Here the bottle met with the wild stormy weather that induced its Portuguese discoverer, Bartholomew Diaz, to name it the "Cape of Tempests," and which cost him his life, for, on a succeeding voyage, he perished there. King John the Second of Portugal changed its name into the Cape of Good Hope, and not inappropriately so, as it turned out; for, a few years after its discovery in 1486, Vasco de Gama doubled the Cape of Good Hope and discovered the shores of India, whence he brought the first instalment of that wealth which has flowed from east to west ever since in such copious perennial streams.

There was a perplexing conflict of currents here which seemed to indicate a dispute as to which of them should bear off the bottle. The great Mozambique current, (which, born in the huge caldron of the Indian Ocean, flows down the eastern coast of Africa, and meets and wars with the currents coming from the west), almost got the mastery, and well-nigh swept it into an extensive Sargasso sea which lies in that region; in which case the voyage might have been inconceivably delayed; but an eccentric typhoon, or some such turbulent character, struck in from the eastward, swept the bottle utterly beyond Mozambique influence, and left it in the embrace of a current which flowed northward toward the equator.

Thus the bottle narrowly missed being flung on "India's coral strand," and voyaged slowly northward in a line parallel with that coast where "Afric's sunny fountains roll down their golden sands,"—where slavers, too, carried off the blacks in days happily gone by, to toil in slavery among the fields of cotton and sugar-cane, and where British cruisers did their best, (but that wasn't much!) to prevent the brutal traffic.

The chief point of interest in this part of the voyage was touching at Saint Helena, touching so sharply on the western promontory of that dreary islet, that the bottle again nearly made ship-wreck.

Admirably well chosen was this prominent, barren, isolated rock to be the prison of "Napoleon the Great," for he was a conspicuous, isolated specimen of humanity, barren of those qualities that constitute real greatness. Great he undoubtedly was in the art of shedding human blood and desolating myriads of hearths and hearts without any object whatever beyond personal ambition; for the First Napoleon being a Corsican, could not even urge the shallow plea of patriotism in justification of his murderous career.

So, let the bottle pass! Its career has not been more deadly, perchance, than was his during the time that the earth was scourged with his presence!

On reaching the hot region of the equator, our little craft was again sadly knocked about by conflicting currents, and performed one or two deep-sea voyages in company with currents which dived a good deal in consequence of their superior density and inferior heat. At one time it seemed as if it would be caught by the drift which flows down the east coast of South America, and thus get back into the seas from which it set out.

But this was not to be. Owing to some cause which is utterly beyond the ken of mortals, the bottle at last got fairly into the great equatorial current which flows westward from the Gulf of Guinea. It reached the north-west corner of South America, and progressing now at a more rapid and steady rate, progressed along the northern shore of that continent— passed the mouth of the mighty Amazon and the Orinoco, and, pushing its way among the West India Islands, crossed the Carribean Sea, sighted the Isthmus of Darien, coasted the Bay of Honduras, and swept round the Gulf of Mexico.

Here the great current is diverted from its westward course, and, passing through the Gulf of Florida, rushes across the Atlantic in a north-easterly direction, under the well-known name of the Gulf Stream. Men of old fancied that this great current had its origin in the Gulf of Mexico; hence its name; but we now know that, like many another stream, it has many heads or sources, the streams flowing from which converge in the Gulf of Mexico, and receive new and united direction there.

With the Gulf Stream the bottle pursued its voyage until it was finally cast ashore on the west of Ireland. Many a waif of the sea has been cast there before it by the same cause, and doubtless many another shall be cast there in time to come.

An Irishman with a jovial countenance chanced to be walking on the beach at the moment when, after a voyage of two years, our bottle touched the strand.

He picked it up and eyed it curiously.

"Musha! but it's potheen."

A more careful inspection caused him to shake his head.

"Ah, then, it's impty."

Getting the bottle between his eyes and the morning sun, he screwed his visage up into myriads of wrinkles, and exclaimed—

"Sure there is something in it."

Straightway the Irishman hurried up to his own cabin, where his own wife, a stout pretty woman in a red cloak, assisted him to reach the conclusion that there was something mysterious in the bottle, which was at all events not drinkable.

"Oh, then, I'll smash it."

"Do, darlint."

No sooner said than done, for Pat brought it down on the hearthstone with such force that it was shivered to atoms.

Of course his wife seized the bit of paper, and tried to read it, unsuccessfully. Then Pat tried to read it, also unsuccessfully. Then they both tried to read it, turning it in every conceivable direction, and holding it at every possible distance from their eyes, but still without success. Then they came to the conclusion that they could "make nothing of it at all at all," which was not surprising, for neither of them could read a word.

They wisely resolved at length to take it to their priest, who not only read it, but had it inserted in the Times on the week following, and also in the local papers of Wreckumoft.

Thus did Mrs Gaff, at long last, come to learn something of her husband and son. Her friends kindly told her she need not entertain any hope whatever, but she heeded them not; and only regarding the message from the sea as in some degree a confirmation of her hopes and expectations, she continued her preparations for the reception of the long absent ones with more energy than ever.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE FORTUNES OF GAFF AND BILLY CONTINUED.

Now, while the bottle was making its long voyage, Stephen Gaff and his son Billy were exposed to the vicissitudes of strange and varied fortune.

We left them sound asleep in the stern of the little boat, tossed on the troubled breast of the Pacific.

They never knew how long they slept on that occasion, but when they awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and the breeze had considerably abated.

Gaff was the first to shake off the lethargy that had oppressed him. Gazing round for some time, he seemed to hesitate whether he should lie down again, and looked earnestly once or twice in the face of his slumbering boy.

"'Tis pity to rouse him," he muttered, "but I think we must ha' had a long sleep, for I feel rested like. Hallo, Billy boy, how are 'ee?"

Billy did not respond to the greeting. Indeed, he refused to be moved by means of shouts of any kind, and only consented to wake up when his father took him by the coat-collar with both hands, and shook him so violently that it seemed as if his head were about to fall off.

"Hallo! faither," he cried in a sleepy voice, "wot's up?"

"Ha! you're roused at last, lad, come, it's time to have a bit breakfast. It ain't a heavy un you'll git, poor boy, but 'tis better than nothin', and bigger men have throve upon less at times."

Billy was awake and fully alive to his position by this time. He was much depressed. He would have been more than mortal had he been otherwise, but he resolved to shake off the feeling, and face his fortune like a man.

"Come along, daddy, let's have a spell at the oars before breakfast."

"No, lad, take a bit first," said Gaff, opening the sack which contained the biscuit, and carefully measuring out two small portions of the crumbs. One of the portions was rather larger than the other. Billy observed this, and stoutly refused to take his share when Stephen pushed the larger portion towards him.

"No, daddy," said he, "you're not a fair divider."

"Am I not, lad?" said Stephen meekly. "I thought I'd done it pretty eekal."

"No, my half is the biggest, so you'll have to take some of it back."

Gaff refused, but Billy insisted, and a small piece of the precious biscuit was finally put back into the bag. The meal was then eaten with much display of satisfaction by father and son, (a blessing having been first asked on it), and it was prolonged as much as possible in order to encourage the idea that it was not such a small one after all.

Billy had not been particular as to his crusts and fragments of victuals in days of yore, but it was wonderful how sharp his eye was on this occasion to note and pick up every minute crumb, and transfer it to his hungry mouth.

"Now, daddy, I'm ready."

He swelled out his little chest, and gave it a sounding thump as he rose, and, rolling up his shirt-sleeves to the shoulder, seized an oar. Gaff took the other, and both sat down to the slow, dreary, monotonous toil of another day.

At first the Bu'ster was chatty, but by degrees his tongue flagged, and ere long it became quite silent.

For six or eight hours they pulled without intermission, except for a few minutes at a time, every hour or so, and Gaff directed the boat's head in the direction to which the captain had pointed when he said the land might be about five hundred miles off.

When the sun was getting low on the horizon, Billy stopped with a sigh—

"Ain't it time for dinner, daddy, d'ye think?"

"Hold on a bit, lad, I'm goin' to let ye tak' a sleep soon, an' it'll be best to eat just afore lyin' down."

No more was said, and the rowing was continued until the sun had set, and the shades of night were beginning to descend on the sea.

"Now, lad, we'll sup," said Stephen, with a hearty air, as he pulled in his oar.

"Hooray!" cried Billy faintly, as he jumped up and went to the stern, where his father soon produced the biscuit-bag and measured out the two small portions.

"Cheatin' again, daddy," cried the Bu'ster with a remonstrative tone and look.

"No, I ain't," said Gaff sharply, "eat yer supper, you scamp."

Billy obeyed with alacrity, and disposed of his portion in three mouthfuls. There was a small quantity of rain-water—about half a pint—which had been collected and carefully husbanded in the baling-dish. It was mingled with a little spray, and was altogether a brackish and dirty mixture, nevertheless they drank it with as much relish as if it had been clear spring water.

