead of Graddy, who was stooping to plunge the knife into his breast. He staggered beneath the blow. Before he could recover himself it was repeated, and he fell heavily back into the bottom of the boat.

"Thank the Lord," murmured Gaff, as he leaned over his fallen foe, "the villain's hand has bin stopped short this time. Come, Billy, help me to lift him up."

Gaff's blows had been delivered with such vigour that Graddy's head was much damaged, and it was a long time before the two could get him restored sufficiently to sit up. At length, however, he roused himself and looked with a bewildered air at the sun, which had just risen in a flood of golden light. Presently his eyes fell on Gaff, and a dark scowl covered his face, but being, or pretending to be unable to continue long in a sitting posture, he muttered that he would lie down and rest in the bow of the boat. He got up and staggered to the spot, where he lay down and soon fell fast asleep.

"Now, Billy lad, we'll let him rest, an' I'll take the oars. You will lie down and sleep, for you've much need of it, my poor boy, and while I'm pullin' I'll consider what's best for to be done in the circumstances."

"Better let me take one o' the oars, daddy. I'm wide-awake now, and not a bit tired."

"No, boy, no. Lay down. The next time I require to sleep I must have you in a more wakeful condition—so turn in." Gaff said this in a tone of command that did not admit of remonstrance; so Billy lay down, and soon fell into a deep slumber.

For a long time Gaff rowed in silence, gazing wistfully up into the sky, which was covered with gorgeous piles of snowy clouds, as if he sought to forget his terrible position in contemplating the glories of heaven. But earth claimed the chief share of his thoughts. While he rowed with slow unflagging strokes during these calm morning hours, he did indeed think of Eternity; of the time he had mis-spent on earth; of the sins he had committed, and of the salvation through Jesus Christ he had for so many years neglected or refused to accept.

But invariably these thoughts diverged into other channels: he thought of the immediate danger that menaced himself and his son; of death from thirst and its terrible agonies—the beginning of which even at that moment were affecting him in the old familiar way of a slight desire to drink! He thought, too, of the fierce man in the bow of the boat who evidently sought his life—why, he could not tell; but he surmised that it must either be because he had become deranged, or because he wished to get all the food in the boat to himself, and so prolong for a few days his miserable existence. Finally, his thoughts reverted to his cottage home, and he fancied himself sitting in the old chimney-corner smoking his pipe and gazing at his wife and Tottie, and his household goods.

"I'll maybe never see them agin," he murmured sadly.

For some minutes he did not speak, then he again muttered, while a grieved look overspread his face, "An' they'll never know what's come o' me! They'll go on thinkin' an' thinkin', an' hopin' an' hopin' year after year, an' their sick hearts'll find no rest. God help them!"

He looked up into the bright heavens, and his thoughts became prayer.

Ah! reader, this is no fancy sketch. It is drawn after the pattern of things that happen every year—every month—almost every week during the stormy seasons of the year. Known only to Him who is Omniscient are the multitudes of heartrending scenes of protracted agony and dreary death that are enacted year by year, all unknown to man, upon the lonely sea. Now and then the curtain of this dread theatre is slightly raised to us by the emaciated hand of a "survivor," and the sight, if we be thoughtful, may enable us to form a faint conception of those events that we never see. We might meditate on those things with advantage. Surely Christians ought not to require strong appeals to induce them to consider the case of those "who go down into the sea in ships, who do business in the great waters!" And here let me whisper a word to you ere I pass on, good reader:—Meditation, unless it results in action, is worse than useless because it deepens condemnation.

While Gaff was gazing upward a bright look beamed in his eyes.

"That's not a bad notion," he muttered, drawing in both oars, and rising. "I'll do it. It'll give 'em a chance, an' that's better than nothin'."

So saying he put his hand into the breast-pocket of his jacket, and drew out a letter, which he unfolded, and tore off a portion of the last leaf which was free from writing. Spreading this upon the thwart, he sought for and found a pencil which he was in the habit of carrying in his vest-pocket, and prepared to write.