"Now, boy, turn in," said Gaff earnestly; "you'll need all the sleep ye can git, for, if I know the signs of the sky, we'll have more wind afore long."

Poor Billy was too tired to make any objection to this order, so he laid his head on a fold of the wet sail, and almost immediately fell asleep.

Gaff was right in his expectation of more wind. About two hours after sunset it came on to blow so stiffly that he was obliged to awaken Billy and set him to bale out the sprays that kept constantly washing over the gunwale. Towards midnight a gale was blowing, and Gaff put the boat before the wind, and drove with it.

Hour after hour passed away; still there was no abatement in the violence of the storm, and no relaxation from baling and steering, which the father and son took alternately every half hour.

At last Billy's strength was fairly exhausted. He flung down the baling-dish, and, sitting down beside his father, laid his head on his breast, and burst into tears. The weakness, (for such Billy deemed it), only lasted a few moments however. He soon repressed his sobs.

"My poor boy," said Gaff, patting his son's head, "it'll be soon over wi' us, I fear. May the good Lord help us! The boat can't float long wi' such sprays washin' over her."

Billy said nothing, but clung closer to his father, while his heart was filled with solemn, rather than fearful, thoughts of death.

Their danger of swamping now became so imminent that Gaff endeavoured to prepare his mind to face the last struggle manfully. He was naturally courageous, and in the heat of action or of battle could have faced death with a smile and an unblanched cheek; but he found it much more difficult to sit calmly in the stern of that little boat hour after hour, and await the blow that seemed inevitable. He felt a wild, almost irresistible, desire to leap up and vent his feelings in action of some kind, but this was not possible, for it required careful attention to the helm to prevent the little craft from broaching-to and upsetting. In his extremity he raised his heart to God in prayer.

While he was thus engaged the roar of the storm increased to such a degree that both father and son started up in expectation of instantaneous destruction. A vivid flash of lightning glared over the angry sea at the moment, and revealed to their horrified gaze a reef of rocks close ahead, on which the waves were breaking with the utmost fury. Instant darkness followed the flash, and a deafening peal of thunder joined in the roar of breakers, intensifying, if possible, the terrors of the situation.

Gaff knew now that the crisis had certainly arrived, and for the next few moments he exerted every power of eye and ear in order to guide the boat into a channel between the breakers—if such existed.

"Jump for'ard, lad," he shouted, "and keep yer eye sharp ahead."

Billy obeyed at once, with the seamanlike "Ay, ay, sir," which he had acquired on board the whaler.

"Port, port! hard-a-port!" shouted the boy a moment after taking his place in the bow.

"Port it is," answered Gaff.

Before the boat had time, however, to answer the helm, she was caught on the crest of a breaker, whirled round like a piece of cork, and, balancing for one moment on the foam, capsized.

The moment of hesitation was enough to enable Gaff to spring to his son's side and seize him. Next instant they were buffeting the waves together.

It is not necessary to remind the reader that Gaff was an expert swimmer. Billy was also first-rate. He was known among his companions as The Cork, because of his floating powers, and these stood him in good stead at this time, enabling him to cling to his father much more lightly than would have been the case had he not been able to swim.

At first they found it impossible to do more than endeavour to keep afloat, for the surging of the breakers was so great, and the darkness so intense, that they could not give direction to their energies. But the increasing roar of the surf soon told them that they were near the rocks, and in a few seconds they were launched with tremendous force amongst them.

Well was it for them at that moment that the wave which bore them on its crest swept them through a gap in the reef, else had they been inevitably dashed to pieces. As it was, they were nearly torn asunder, and Gaff's shoulder just grazed a rock as he was whirled past it; but in a few seconds they found themselves in comparatively still water, and felt assured that they had been swept through an opening in the reef. Presently Gaff touched a rock and grasped it.

"Hold on, Billy my lad!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "we'll be safe ashore, please God, in a short bit."

"All right, daddy," gasped the boy; for to say truth, the whirling in the foam had well-nigh exhausted him.

Soon the two were out of the reach of the waves, clinging to what appeared to be the face of a precipice. Here, although safe from the actual billows, they were constantly drenched by spray, and exposed to the full fury of the gale. At first they attempted to scale the cliff, supposing that if once at the top they should find shelter; but this proved to be impossible. Equally impossible was it to get round the promontory on which they had been cast. They were therefore compelled to shelter themselves as they best might, in the crevices of the exposed point, and cling to each other for warmth.

It was a long long night to those castaways. Minutes appeared to pass like hours, and it seemed to them as if night had finally and for ever settled down on the dreary world. The wind too, although not very cold, was sufficiently so to chill them, and long before day began to break they were so much benumbed as to be scarcely able to maintain their position.

During all this time they were harassed by uncertainty as to the nature of the rock on which they were cast. It might be a mere barren islet, perhaps one which the sea covered at high-water, in which case there was the possibility of their being swept away before morning.

When morning came, however, it revealed to them the fact that they were upon a small promontory, which was connected by a narrow neck of sand with the land.

As soon as the light rendered this apparent, Gaff put his hand on Billy's head and spoke softly to him—

"Now then, lad, look up—ye an't sleepin', sure, are ye?"

"No, daddy, only dozin' and dreamin'," said Billy, rousing himself.

"Well, we must stop dreamin', and git ashore as fast as we can. I think there's dry land all the way to the beach; if not, it'll only be a short swim. Whether it's an island or what, I don't know; but let's be thankful, boy, that it looks big enough to hold us. Come, cheer up!"

To this Billy replied that he was quite jolly, and ready for anything; and, by way of proving his fitness for exertion, began to crawl over the rocks like a snail!

"That'll never do," said Gaff with a short laugh; "come, wrestle with me, youngster."

The Bu'ster accepted the challenge at once by throwing his arms round his father's waist, and endeavouring to throw him. Gaff resisted, and the result was that, in ten minutes or so, they were comparatively warm, and capable of active exertion.

Then they clambered over the rocks, traversed the neck of sand, and quickly gained the shore.

Ascending the cliffs with eager haste, they reached the summit just as the sun rose and tinged the topmost pinnacles with a golden hue. Pushing on towards an elevated ridge of rock, they climbed to the top of a mound, from which they could obtain a view of the surrounding country, and then they discovered that their place of refuge was a small solitary island, in the midst of the boundless sea.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE ISLAND-HOME EXAMINED.

For a long time father and son stood on the elevated rock gazing in silence on the little spot of earth that was to be their home, it might be, for months, or even years.

The island, as I have said, was a solitary one, and very small—not more than a mile broad, by about three miles long; but it was covered from summit to shore with the richest tropical verdure, and the trees and underwood were so thick that the cliffs could only be seen in places where gaps in the foliage occurred, or where an aspiring peak of rock shot up above the trees. In order to reach the ridge on which they stood, the castaways had passed beneath the shade of mangrove, banana, cocoa-nut, and a variety of other trees and plants. The land on which these grew was undulating and varied in form, presenting in one direction dense foliage, which not only filled the little valleys, but clung in heavy masses to rocks and ridges; while in other places there were meadows of rich grass, with here and there a reedy pond, whose surface was alive with wild ducks and other water-fowl. Only near the top of the island—which might almost be styled a mountain ridge—was there any appearance of uncovered rock. There were two principal peaks, one of which, from its appearance, was a volcano, but whether an active one or not Gaff could not at that time determine. Unlike the most of the South Sea islands, this one was destitute of a surrounding coral reef, so that the great waves caused by the recent storm burst with thunderous roar on the beach.

At one point only was there a projecting point or low promontory, which formed a natural harbour; and it was on the outer rocks of this point that the father and son had been providentially cast. The whole scene was pre-eminently beautiful; and as the wind had gone quite down, it was, with the exception of the solemn, regular, intermittent roar of the breakers on the weather side, quiet and peaceful. As he sat down on a rock, and raised his heart to God in gratitude for his deliverance, Gaff felt the spot to be a sweet haven of rest after the toils and horrors of the storm.

A single glance was sufficient to show that the island was uninhabited.

The silence was first broken by Billy, who, in his wonted sudden and bursting manner, gave vent to a resonant cheer.

"Hallo! ho! hooray!" he shouted, while a blaze of delight lit up his face; "there's the boat, daddy!"

"Where away, lad?" demanded Gaff, rising and shading his eyes from the sun, as he looked in the direction indicated.

"There, down i' the cove; bottom up among the rocks; stove in, I daresay. Don't 'ee see'd, faither?"

"Ay, lad; and mayhap it bean't stove in; leastwise we'll go see."

As the two hastened down to the beach to ascertain this important point, Gaff took a more leisurely survey of things on the island, and Billy commented freely on things in general.

"Now, daddy," said the Bu'ster, with a face of beaming joy, "this is the very jolliest thing that ever could have happened to us—ain't it?"