I have shown elsewhere that Gaff could neither read nor write. Yet it does not follow that he had no knowledge whatever of these subjects. On the contrary, he understood the signification of capital letters when printed large and distinct, and could, (with inconceivable pains and difficulty no doubt), string a few simple words together when occasion required. He could also sign his name.

After much deep thought he concocted the following sentence:—

AT SEE IN PASIFIK. NO LAND FOR 5000 MILES. OPN BOET. THE SKIPER, BILLY, AND MEES KAST ADRIFT BY KREW. SKIPER MAD, OR ELSE A VILIN. FOAR OR FIVE DAIS BISKIT; NO WATTER. JESS, DEAR LAS, MY LAST THOATS ARE OF YOO.

STEPHEN GAFF.

He meant to put down 500, and thought that he was right!

Having completed his task, he folded up the letter carefully, and addressed it to "Mrs Gaff, sailor's wife, The Cove, England." Then he inserted it into the empty bottle to which reference has been made, and corking it up tight committed it to the waves with an earnest prayer for its safe arrival at its destination. He then resumed his oars with a feeling of great relief, as if a heavy weight had been taken off his mind, and watched the precious bottle until it was out of sight astern.

By this time the face of nature had changed somewhat. With the advancing day the wind arose, and before noon it was blowing a stiff breeze. The rolling of the boat awoke Billy, who looked up anxiously.

"Ay, it'll be all over sooner than I thought on," murmured Gaff, as he glanced to windward.

"What'll be all over, daddy?" inquired the boy, who, being accustomed to boating in rough weather, thought nothing of the threatening appearance of things.

"Nothin', lad, nothin'; I was only thinkin' aloud; the wind's freshenin', Billy, an' as you may have to sit a long spell at the tiller soon, try to go to sleep agin. You'll need it, my boy."

In spite of himself, Gaff's tone contained so much pathos that Billy was roused by it, and would not again try to sleep.

"Do let me pull an oar, daddy," he said earnestly.

"Not yet, lad, not yet. In a short time I will if the breeze don't get stiffer."

"Why don't he pull a bit, daddy?" inquired Billy pointing with a frown at the figure that lay crouched up in the bow of the boat.

Just then a wave sent a wash of spray inboard and drenched the skipper, who rose up and cursed the sea.

"You'd better bale it out than curse it," said Gaff sternly; for he felt that if there was to be anything attempted he must conquer his desperate companion.

The man drew his knife. Gaff, noticing the movement, leaped up, and catching hold of the tiller, which Billy handed to him with alacrity, faced his opponent.

"Now, Graddy," he said, in the tone of a man who has thoroughly made up his mind, "we'll settle this question right off. One of us must submit. If fair means won't do, foul shall be used. You may be bigger than me, but I don't think ye're stronger: leastwise ye'll ha' to prove it. Now, then, pitch that knife overboard."

Instead of obeying, Graddy hurled it with all his force into Gaff's chest. Fortunately the handle and not the point struck him, else had the struggle been brief and decisive. As it was, the captain followed up his assault with a rush at his opponent, who met him with a heavy blow from the tiller, which the other received on his left arm, and both men closed in a deadly struggle. The little boat swayed about violently, and the curling seas came over her edge so frequently that Billy began to fear they would swamp in a few moments. He therefore seized the baling-dish, and began to bale for his life while the men fought.

Gaff soon proved to be the better man, for he finally flung the captain over the middle thwart and almost broke his back.

"Now, do ye give in?" he shouted fiercely, as he compressed the other's throat with both hands.

Graddy gasped that he did; so Gaff allowed him to rise, and bade him take the baling-dish from the boy and set to work without delay.

The wretched man was so thoroughly cowed that he thereafter yielded instant obedience to his companion.

The wind was blowing furiously by this time, and the waves were running high, so that it required constant baling, and the utmost care in steering, to keep the boat from being swamped. Fortunately the storm was accompanied by heavy rain, so that by catching a little of this in their jackets and caps, they succeeded in quenching their thirst. Hunger they had scarcely felt up to this time, but soon the cravings of nature began to be imperious, and Gaff served out the first ration, on the short allowance scale, which was so small that it served only to whet their appetites. There was no need to row now. It was absolutely necessary to run before the wind, which was so strong that a single oar, set up in the place where the mast should have been, was sufficient to cause the light craft to fly over the waves.