"Well, I'm not so sure o' that, lad. To be cast away on a lone desert island in the middle o' the Pacific, with little or no chance o' gittin' away for a long bit, ain't quite the jolliest thing in the world, to my mind."

"Wot's a desert island, daddy?"

"One as ain't peopled or cultivated."

"Then that's no objection to it," said Billy, "because we two are people enough, and we'll cultivate it up to the mast-head afore long."

"But what shall we do for victuals, lad?" inquired Gaff, with a smile.

The Bu'ster was posed. He had never thought of food, so his countenance fell.

"And drink?" added Gaff.

The Bu'ster was not posed at this, for he remembered, and reminded his father of, the pond which they had seen from the ridge.

"Aha!" he added, "an' there was lots o' ducks on it too. We can eat them, you know, daddy, even though we han't got green peas or taties to 'em."

"We can have other things to 'em though," said Gaff, pointing to a tall palm-tree; "for there are cocoa-nuts; and farther on, to this side o' the hollow there, I see banana-trees; and here are yams, which are nearly as good as taties."

"I told ye it would be jolly," cried Billy, recovering his delight, "an' no doubt we'll find lots of other things; and then we'll have it all to ourselves—you and me. You'll be king, daddy, or emperor, and I'll be prince. Won't that be grand?—Prince of a South Sea island! What would Tottie and mother say? And then the boat, you know—even if it do be stove in, we can patch it up somehow, and go fishin'."

"Without hooks or lines?" said Gaff.

Billy was posed again, and his father laughed at the perplexed expression on his countenance, as he said, "Never mind, boy, we'll find somethin' or other that will do instead o' hooks an' lines."

"To be sure we will," assented the other encouragingly; "an' that'll be one of the jolliest bits of it all, that we'll spend lots of our time in tryin' to find out things that'll do instead o' other things, won't we? And then—hallo! was that a grump?"

"It sounded uncommon like one."

"An' that's a squeal," said Billy.

In another moment both "grump" and "squeal" were repeated in full chorus by a drove of wild pigs that burst suddenly out of a thick bush, and, rushing in mad haste past the intruders on their domain, disappeared, yelling, into a neighbouring thicket.

"Pork for our ducks, daddy!" shouted Billy, when the first burst of his surprise was over; "we'll have plenty of grub now; but how are we to catch them?"

"Ha! we must find that out," replied Gaff cheerfully; "it'll give us summat to think about, d'ye see? Now then, here we are at the beach, an' as far as I can see we have bright prospects in regard to victuals of another sort, for here be crabs an' oysters an' no end o' cockles. Come, we'll not be badly off, if we only had a hut o' some sort to sleep in; but, after all, we can manage to be comfortable enough under a tree. It will be better than the housin' we've had for the last few nights, anyhow."

To their great delight they found that the boat had been cast ashore on a sandy place, and that it was uninjured. A short way beyond it, too, the oars were found stranded between two rocks.

This was a piece of great good fortune, because it placed within their reach the means of an immediate circumnavigation of their island. But before entering on this voyage of discovery they resolved to explore the woods near the place where they had landed, in search of a cavern, or some suitable place in which to fix their home.

Acting on this resolve they pulled the boat up the beach, placed the oars within it, and returned to the woods. As they went they picked up a few shell-fish, and ate them raw. Thus they breakfasted; but although the meal was a poor one it was unusually pleasant, because of the hunger which had previously oppressed them, and which Billy, in a fit of confidential talk with his father, compared to having his "interior gnawed out by rats!"

Passing through the woods they found a quantity of ripe berries, of various kinds, of which they ate heartily, and then came to a spring of clear cold water. Gaff also climbed a cocoa-nut tree and brought down two nuts, which were clothed in such thick hard shells that they well-nigh broke their hearts before they succeeded in getting at the kernels. However, they got at them in course of time, and feasted sumptuously on them.

It was half an hour, or perhaps three-quarters of an hour, after the gathering of the cocoa-nuts, that they came suddenly on a spring of water above which there was a cloud of vapour resembling steam.

"It's bilin'," exclaimed Billy, as he ran forward and eagerly thrust his hand into the water.

Billy had said this in joke, for he had never conceived of such a thing as a spring of hot water, but he found that his jest might have been said in earnest, for the spring was almost "bilin'," and caused the Bu'ster to pull his hand out again with a roar of surprise and pain.

Just beyond the hot spring they found a small cavern in the face of a cliff, which appeared to them to be quite dry.

"Here's the very thing we want, daddy," cried Billy in gleeful surprise.

"Don't be too sure, lad; p'raps it's damp."

"No, it's dry as bone," said the boy, running in and placing his hands on the floor; "it's wide inside too, and the entrance is small, so we can put a door to it; and look there! see—an't that a hole leadin' to some other place?"

Billy was right. A small hole, not much larger than was sufficient to admit of a man passing through, conducted them into a larger cave than the first one, and here they found another hole leading into a third, which was so large and dark that they dared not venture to explore it without a light. They saw enough, however, to be convinced that the caverns were well ventilated and free from damp, so they returned to the entrance cave and examined it carefully with a view to making it their home.

Billy's romantic spirit was filled to overflowing with joy while thus engaged, insomuch that Gaff himself became excited as well as interested in the investigation. They little knew at the time how familiar each rock and crevice of that cave was to become, and how long it was destined to be their island-home!



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

RELATING TO IMPROVEMENTS IN THE HUT, AND MRS. GAFF'S PERPLEXITIES.

While Stephen Gaff and his son were busy preparing their residence in the South Sea island, Mrs Gaff was equally busy in preparing her residence for their reception on their return to Cove.

The little cottage had undergone so many changes during the past few months that it is doubtful whether its rightful owner would have recognised his own property,—internally at least; externally it remained unaltered.

Having, with much pains, ascertained that she might venture to launch out pretty freely in the way of expenditure without becoming absolutely bankrupt, Mrs Gaff had supplied herself with a handsome new grate, a large proportion of which was of polished brass, that cost herself and Tottie much of their time to keep clean and brilliant; there were also fender and fire-irons to match, adorned with brass knobs and points, which latter were the special admiration of Tottie. There was a carpet, too, straight from the looms of Turkey—as the man who sold it informed Mrs Gaff—which was the admiration of all Cove, for it was divided into squares of brilliant colours, with huge red roses in the centre of each. It was positively a superb, a resplendent, carpet, and rejoiced the hearts and eyes of Mrs Gaff and her child every time they looked at it, which you may be sure was pretty often. It kept them indeed in a constant state of nervous dread lest they should spill or capsize anything upon it, and in this respect might almost be said to have rendered their lives a burden, but they bore up under it with surprising cheerfulness.

There was also a new eight-day clock, with a polished mahogany case and a really white face, which by contrast made the old Dutch clock more yellow and bilious than ever, and if possible more horrified in its expression. Mrs Gaff had allowed the old clock to retain its corner, wisely concluding that it would be a pleasantly familiar sight and sound to her husband and son when they returned. It was quite apparent to the meanest capacity that there was a rivalry between the two timepieces; for, being both rather good timekeepers, they invariably struck the hours at the same time, but the new clock struck with such a loud overbearing ring that the old one was quite overpowered. The latter had the advantage, however, of getting the first two strokes before the other began, besides which it prefaced its remarks every hour with a mysterious hissing and whirring sound that the new clock could not have got up to save its life.

There were also half-a-dozen new cane chairs. The shopman who had sold Mrs Gaff the carpet told her that they would look more elegant and drawing-room-like than the six heavy second-hand mahogany ones, with the hair-cloth seats, on which she had set her heart. Mrs Gaff would not at first agree to take the cane chairs, observing truly that they "was too slim," but she was shaken in her mind when the shopman said they were quite the thing for a lady's boudoir.

She immediately demanded to know what a "boodwar" was. The shopman told her that it was an elegant apartment in which young ladies were wont to sit and read poetry, and think of their absent lovers.

On hearing this she retired into a corner of the shop, taking refuge behind a chest of drawers, and held a long whispered conversation with Tottie, after which she came forth and asked the shopman if married ladies ever used boodwars where they might sit and think of their absent husbands.

The shopman smiled, and said he had no doubt they did—indeed, he was sure of it; for, said he, there was a certain apartment in his own house in which his own wife was wont to sit up at night, when he chanced to be absent, and think of him.

The uncandid man did not add that in the same apartment he was in the habit of being taken pretty sharply to task as to what had kept him out so late; but, after all, what had Mrs Gaff to do with that? The result was that the six cane chairs were ordered by Mrs Gaff, who remarked that she never read "poitry," but that that wouldn't matter much. Thenceforth she styled the cottage at Cove the Boodwar.