Each took the helm for a couple of hours by turns. Thus employed they spent the day, and still thus employed the dark night found them.

Bad though things looked when there was light enough to enable them to see the rush of the black clouds overhead, the bursts of the driving spray and the tumultuous heavings of the wild sea, it was inconceivably worse when the darkness settled down so thick that they could barely see each other's faces, and the steering had to be done more by feeling, as it were, than sight. Gaff took the helm during the greater part of the night, and the other two baled incessantly; but the gale increased so much that the water at last came in faster than it could be thrown out, and they expected to be swamped every instant.

"We're goin' down, daddy," said Billy, while a strong inclination to burst into tears almost choked him.

"Here, lad," shouted Gaff in a loud voice, for the noise of the wind and waves rendered any other sound almost inaudible, "take the helm and keep her right before the wind. Ye used to steer well; do yer best now, my boy."

While he spoke Billy obeyed, and his father sprang into the middle of the boat, and grasped the three oars and boat-hook with which the boat was supplied. There were two small sails, which he wrapped hastily round these, and then tied them all together tightly with a piece of rope. In this operation he was assisted by Graddy, who seemed to understand what his comrade meant to do.

The boat was now half full of water.

"Down the helm—hard down," roared Gaff.

"Ay, ay, sir," responded Billy, with the ready promptitude of a seaman.

The boat flew round; at the same moment Gaff hurled the bundle of sails and spars overboard, and eased off the coil of rope to the end of which it was attached. In a few seconds it was about forty yards away to windward, and formed a sort of floating breakwater, which, slight though it was, proved to be sufficient to check the full force of the seas, so that the little boat found partial shelter to leeward.

The shelter was terribly slight, however; only just sufficient to save them from absolute destruction; and it was still necessary for one of their number to be constantly employed in baling out the water.

During the night the clouds cleared away, but there was no abatement of the wind; and having no water they were obliged to eat their allowance of biscuit either in a dry state or moistened in the sea.

Next day the sun rose in a cloudless sky, and all day it shone upon them fiercely, and the wind moderated enough to render baling unnecessary, but still they did not dare to haul in their floating bulwark.

Extreme thirst now assailed them, and Graddy began in an excited state to drink copiously of salt water.

"Don't go for to do that, cap'n," remonstrated Gaff.

A derisive laugh was the only reply.

Presently Graddy arose, and going into the head of the boat, took up the baling-dish and again drank deeply of the sea-water. "Ha! ha!" he laughed, tossing his arms wildly in the air, and gazing at Gaff with the glaring eyes of a maniac, "that's the nectar for me. Come, boys, I'll sing you a ditty."

With that he burst into a roaring bacchanalian song, and continued to shout, and yell, and drink the brine until he was hoarse. But he did not seem to get exhausted; on the contrary, his eyes glared more and more brightly, and his face became scarlet as the fires that were raging within him increased in intensity.

Billy clung to his father, and looked at the captain in speechless horror. Even Gaff himself felt an overpowering sense of dread creep over him, for he now knew that he had to deal with a raving maniac. Not knowing what to do, he sat still and silent in the stern of the boat with the tiller in his hand, and his eyes fixed immovably on those of the madman, who seemed to feel that it was a trial as to which should stare the other down, for he soon gave up singing and drinking, and devoted all his energies of body and soul to glaring at his enemy.

Thus they continued until the sun began to set. Then Gaff's heart sank within him, for he felt sure that, whenever it was too dark for each to see the other, the madman would summon up courage to make a sudden attack.

The attack, however, was precipitated by Gaff inadvertently glancing over his shoulder to observe how far the sun had yet to descend.

Instantly, with the leap of a panther, Graddy was upon him with both hands grasping tightly at his throat. Down, down, he pressed him, until Gaff lay on his back with his head over the gunwale. His strength now availed him nothing, for unnatural energy nerved the madman's arm.

Billy sprang up and tried to disengage him from his grasp. As well might the rabbit try to unlock the boa's deadly coil. Wrenching the tiller from his father's grasp he hit the madman on the head with all his might; but the poor boy's might was small. The blow seemed to have no effect at all. Again and again he brought it down in an agony of haste lest his father should be strangled before the other was felled. At last he hit him with all his force behind the ear, and Graddy's grasp relaxed as he fell prone on the body of his insensible victim.

To pull him off and haul his father into a more convenient position was the work of a few seconds.

"O daddy, daddy, speak to me," he cried, loosening his father's neckcloth and unbuttoning his shirt. "Oh, quick! get better before he does," cried Billy wildly, as he shook his father and laved water on his face; "oh! he'll get well first and kill you."

In order to do all that lay in his power to prevent this, Billy suddenly sprang up, and, seizing the tiller, dealt the prostrate Graddy several powerful blows on the head. It is not improbable that the frightened boy would have settled the question of his recovery then and there had not his father revived, and told him to stop.

For some minutes Gaff sat swaying about in a confused manner, but he was roused to renewed action by seeing Graddy move.

"We must hold him now, Billy. Is there a bit of rope about?"

"Not a inch, you tied it all round the oars."

"It's awkward. However, here's my necktie. It an't strong, but it's better than nothin'."

Gaff was about to take it off when Graddy recovered suddenly and attempted to rise. The others sprang on him and held him down; but they did so with difficulty, for he was still very strong.

All that night did they sit and hold him, while he raved and sang or struggled as the humour seized him. They did not dare to relax their hold for a moment; because, although he lay sometimes quite still for a lengthened period, he would burst forth again without warning and with increased fury.

And still, while they sat thus holding down the maniac, the wind blew fiercely over the raging sea, and the waves curled over and burst upon their tiny breakwater, sending clouds of spray over their head, insomuch that, ere morning, the boat was nearly half full of water.

When morning at last broke, father and son were so much exhausted that they could scarcely sit up, and their cramped fingers clung, more by necessity than by voluntary effort, to the garments of the now dying man.

Graddy was still active and watchful, however. His face was awful to look upon, and the fire of his restless eyes was unabated. When the sun rose above the horizon both Gaff and Billy turned their weary eyes to look at it. The madman noted the action, and seized the opportunity. He sprang with an unearthly yell, overturned them both, and plunged head foremost into the sea.

Twice he rose and gave vent to a loud gurgling cry, while Gaff and his son seized the rope attached to the oars, intending to pull them in and row to his assistance, for he had leaped so far out that he was beyond their reach. But before they had pulled in half of the cable the wretched man had disappeared from their view for ever.

Slacking off the rope they let the boat drift astern again to its full extent. Then, without a word, without even a look, father and son lay down together in the stern-sheets, and were instantly buried in a profound deathlike slumber.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE VOYAGE OF THE BOTTLE.

The little fragile craft which Stephen Gaff sent adrift upon the world of waters freighted with its precious document, began its long voyage with no uncertainty as to its course, although to the eye of man it might have appeared to be the sport of uncertain waves and breezes.

When the bottle fell upon the broad bosom of the South Pacific, it sank as if its career were to end at the beginning; but immediately it re-appeared with a leap, as if the imprisoned spirit of the atmosphere were anxious to get out. Then it settled down in its watery bed until nothing but the neck and an inch of the shoulder was visible above the surface. Thus it remained; thus it floated in the deep, in storm and calm, in heat and cold; thus it voyaged more safely, though not more swiftly, than all the proud ships that spread their lofty canvas to the breeze, night and day, for weeks and months, ay, and years together—not irregularly, not at haphazard, but steadily, perseveringly, in strict obedience to the undeviating laws which regulate the currents in the ocean and the air as truly and unchangeably as they do the circulation of the blood in the human frame.

The bottle started from that part of the South Pacific which is known to mariners as the Desolate Region—so called from the circumstance of that part of the sea being almost entirely destitute of animal life. Here it floated slowly, calmly, but surely, to the eastward with the great oceanic current, which, flowing from the regions of the antarctic sea, in that part sweeps round the southern continent of America, and makes for the equator by way of the southern Atlantic Ocean.