It is worthy of remark that Mrs Gaff, being a heavy woman, went through the bottom of the first of the cane chairs she sat down on after they were placed in the boudoir, and that her fisher-friends, being all more or less heavy, went successively through the bottoms of all the rest until none were left, and they were finally replaced by the six heavy mahogany chairs, with the hair seats, which ever afterwards stood every test to which they were subjected, that of Haco Barepoles' weight included.

But the chief ornament of the cottage was a magnificent old mahogany four-poster, which was so large that it took up at least a third of the apartment, and so solidly dark and heavy that visitors were invariably, on their first entrance, impressed with the belief that a hearse had been set up in a corner of the boudoir. The posts of this bed were richly carved, and the top of each was ornamented with an imposing ball. The whole was tastefully draped with red damask so dark with age as to be almost black. Altogether this piece of furniture was so grand that words cannot fully describe it, and it stood so high on its carved legs that Mrs Gaff and Tottie were obliged to climb into it each night by a flight of three steps, which were richly carpeted, and which folded into a square box, which was extremely convenient as a seat or ottoman during the day, and quite in keeping with the rest of the furniture of the "boodwar."

In addition to all these beautiful and expensive articles, Mrs Gaff displayed her love for the fine arts in the selection and purchase of four engravings in black frames with gold slips, one for each wall of the cottage. The largest of these was the portrait of a first-rate line-of-battle ship in full sail, with the yards manned, and dressed from deck to trucks with all the flags of the navy. Another was a head of Lord Nelson, said to be a speaking likeness!

This head had the astonishing property of always looking at you, no matter what part of the room you looked at it from! Tottie had expressed a wish that it might be hung opposite the new clock, in order that it might have something, as it were, to look at; but although the eyes looked straight out of the picture, they refused to look at the clock, and pertinaciously looked at living beings instead. Mrs Gaff asserted that it had a squint, and that it was really looking at the Dutch clock, and on going to the corner where that timepiece stood she found that Lord Nelson was gazing in that direction! But Tottie, who went to the opposite corner of the room, roundly asseverated that the head looked at her.

There was no getting over this difficulty, so Mrs Gaff gave it up as an unsolvable riddle; but Tottie, who was fond of riddles, pondered the matter, and at length came to the conclusion that as Lord Nelson was a great man, it must be because of his greatness that he could look in two directions at the same moment.

Mrs Gaff furthermore displayed her taste for articles of vertu in her selection of chimney-piece ornaments. She had completely covered every inch of available space with shells of a brilliant and foreign aspect, and articles of chinaware, such as parrots and shepherds, besides various creatures which the designer had evidently failed to represent correctly, as they resembled none of the known animals of modern times.

From this abode of elegance and luxury Mrs Gaff issued one forenoon in her gay cotton visiting dress and the huge bonnet with the pink bows and ribbons. Tottie accompanied her, for the two were seldom apart for any lengthened period since the time when Stephen and Billy went away. Mother and daughter seemed from that date to have been united by a new and stronger bond than heretofore; they walked, worked, ate, slept, and almost thought together. On the present occasion they meant to pay a business visit at the house of Mr Stuart.

While they were on their way thither, Miss Penelope Stuart was engaged in the difficult and harassing work of preparing for a journey. She was assisted by Mrs Niven, who was particularly anxious to know the cause of the intended journey, to the great annoyance of Miss Peppy, who did not wish to reveal the cause, but who was so incapable of concealing anything that she found it absolutely necessary to take the housekeeper into her confidence.

"Niven," she said, sitting down on a portmanteau, which was packed, beside one which was packing.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I may as well tell you why it is that I am going to visit my brother-in-law—"

"Oh, it's to your brother-in-law you're goin', is it?"

"Yes, I forgot that you did not know, but to be sure I might have known that you could not know unless you were told, although it's difficult to understand why people shouldn't know what others are thinking of, as well as what they are looking at. We can see them looking, but we can't hear them thinking—really it is very perplexing—dear me, where can they be?"

"What, ma'am?"

"My thick walking-shoes. I'm quite sure that I had them in my hand a minute ago."

"Ho! ma'am," exclaimed Mrs Niven suddenly, "if you aren't bin an' put 'em into your bonnet-box among the caps."

"Well now, that is odd. Put them into the bag, Niven. Well, as I was saying—where was I?"

"You was goin' to tell me why you are goin' to your brother, ma'am," observed the housekeeper.

"Ah! to be sure; well then—. But you must never mention it, Niven."

Miss Peppy said this with much solemnity, as if she were administering an oath.

"On my honour, ma'am; trust me. I never mentions hanythink."

Mrs Niven said this as though she wondered that the supposition could have entered into Miss Peppy's head for a moment, that she, (Mrs Niven), could, would, or should tell anything to anybody.

"Well then, you must know," resumed Miss Peppy, with a cautious glance round the room, "my brother-in-law, Colonel Crusty, who lives in the town of Athenbury, is a military man—"

"So I should suppose, ma'am," observed Mrs Niven, "he being called Kurnel, w'ich is an army name."

"Ah, yes, to be sure, I forgot that; well, it is two hours by train to Athenbury, which is a dirty place, as all seaports are—full of fishy and sailory smells, though I've never heard that such smells are bad for the health; at least the Sanitary Commissioners say that if all the filth were cleaned away the effluvia would be less offensive, and— and—. But, as I was saying, for those reasons I mean to pay my brother-in-law a short visit."

"Beg parding, ma'am," said Mrs Niven, "but, if I may remark so, you 'ave not mentioned your reasons as yet."

"Oh, to be sure," said the baffled Miss Peppy, who had weakly hoped that she could escape with an indefinite explanation; "I meant to say, (and you'll be sure not to tell, Niven), that the Colonel has a remarkably pretty daughter, with such a sweet temper, and heiress to all her father's property; though I never knew rightly how much it was, for the Crustys are very close, and since their mother died—"

"Whose mother, ma'am? the Colonel's or his daughter's?"

"His daughter's, of course—Bella, she is called. Since she died, (not Bella, but her mother), since then I've never heard anything about the family; but now that Bella is grown up, I mean to get her and Kenneth to see each other, and I have no doubt that they will fall in love, which would be very nice, for you know Kenneth will have a good income one of those days, and it's as well that the young people should be—be married if they can, and indeed I see nothing in the way; though, after all, they would probably be happier if they were not to marry, for I don't believe the state to be a happy one, and that's the reason, Niven, that I never entered into it myself; but it's too late now, though I cannot conceive why it should ever be too late, for if people can be happy at all, any time, what's to hinder?"

Miss Peppy paused abruptly here, and Mrs Niven, supposing that she awaited a reply, said—

"Nothing whatever, ma'am."

"Exactly so, Niven, that's just what I think. Kenneth is young and tall and handsome, Bella is young and small and pretty, and that's the reason the match is so suitable, though, to be sure, there are many people similarly situated whose union would not be suitable; dear me, this world of perplexities! No one can read the riddle, for this world is no better than a big round riddle, flattened a little at the poles, to be sure, like an orange, though to my eyes it seems as flat as a pancake, except in the Scotch Highlands, where it's very irregular, and the people wear kilts; still, upon the whole, I think the match will be a good one, so I am going to try to bring it about."

"But are you sure, ma'am, that Master Kenneth will go to visit Colonel Crusty?"

"O yes, he has promised to escort me there, and then he'll see Bella, and, of course, he won't wish to leave after that."

Mrs Niven shook her head, and observed that she rather feared Miss Lizzie Gordon's image was already indelibly impressed on Master Kenneth's heart, but Miss Peppy replied that that was all nonsense, and that, at all events, her brother, Mr Stuart, would never permit it. She did not find it difficult to gain over Mrs Niven to her views, for that worthy woman, (like many other worthy women in this world), held the opinion that a "good match" meant a match where money existed on one or both sides, and that love was a mere boyish and girlish idea, which should not be taken into consideration at all.

The two were still discussing this important subject when Mrs Gaff laid violent hands on the door-bell.

On being admitted to the presence of Miss Peppy, Mrs Gaff sat down on the packed trunk, and all but stove in the lid; whereupon she rose hastily with many apologies, and afterwards in her confusion sat down on the bonnet-box, which she stove in so completely as to render it hors-de-combat for all future time.

"I'm awful sorry," she began.

"Oh, no harm; at least no matter," said Miss Peppy, "it's quite a useless sort of thing," (this was literally true), "and I mean to get a new one immediately."

Mrs Gaff became suddenly comforted, and said, with a bland smile, that, having heard only that morning of her intention to visit the town of Athenbury, she had called to ask her to do her a great favour.

"With the greatest pleasure; what can I do for you?" said Miss Peppy, who was the essence of good-nature.

"Thank 'ee, ma'am, it's to take charge o' a bit parcel, about the size of my head, or thereaway, and give it to a poor relation o' mine as lives there when he an't afloat."

"A seaman?" said Miss Peppy.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well; but," continued Miss Peppy, "you say the parcel is the size of your head: do you mean your head with or without the bonnet? Excuse me for—"

"La! ma'am, without the bonnet, of course. It may perhaps be rather heavy, but I an't quite sure yet. I'll let you know in an hour or so."

Mrs Gaff rose abruptly, left the house, with Tottie, precipitately, and made her way to the bank, where she presented herself with a defiant air to the teller who had originally supplied her with a hundred pounds in gold. She always became and looked defiant, worthy woman, on entering the bank, having become unalterably impressed with the idea that all the clerks, tellers, and directors had entered into an agreement to throw every possible difficulty in the way of her drawing out money, and having resolved in her own determined way that she wouldn't give in as long as, (to borrow one of her husband's phrases), "there was a shot in the locker!"

"Now, sir," she said to the elderly teller, "I wants twenty pounds, if there's as much in the shop."

The elderly teller smiled, and bade her sit down while he should write out the cheque for her. She sat down, gazing defiance all round her, and becoming painfully aware that there were a number of young men behind various screened rails whose noses were acting as safety-valves to their suppressed feelings.

When the cheque was drawn out and duly signed, Mrs Gaff went to the rails and shook it as she might have shaken in the face of her enemies the flag under which she meant to conquer or to die. On receiving it back she returned and presented it to the elderly teller with a look that said plainly—"There! refuse to cash that at your peril;" but she said nothing, she only snorted.

"How will you have it?" inquired the teller blandly.

"In coppers," said Mrs Gaff stoutly.

"Coppers!" exclaimed the teller in amazement.

"Yes, coppers."

"My good woman, are you aware that you could scarcely lift such a sum in coppers."

"How many would it make?" she inquired with an air of indecision.

"Four thousand eight hundred pence."

Mrs Gaff's resolution was shaken; after a few moments' consideration she said she would take it in silver, and begged to have it mixed—with a good number of sixpences amongst it.

"You see, my lamb," she whispered to Tottie, while the teller was getting the money, "my poor cousin George is a'most too old to go to sea now, and he han't got a penny to live on, an' so I wants to gladden his heart and astonish his eyes wi' a sight o' such a heap o' silver. Mix it all together, sir," she said to the teller.

He obeyed, and pushed the pile towards Mrs Gaff, who surveyed it first with unmixed delight; but gradually her face was clouded with a look of concern as she thought of the counting of it.

If the counting of the gold was terrible to her, the counting of the silver was absolutely appalling, for the latter, consisting as it did of half-crowns, shillings, and sixpences, numbered nearly five hundred pieces.

The poor woman applied herself to the task with commendable energy, but in ten minutes she perceived that the thing was utterly beyond her powers, so she suddenly exclaimed to Tottie, who stood looking on with tears in her eyes,—"Surely the elderly teller must be an honest man, and would never cheat me;" having come to which conclusion she swept the silver into the bag previously prepared for it, and consigned that to the basket which was the inseparable companion of her left arm. Thereafter she left the bank and hastened to a grocer in the town with whom she was acquainted, and from whom she obtained brown paper and twine with which she made the money up into a parcel. Her next act was to purchase a new bonnet-box, which she presented to Miss Peppy with many earnest protestations that she would have got a better if she could, but a better was not to be had in town for love or money.

Having executed all her commissions, Mrs Gaff returned to Cove and spent an hour or two with Tottie in the four-poster—not by any means because she was lazy, but because it afforded her peculiar and inexpressible pleasure to stare at the damask curtains and wonder how Gaff would like it, and think of the surprise that he would receive on first beholding such a bed. So anxious did the good woman become in her desire to make the most of the new bed, that she once or twice contemplated the propriety of Stephen and herself, and the Bu'ster and Tottie, spending the first night, "after their return," all together in it, but on mature consideration she dismissed the idea as untenable.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

MISS PEPPY UNDERTAKES A JOURNEY.

The scene is changed now to the railway station at Wreckumoft, where there is the usual amount of bustle and noise. The engines are shrieking and snorting as if nothing on earth could relieve their feelings but bursting. Bells are ringing; porters are hurrying to and fro with luggage on trucks, to the risk of passengers' shins and toes; men, women, and children, young and old, high and low, rich and poor, are mixed in confusion on the platform, some insanely attempting to force their way into a train that is moving off, under the impression that it is their train, and they are too late "after all!" Others are wildly searching for lost luggage. Many are endeavouring to calm their own spirits, some are attempting to calm the spirits of others. Timid old ladies, who cannot get reconciled to railways at all, are convinced that "something is going to happen," and testy old gentlemen are stumping about in search of wives and daughters, wishing that railways had never been invented, while a good many self-possessed individuals of both sexes are regarding the scene with serene composure.

When Miss Peppy made her appearance she was evidently not among the latter class. She was accompanied by Kenneth, and attended by Mrs Niven.

Neither mistress nor maid had ever been in a railway station before. They belonged to that class of females who are not addicted to travelling, and who prefer stage-coaches of the olden times to railways. They entered the station, therefore, with some curiosity and much trepidation—for it chanced to be an excursion day, and several of the "trades" of Athenbury were besieging the ticket-windows.

"It is very good of you to go with me, Kennie," said Miss Peppy, hugging her nephew's arm.

"My dear aunt, it is a pleasure, I assure you," replied Kenneth; "I am quite anxious to make the acquaintance of Colonel Crusty and his pretty daughter."

"O dear! what a shriek! Is anything wrong, Kennie?"

"Nothing, dear aunt; it is only a train about to start."

"What's the matter with you, Niven?" inquired Miss Peppy with some anxiety, on observing that the housekeeper's face was ashy pale.

"Nothink, ma'am; only I feels assured that everythink is a-goin' to bu'st, ma'am."

She looked round hastily, as if in search of some way of escape, but no such way presented itself.

"Look-out for your legs, ma'am," shouted a porter, as he tried to stop his truck of luggage.

Mrs Niven of course did not hear him, and if she had heard him, she would not have believed it possible that he referred to her legs, for she wore a very long dress, and was always scrupulously particular in the matter of concealing her ankles. Fortunately Kenneth observed her danger, and pulled her out of the way with unavoidable violence.

"It can't 'old on much longer," observed Niven with a sigh, referring to an engine which stood directly opposite to her in tremulous and apparently tremendous anxiety to start.

The driver vented his impatience just then by causing the whistle to give three sharp yelps, which produced three agonising leaps in the bosoms of Miss Peppy and Mrs Niven.

"Couldn't it all be done with a little less noise," said Miss Peppy to Kenneth, "it seems to me so aw—oh! look! surely that old gentleman has gone mad!"

"Not he," said Kenneth with a smile; "he has only lost his wife in the crowd, and thinks the train will start before he finds her; see, she is under the same impression, don't you see her rushing wildly about looking for her husband, they'll meet in a moment or two if they keep going in the same direction, unless that luggage-truck should interfere."

"Look-out, sir!" shouted the porter at that moment. The old gentleman started back, and all but knocked over his wife, who screamed, recognised him, and clung to his arm with thankful tenacity.

A bell rang.

The crowd swayed to and fro; agitated people became apparently insane; timid people collapsed; strong people pushed, and weak folk gave way. If any man should be sceptical in regard to the doctrine of the thorough depravity of the human heart, he can have his unbelief removed by going into and observing the conduct of an eager crowd!

"What a hinfamous state of things!" observed Mrs Niven.

"Yell!—shriek!" went the engine whistle, drowning Miss Peppy's reply.

"Take your seats!" roared the guard.

The engine gave a sudden snort, as if to say, "You'd better, else I'm off without you."

"Now aunt," said Kenneth, "come along."

In another moment Miss Peppy was seated in a carriage, with her head out of the window, talking earnestly and rapidly to Mrs Niven.

It seemed as if she had reserved all the household directions which she had to give to that last inopportune moment!

"Now, take good care of Emmie, Niven, and don't forget to get her—"

The remainder was drowned by "that irritating whistle."

"Get her what, ma'am?"

"Get her shoes mended before Sunday, and remember that her petticoat was torn when she—bless me! has that thing burst at last?"

"No, ma'am, not yet," said Niven.

"Now then, keep back; show your tickets, please," said the inspector, pushing Niven aside.

"Imperence!" muttered the offended housekeeper, again advancing to the window when the man had passed.

As the train was evidently about to start, Miss Peppy's memory became suddenly very acute, and a rush of forgotten directions almost choked her as she leaned out of the window.

"Oh! Niven, I forgot—the—the—dear me, what is it? I know it so well when I'm not in a flurry. It's awful to be subjected so constantly to— the Child's History of England! that's it—on the top of my—my—which trunk can it be? I know, oh yes, the leather one. Emmie is to read— well now, that is too bad—"

As Miss Peppy stopped and fumbled in her pocket inquiringly, Mrs Niven asked, in some concern, if it was her purse.