Now, reader, allow me to screw up a little philosophy here, and try to show you the why and the wherefore of the particular direction of our bottle's voyage.

Man has been defined by some lexicographer as a "cooking animal." I think it would be more appropriate to call him a learning animal, for man does not always cook, but he never ceases to learn—also to unlearn.

One of the great errors which we have been called on, of recent years, to unlearn, is the supposed irregularity and uncertainty of the winds and waves. Nothing is more regular, nothing more certain—not even the rising and setting of the sun himself—than the circulation of the waters and the winds of earth. The apparent irregularity and uncertainty lies in our limited power and range of perception. The laws by which God regulates the winds and waves are as fixed as is the law of gravitation, and every atom of air, every drop of water, moves in its appointed course in strict obedience to those laws, just as surely as the apple, when severed from the bough, obeys the law of gravitation, and falls to the ground.

One grand and important fact has been ascertained, namely, that all the waters of the sea flow from the equator to the poles and back again.

Disturbed equilibrium is the great cause of oceanic currents. Heat and cold are the chief agents in creating this disturbance.

It is obvious that when a portion of water in any vessel sinks, another portion must of necessity flow into the space which it has left, and if the cause which induced the sinking continue, so the flow to fill up will continue, and thus a current will be established.

Heat at the equator warms the sea-water, and makes it light; cold at the poles chills it, and makes it heavy. Hot water, being light, rises; cold water, being heavy, sinks.

Here, then, is a sufficient cause to produce the effect of currents in the sea.

But there are other causes at work. Excessive evaporation at the equator carries off the water of the sea, but leaves the salt behind, thus rendering it denser and heavier; while excessive influx of fresh water at the poles, (from rain and snow and melting ice), renders the sea light;—in addition to which corallines and shell-fish everywhere abstract the lime that is in the sea, by secreting it on their bodies in the form of shells, and thus increase the lightness of those particles of water from which the lime has been abstracted. The other particles of water being generous in their nature, hasten to impart of their lime and salt to those that have little or none.

Here, then, we have perpetual motion rendered absolutely certain, both as to continuance and direction.

But the latter causes which I have named are modifying causes which tend to counteract, or rather to deflect and direct currents in their flow. Besides which, the rotation of the earth, the action of the winds, and the conformation of continents and islands, have a powerful influence on currents, so that some flow at the bottom of ocean, some on the surface, some from east to west or west to east, or aslant in various directions, while, where currents meet there is deflection, modification, or stagnation, but there is no confusion; all goes on with a regularity and harmony which inconceivably excels that of the most complex and beautiful mechanism of man's constructing, although man cannot perceive this order and harmony by reason of his limited powers.

Now, these are facts, not theories founded on speculation. They have been arrived at by the slow but sure method of induction. Hundreds of thousands of practical men have for many years been observing and recording phenomena of every kind in connexion with the sea. These observations have been gathered together, collated, examined, and deeply studied by philosophers, who have drawn their conclusions therefrom. Ignorance of these facts rendered the navigation of the sea in days of old a matter of uncertainty and great danger. The knowledge of them and of other cognate facts enables man in these days to map out the so-called trackless ocean into districts, and follow its well-known highways with precision and comparative safety.

Our bottle moved along with the slow but majestic flow of one of those mighty currents which are begotten among the hot isles of the Pacific, where the corallines love to build their tiny dwellings and rear their reefs and groves.

In process of time it left the warm regions of the sun, and entered those stormy seas which hold perpetual war around Cape Horn. It passed the straits where Magellan spread his adventurous sails in days of old, and doubled the cape which Byron, Bougainville, and Cook had doubled long before it.

Ah! well would it be for man if the bottle had never doubled anything but that cape! And alas for man when his sight is doubled, and his crimes and woes are doubled, and his life is halved instead of doubled, by—"the bottle!"

Off Cape Horn our adventurous little craft met with the rough usage from winds and waves that marked the passage of its predecessors. Stormy petrels hovered over it and pecked its neck and cork. Albatrosses stooped inquiringly and flapped their gigantic wings above it. South Sea seals came up from Ocean's caves, and rubbed their furred sides against it. Sea-lions poked it with their grizzly snouts; and penguins sat bolt upright in rows on the sterile islands near the cape, and gazed at it in wonder.