"No, it's my thimble; ah! here it is, there's a corner in that pocket where everything seems to—well," (shriek from the whistle), "oh! and— and—the baker's book—it must be—by the bye, that's well remembered, you must get money from Mr Stuart—"

"What now, ma'am," inquired Mrs Niven, as Miss Peppy again paused and grew pale.

"The key!"

"Of the press?" inquired Niven.

"Yes—no; that is, it's the key of the press, and not the key of my trunk. Here, take it," (she thrust the key into the housekeeper's hand, just as the engine gave a violent snort.) "What shall I do? My trunk won't open without, at least I suppose it won't, and it's a new lock! what shall—"

"Make a parcel of the key, Niven," said Kenneth, coming to the rescue, "and send it by the guard of next train."

"And oh!" shrieked Miss Peppy, as the train began to move, "I forgot the—the—"

"Yes, yes, quick, ma'am," cried Niven eagerly, as she followed.

"Oh! can't they stop the train for a moment? It's the—it's—dear me— the pie—pie!"

"What pie, ma'am?"

"There's three of them—for my brother's dinner—I forgot to tell cook— it'll put him out so—there's three of 'em. It's not the—the—two but the—the—other one, the what-d'ye-call-it pie." Miss Peppy fell back on her seat, and gave it up with a groan. Suddenly she sprang up, and thrust out her head—"The deer pie," she yelled.

"The dear pie!" echoed the astonished Mrs Niven interrogatively.

Another moment and Miss Peppy vanished from the scene, leaving the housekeeper to return home in despair, from which condition she was relieved by the cook, who at once concluded that the "dear pie" must mean the venison pasty, and forthwith prepared the dish for dinner.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

PERPLEXITIES AND MUSICAL CHARMS.

My son Gildart, with his hands in his pockets and his cap very much on one side of his head, entered my drawing-room one morning with a perplexed air.

"What troubles you to-day?" asked Lizzie Gordon, who was seated at the window winding up a ball of worsted, the skein of which was being held by Miss Puff, who was at that time residing with us.

"What troubles me?—everything troubles me," said the middy with a stern air, as he turned his back to the fire; "the world troubles me, circumstances trouble me, my heart troubles me, my pocket troubles me, my friends and relations trouble me, and so do my enemies; in fact, it would be difficult to name the sublunary creature or thing that does not trouble me. It blows trouble from every point of the compass, a peculiarity in moral gales that is never observed in physical breezes."

"How philosophically you talk this morning," observed Lizzie with a laugh. "May it not be just possible that the trouble, instead of flowing from all points to you as a centre, wells up within and flows out in all directions, and that a warped mind inverts the process?"

"Perhaps you are right, sweet cousin! Anyhow we can't be both wrong, which is a comfort."

"May I ask what is the heart-trouble you complain of?" said Lizzie.

"Love and hatred," replied Gildart with a sigh and a frown.

"Indeed! Is the name of the beloved object a secret?"

"Of course," said the middy with a pointed glance at Miss Puff, who blushed scarlet from the roots of her hair to the edge of her dress, (perhaps to the points of her toes—I am inclined to think so); "of course it is; but the hated object's name is no secret. It is Haco Barepoles."

"The mad skipper!" exclaimed Lizzie in surprise. "I thought he was the most amiable man in existence. Every one speaks well of him."

"It may be so, but I hate him. The hatred is peculiar, though I believe not incurable, but at present it is powerful. That preposterous giant, that fathom and four inches of conceit, that insufferable disgrace to his cloth, that huge mass of human bones in a pig-skin—he—he bothers me."

"But how does he bother you?"

"Well, in the first place, he positively refuses to let his daughter Susan marry Dan Horsey, and I have set my heart on that match, for Susan is a favourite of mine, and Dan is a capital fellow, though he is a groom and a scoundrel—and nothing would delight me more than to bother our cook, who is a perfect vixen, and would naturally die of vexation if these two were spliced; besides, I want a dance at a wedding, or a shindy of some sort, before setting sail for the land of spices and niggers. Haco puts a stop to all that; but, worse still, when I was down at the Sailors' Home the other day, I heard him telling some wonderful stories to the men there, in one of which he boasted that he had never been taken by surprise, nor got a start in his life; that a twenty-four pounder had once burst at his side and cut the head clean off a comrade, without causing his nerves to shake or his pulse to increase a bit. I laid him a bet of ten pounds on the spot that I could give him a fright, and he took it at once. Now I can't for the life of me think how to give him a fright, yet I must do it somehow, for it will never do to be beat."

"Couldn't you shoot off a pistol at his ear?" suggested Lizzie.

Miss Puff sniggered, and Gildart said he might as well try to startle him with a sneeze.

"Get up a ghost, then," said Lizzie; "I have known a ghost act with great effect on a dark night in an out-of-the-way place."

"No use," returned Gildart, shaking his head. "Haco has seen ghosts enough to frighten a squadron of horse-marines."

Miss Puff sniggered again, and continued to do so until her puffy face and neck became extremely pink and dangerously inflated, insomuch that Gildart asked her somewhat abruptly what in the world she was laughing at. Miss Puff said she wouldn't tell, and Gildart insisted that she would; but she positively declined, until Gildart dragged her forcibly from her chair into a window-recess, where she was prevailed on to whisper the ideas that made her laugh.

"Capital!" exclaimed the middy, chuckling as he issued from the recess; "I'll try it. You're a charming creature, Puff, with an imagination worthy the owner of a better name. There, don't pout. You know my sentiments. Adieu, fair cousin! Puff, good-bye."

So saying, the volatile youth left the room.

That afternoon Gildart sauntered down to the Sailors' Home and entered the public hall, in which a dozen or two of sailors were engaged in playing draughts or chatting together. He glanced round, but, not finding the object of his search, was about to leave, when Dan Horsey came up, and, touching his hat, asked if he were looking for Haco Barepoles.

"I am," said Gildart.

"So is meself," said Dan; "but the mad skipper an't aisy to git howld of, an' not aisy to kape howld of when ye've got him. He's goin' to Cove this afternoon, I believe, an'll be here before startin', so I'm towld, so I'm waitin' for him."

As he spoke Haco entered, and Dan delivered a letter to him.

"Who from?" inquired the skipper sternly.

"Mr Stuart, alias the guv'nor," replied Dan with extreme affability; "an' as no answer is required, I'll take my leave with your highness's permission."

Haco deigned no reply, but turned to Gildart and held out his hand.

"You've not gone to stay at Cove yet, I see," said Gildart.

"Not yet, lad, but I go to-night at nine o'clock. You see Mrs Gaff is a-goin' to visit a relation for a week, an' wants me to take care o' the house, the boodwar, as she calls it, though why she calls it by that name is more than I can tell. However I'll be here for a week yet, as the 'Coffin' wants a few repairs, (I wonder if it ever didn't want repairs), an' I may as well be there as in the Home, though I'm bound to say the Home is as good a lodgin' as ever I was in at home or abroad, and cheap too, an' they looks arter you so well. The only thing I an't sure of is whether the repairs is to be done here or in Athenbury."

"The letter from Mr Stuart may bear on that point," suggested Gildart.

"True," replied the skipper, opening the letter.

"Ha! sure enough the repairs is to be done there, so I'll have to cut my visit to Cove short by four days."

"But you'll sleep there to-night, I suppose?" asked Gildart, with more anxiety than the subject seemed to warrant.

"Ay, no doubt o' that, for Mrs G and Tottie left this mornin', trustin' to my comin' down in the evenin'; but I can't get before nine o'clock."

"Well, good-day to you," said Gildart; "I hope you'll enjoy yourself at Cove."

The middy hastened away from the Sailors' Home with the air of a man who had business on hand. Turning the corner of a street he came upon a brass band, the tones of which were rendering all the bilious people within hearing almost unable to support existence. There was one irascible old gentleman, (a lawyer), under whose window it was braying, who sat at his desk with a finger in each ear trying to make sense out of a legal document. This was a difficult task at any time, for the legal document was compounded chiefly of nonsense, with the smallest possible modicum of sense scattered through it. In the circumstances the thing was impossible, so the lawyer rose and stamped about the floor, and wished he were the Emperor of Russia with a cannon charged with grape-shot loaded to the muzzle and pointed at the centre of that brass band, in which case he would—. Well, the old gentleman never thought out the sentence, but he stamped on and raved a little as the band brayed below his window.

There was a sick man in a room not far from the old lawyer's office. He had spent two days and two nights in the delirium of fever. At last the doctor succeeded in getting him to fall into a slumber. It was not a very sound one; but such as it was it was of inestimable value to the sick man. The brass band, however, brayed the slumber away to the strains of "Rule Britannia," and effectually restored the delirium with "God Save the Queen."

There were many other interesting little scenes enacted in that street in consequence of the harmonious music of that brass band, but I shall refrain from entering into farther particulars. Suffice it to say that Gildart stood listening to it for some time with evident delight.

"Splendid," he muttered, as an absolutely appalling burst of discord rent the surrounding air and left it in tatters. "Magnificent! I think that will do."

"You seem fond of bad music, sir," observed an elderly gentleman, who had been standing near a doorway looking at the middy with a quiet smile.

"Yes, on the present occasion I am," replied Gildart; "discord suits my taste just now, and noise is pleasant to my ear."

The band ceased to play at that moment, and Gildart, stepping up to the man who appeared to be the leader, inasmuch as he performed on the clarionet, asked him to turn aside with him for a few minutes.

The man obeyed with a look of surprise, not unmingled with suspicion.

"You are leader of this band?"

"Yes, sir, I ham."

"Have you any objection to earn a sovereign or two?"

"No, sir, I han't."

"It's a goodish band," observed Gildart.

"A fus'-rater," replied the clarionet. "No doubt the trombone is a little cracked and brassy, so to speak, because of a hinfluenza as has wonted him for some weeks; but there's good stuff in 'im, sir, and plenty o' lungs. The key-bugle is a noo 'and, but 'e's capital, 'ticklerly in the 'igh notes an' flats; besides, bein' young, 'e'll improve. As to the French 'orn, there ain't his ekal in the country; w'en he does the pathetic it would make a banker weep. You like pathetic music, sir?"

"Not much," replied the middy.

"No! now that's hodd. I do. It 'armonises so with the usual state o' my feelin's. My feelin's is a'most always pathetic, sir."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, 'cept at meal-times, w'en I do manage to git a little jolly. Ah! sir, music ain't wot it used to be. There's a general flatness about it now, sir, an' people don't seem to admire it 'alf so much as w'en I first began. But if you don't like the pathetic, p'raps you like the bravoory style?"

"I doat on it," said Gildart. "Come, let's have a touch of the 'bravoory.'"

"I've got a piece," said the clarionet slowly, looking at the sky with a pathetic air, "a piece as I composed myself. I don't often play it, 'cause, you know, sir, one doesn't 'xactly like to shove one's-self too prominently afore the public. I calls it the 'Banging-smash Polka.' But I generally charge hextra for it, for it's dreadful hard on the lungs, and the trombone he gets cross when I mention it, for it nearly bu'sts the hinstrument; besides, it kicks up sich a row that it puts the French 'orn's nose out o' jint—you can't 'ear a note of him. I flatter myself that the key-bugle plays his part to parfection, but the piece was written chiefly for the trombone and clarionet; the one being deep and crashing, the other shrill and high. I had the battle o' Waterloo in my mind w'en I wrote it."

"Will that do?" said Gildart, putting half-a-crown into the man's hand.

The clarionet nodded, and, turning to his comrades, winked gravely as he pronounced the magic word—"Banging-smash."

Next moment there was a burst as if a bomb-shell had torn up the street, and this was followed up by a series of crashes so rapid, violent, and wildly intermingled, that the middy's heart almost leapt out of him with delight!

In a few seconds three doors burst open, and three servant-girls rushed at the band with three sixpences to beseech it to go away.

"Couldn't go under a shillin' a head," said the clarionet gravely.

A word from Gildart, however, induced him to accept of the bribe and depart.

As they went along the street Gildart walked with the clarionet and held earnest converse with him—apparently of a persuasive nature, for the clarionet frequently shook his head and appeared to remonstrate. Presently he called on his comrades to stop, and held with them a long palaver, in which the French horn seemed to be an objector, and the trombone an assenter, while the key-bugle didn't seem to care. At last they all came to an agreement.

"Now," said the middy, taking out his purse, "that's all fixed; here is five shillings in advance, and twenty shillings will follow when the performance is over. Don't forget the time and place: the village of Cove, the rear of Stephen Gaff's cottage—everybody knows it—and eight o'clock precisely."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

MAD HACO STARTLED AT LAST.

That evening Haco Barepoles was seen on the road to Cove, with his coat-skirts, his cravat-ends, and his hair streaming in the breeze.

An hour previously, however, a brass band was seen walking towards the same place, and, half an hour after that, a young midshipman was observed posting rapidly in the same direction.

It was dark when Gildart entered the village, and all the inhabitants were in their dwellings, so that he reached Gaff's cottage unperceived.

The village was a primitive one. Locks were deemed unnecessary in most of the cottages, probably because there was nothing worth stealing within them. Gildart lifted the latch and entered. A fire, nearly out, with a large piece of coal on it, burned in the grate. The flicker of this was sufficient to illuminate the boudoir faintly.

Having surveyed the apartment, examined the closet, and looked under the bed, he went out, and, going to the back of the cottage, found the band waiting in some anxiety.

"Now, lads, come this way," said Gildart; "and there's only one piece of advice I've got to give you: don't stir hand or foot after Haco enters the cottage. He's as big as an elephant, and strong as a lion. If you stir, and he finds you out, he won't spare you."

"But you promise to come to the rescue, master," said the French horn in some alarm.

"Ay, that will I; but he'll have two of you floored, another strangled, and the fourth half-skinned before I can get him to stop."

"I don't half like it," said the clarionet anxiously.

"Pooh! pooh!" exclaimed the key-bugle, "we'll be more than a match for him; come on; it's worth riskin' for twenty-five bob."

"Hear! hear!" cried the trombone.

"Well, then, enter," said Gildart, pushing open the door, and holding it while the band filed into the passage. He followed them and closed the door.

In a short time Haco Barepoles made his appearance. He also passed through the village unobserved, and, entering the cottage, closed the door. Thereafter he proceeded to make himself comfortable. The "boodwar" was empty—at least of human beings, though there was the Dutch clock with the horrified countenance in the corner, and the new clock near it, and the portraits and the great four-poster, and all the other articles of elegance and luxury with which Mrs Gaff had filled her humble dwelling.

"A queer place," muttered the mad skipper in a soft voice to himself, as he moved about the room, poked up the fire, and made preparations for spending the night. "Gaff wouldn't know the old cabin—humph! but it's all done out o' kindness; well, well, there's no accountin' for women, they're paridoxies. Hallo! this here closet didn't use to be bolted, but it's bolted now. Hows'ever here's the loaf and the tea-pot an' the kettle. Now, Mrs Gaff, you're an attentive creetur, nevertheless you've forgot bilin' water, an', moreover, there an't no water in the house. Ah, here's a bucket; that'll do; I'll go to the well an' help myself; it's well that I can do it," said Haco, chuckling at his own pun with great satisfaction as he went out to the back of the house.

There was a sudden, though not loud, sound of hollow brass chinking under the four-post bed.

"Now then, can't you keep still?" said the clarionet in a hoarse whisper.

"It's cramp in my leg," growled the trombone. "I'd have had to come out if he hadn't guv me this chance."

"Won't you hold your tongues?" whispered Gildart from the closet, the door of which he opened slightly.

He shut it with a sudden clap, and there was another clanking of brass as Haco's footsteps were heard outside, but dead silence reigned within the hut when the skipper re-entered, and set down on the floor a large bucket full of water.

"Now then for tea," said Haco, rubbing his hands, as he set about the preparation of that meal. Being acquainted with the ways and localities of the cottage, he speedily had the board spread, and the tea smoking thereon, while the fire flared cheerfully on the walls, casting fine effects of light and shade on the pictures, and sprinkling the prominences of the clocks, bed, and furniture with ruddy gleams.

Having devoured his meal with an appetite and gusto worthy of his size, Haco filled his much-loved German pipe, and, selecting the strongest chair in the room, sat cautiously down on it beside the fire to enjoy a smoke.

Meanwhile the brass band endured agonies unutterable. The trombone afterwards vowed that he "wouldn't for fifty sovs" again go through what he had suffered during the hour that the mad skipper sat by that fire enjoying his evening pipe!

At last the pipe was smoked out, and Haco began to divest himself of his upper garments. Being an active man, he was soon undressed and in bed, where he lay for a long time perfectly still. Presently he gave vent to a deep sigh, and turned on his back, in which position he lay quite still for at least five minutes. At last he gave a soft puff with his lips, and followed it up with a mild snort from his nose.

This was immediately followed by a light single tap at the closet door.

Instantly the first bar of the Banging-Smash Polka burst from beneath the bed with such startling suddenness and energy that Gildart was himself rendered almost breathless. Haco awoke with a yell so dreadful that the brass band stopped for a single instant, but it burst forth again with a degree of fury that almost rent the trombone in twain!

The appalled skipper uttered another yell, and sprang up into the air. The four-poster could not stand the test. Haco went crashing through the bottom of the bed, flattened the French horn, and almost killed the trombone, while the broken ends of the planking of the bed pinned them to the floor. Escape was impossible.