Onward it moved with the north-western drift, and sighted on its left, (on its port bow, to speak nautically), the land of Patagonia, where the early discoverers reported the men to be from six to ten feet high, and the ladies six feet; the latter being addicted to staining their eyelids black, and the former to painting a red circle round their left eyes. These early discoverers failed, however, to tell us why the right eyes of the men were neglected; so we are forced to the conclusion that they were left thus untouched in order that they might wink facetiously with the more freedom. Modern travellers, it would seem, contradict, (as they usually do), many of the statements of ancient voyagers; and there is now reason to believe that the Patagonians are not much more outrageous in any respect than ordinary savages elsewhere.

Not long after doubling the Cape, the bottle sailed slowly past the Falkland Islands, whose rugged cliffs and sterile aspect seemed in accordance with their character of penal settlement. Sea-lions, penguins, and seals were more numerous than ever here, as if they were the guardians of the place, ready to devour all hapless criminals who should recklessly attempt to swim away from "durance vile."

Indeed, it was owing to the curiosity of a sea-lion that at this point in its long voyage the bottle was saved from destruction. A storm had recently swept the southern seas, and the bottle, making bad weather of it in passing the Falklands, was unexpectedly driven on a lee-shore in attempting to double a promontory. Whether promontories are more capable of resisting the bottle than human beings, I know not; but certain it is that the promontory arrested its progress. It began to clink along the foot of the cliffs at the outermost point with alarming violence; and there can be no reasonable doubt that it would have become a miserable wreck there, if it had not chanced to clink right under the nose of a sea-lion which was basking in the sunshine, and sound asleep on a flat rock.

Opening its eyes and ears at the unwonted sound, the lion gazed inquiringly at the bottle, and raised its shaggy front the better to inspect it. Apparently the sight stimulated its curiosity, for, with a roar and a gush of ardent spirit, it plunged into the sea and drove the bottle far down into the deep.

Finding, apparently, that nothing came of this terrific onslaught, the lion did not reappear. It sneaked away, no doubt, into some coral cave. But the force of the push sent the bottle a few yards out to sea, and so it doubled the promontory and continued its voyage.

Shortly after this, however, a check was put to its progress which threatened to be permanent.

In a few places of the ocean there are pools of almost stagnant tracts, of various sizes, which are a sort of eddies caused by the conflicting currents. They are full of seaweed and other drift, which is shoved into them by the currents, and are named Sargasso seas. Some of these are hundreds of miles in extent, others are comparatively small.

They bothered the navigators of old, did those Sargasso seas, uncommonly. They are permanent spots, which shift their position so little with the very slight changes in the currents of the sea, that they may be said to be always in the same place.

Columbus got into one of these Sargassos—the great Atlantic one that lies between Africa and the West Indies,—and his men were alarmed lest this strange weedy sea should turn out to be the end of the world! Columbus was long detained in this region of stagnation and calm, and so were most of the early navigators, who styled it the "Doldrums." Now-a-days, however, our knowledge of the currents of ocean and atmosphere enables us to avoid the Sargasso seas and sail round them, thereby preventing delay, facilitating trade, saving time, and greatly improving the condition of mankind.

Now, our bottle happened to get entangled in the weed of the Sargasso that exists in the neighbourhood of the Falkland Islands, and stuck fast there for many months. It was heaved up and down by the undulations, blown about a little by occasional breezes, embraced constantly by seaweed, and sometimes tossed by waves when the outskirts of a passing gale broke in upon the stagnant spot; but beyond this it did not move or advance a mile on its voyage.

At last a hurricane burst over the sea; its whirling edge tore up the weed and swept the waters, and set the bottle free, at the same time urging it into a north-easterly current, which flowed towards the coast of Africa. On its way it narrowly missed entanglement in another Sargasso,—a little one that lies between the two continents,—but fortunately passed it in safety, and at last made the Cape of Good Hope, and sighted the majestic Table Mountain which terminates the lofty promontory of that celebrated headland.