Haco perceived the joke, and instantly recovered his self-possession. Springing from the bed, he seized the bucket of water which he had recently drawn, and dashed its contents on the struggling band. Thereafter he hauled the trombone out of the debris by the neck, flattened his instrument on his head, and twisted it round his neck. The key-bugle, who had struggled to his feet, fell before a well-aimed backhander, and the French horn was about to perish, when Gildart succeeded in restraining and pacifying the giant by stoutly asserting that he had won his bet, and insisted on having payment on the spot!

Haco burst into a loud laugh, flung the key-bugle from his grasp, and pulled on his nether garments.

"I confess that you've won it, lad, so now I'll have another pipe."

He proceeded to fill the German pipe, and stirred up the fire while the band made good its retreat. Gildart paid the clarionet the stipulated sum of twenty shillings outside the door, after which he returned and seated himself beside the mad skipper.

Haco's laugh had changed into a good-humoured smile as he gazed into the fire and puffed volumes of smoke from his lips.

"It was a risky thing to do, lad," he observed, as Gildart sat down; "it's well for that feller wi' the long trumpet that the brass was so thin and his head so hard, for my blood was up, bein' taken by surprise, you see, an' I didn't measure my blows. Hows'ever, 'it's all well that ends well,' as I once heard a play-actor say."

"But it's not ended yet," said Gildart with decision.

"How so, lad?"

"You've got to pay up your bet."

Haco's brow became a little clouded. The bet had been taken more than half in joke, for he was not given to betting in earnest; but he was too proud to admit this on finding that Gildart took it in earnest.

"You'll not want it for a short while, I daresay?" he asked.

"Captain Barepoles—"

"Skipper, lad, I don't like to be cap'ned."

"Well, Skipper Barepoles," said the middy with much solemnity, "I always pay my debts of honour on the spot, and I expect gentlemen who bet with me to do the same."

Haco grinned. "But I an't a gentleman," said he, "an' I don't set up for one."

"Still, as a man of honour you must feel bound—"

"No, lad, not as a man of honour," interrupted the skipper, "but as a British seaman I'll hold the debt due; only, not bein' in the habit o' carrying the Bank of England in my weskit-pocket, you see, I must ask you to wait till to-morrow mornin'."

Haco said this with a slightly disappointed look, for he thought the middy rather sharp, and had formed a better opinion of him than his conduct on this occasion seemed to bear out.

"Now, skipper, I'll tell you what it is. I am not fond of betting, and this bet of mine was taken in jest; in fact my usual bet is ten thousand pounds, sometimes a million! Nevertheless, you have admitted the debt as due, and although I do not mean to claim payment in the usual way, I don't intend to forego my rights altogether. I'll only ask you to do me a favour."

"What may it be, lad?"

"Will you grant it?"

"Well, that depends—"

"No, it doesn't; say Yes, or I'll claim the ten pounds."

"Well, yes, if it's right and proper for me to do it. Now, what d'ye want?"

"Humph! Well then," said Gildart, "I want you to let your daughter Susan get spliced to Dan Horsey."

Haco frowned, and said, "Unpossible."

"Come now, don't be hard on them, skipper; Dan is a good fellow and a first-rate groom."

"He's an Irish blackguard," said Haco, "and not worth a pinch of his namesake."

"You're quite mistaken," said Gildart, who went on to speak so highly of the groom, that Haco, if not made to change his opinion, was so much impressed as to agree at least to take the whole subject once again into consideration.

"Another thing I wish you to do, skipper, which is to give me a passage in your sloop to Athenbury. You spoke of running round there for repairs soon, and I would rather go by sea than by that snorting railway. Will you do it?"

"With pleasure, lad."

"Thank'ee; now I'll bid you good-night. You may depend upon it that you won't be disturbed again by a band," said Gildart, laughing.

"I know that," replied Haco with a grin; "it's my opinion they've had enough of me for one night. But won't ye stop an' share the four-poster, lad? It's big enough, an' we'll soon repair the damage to its bottom-timbers. There's a knuckle o' ham too, an' a flask o' claret. I brought it with me, 'cause I never drink nothin' stronger than claret—vang ordinair they calls it in France. What say you; you'll stop?"

"No, thank'ee, skipper, much obliged, but I've business on hand elsewhere. Good-night, old boy."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT, ENDING IN A LONG CHASE.

One day, not long after his arrival at Athenbury, Kenneth Stuart was seated in Colonel Crusty's drawing-room, awaiting the summons to dinner.

Pretty Bella sat beside him, endeavouring to get up a flirtation—for Bella was an inveterate flirt. Besides being pretty, she was sprightly and full of life—a giddy gay thing, much addicted to that dangerous practice of fluttering round improprieties with cheerful recklessness. She was one of those human moths whose wings, alas! are being constantly singed, sometimes burned off altogether.

Kenneth was not so stern as to object to a little of what the world calls innocent flirtation, but he did not like Bella's style of procedure; for that charming piece of wickedness made it her aim in life to bring as many lovers to her feet as she could, and keep them there. She never had too many of them, never tired of conquering them. In the language of pugilists, "One down another come on," was her motto.

She had just floored a captain of dragoons, who was expected that day to dinner, and was now engaged at her fortieth round with Kenneth; but he was too strong for her—at least she began to suspect so, and felt nettled.

"I never met with such a provoking man as you," said Bella, pouting; "you promised to go round by Simpson's and bring me a bouquet, and now you tell me you had not time. That is not what I would have expected of you. Sir Kenneth."

Bella had knighted him with the poker the evening before!

"Well, really, I am sorry," said Kenneth in a deprecating tone, "but I'm sure you will forgive me when I tell you that—"

"I won't forgive you," interrupted Bella pettishly. "You are a false man. Nothing should have prevented you from walking round by Simpson's, as you said you would do."

"Indeed!" said Kenneth, smiling, "suppose I had broken my leg, now, would that not have—"

"No, it wouldn't have been any excuse at all. You would have hopped there if you had been a good and true man, like the knights of the olden time. Oh! how I love that olden time, and wish that I had been born in it."

Captain Bowels was announced at this moment. He was a tall handsome man, with a heavy dark moustache and a set of brilliant teeth. Bella instantly put the question to him whether, in the event of his being interrupted in the fulfilment of a promise to a lady by the accident of having his leg broken, he would not deem it his duty, as a man of honour, to hop out the engagement.

The captain expressed his earnest belief that that would be his duty, and added that if both legs happened to be broken, he would deem it his duty to walk out the engagement on his hands and knees, always assuming that the lady to whom the promise was made should be young and beautiful, and that the engagement did not involve dancing!

From this point Bella and the captain of dragoons cantered off into a region of small-talk whither it is not necessary that we should follow them. They were interrupted by the entrance of Colonel Crusty and Miss Peppy.

The former shook hands with the captain somewhat stiffly, and introduced him to Miss Peppy.

"Dinner late as usual, Bella," said the colonel, taking out his watch.

"Now, papa, don't begin," cried Bella, running up to her father and kissing his cheek, "because when you do begin to scold you never stop, and it takes away your appetite. Dinners were meant to be late—it's the nature of such meals. No dinner that is ready at the appointed time can be good; it must be underdone."

The colonel was prevented from replying by the entrance of the footman with a letter, which he presented to Kenneth.

"No letters for me!" cried Miss Peppy, with a slight look of disappointment; "but, to be sure, I'm not at home, though, after all, letters might come to me when I'm away if they were only rightly addressed, but letters are never legible on the back; it is a perfect mystery to me how the postmen ever find out where to go to with letters, and they are such illiterate men too! But what can one expect in a world of inconsistencies, where things are all topsy-turvy, so to speak, though I don't like slang, and never use it except when there is a want of a proper what-d'ye-call-it to express one's thingumy-jigs. Don't you think so, Captain Bowels?"

"Certainly; I think your observations are very just, and much to the point."

Kenneth Stuart retired to a window and read his letter, which ran as follows:—

"Wreckumoft, etcetera.

"My Dear Kenneth—Since you left I have been thinking over your affairs, and our last conversation, (which you must allow me to style disagreeable), in regard to Miss Gordon. I trust that you have now seen the impropriety of thinking of that portionless girl as your wife. At all events, you may rest assured that on the day you marry her you shall be disinherited. You know me well enough to be aware that this is not an idle threat.

"In the hope and expectation that you will agree with me in this matter, I venture to suggest to you the propriety of trying to win the affections of Miss Crusty. You already know that her fortune will be a large one. I recommend this subject to your earnest consideration.

"Your affectionate father, George Stuart."

"Deary me, Kennie," said Miss Peppy, in some alarm, "I hope that nothing has happened! You seem so troubled that—"

"Oh! nothing of any consequence," said Kenneth with a laugh, as he folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

"Ha! your lady-love is unkind," cried Bella; "I know it is from her."

"The writing is not lady-like," replied Kenneth, holding up the back of the letter for inspection. "It is a gentleman's hand, you see."

"Ladies sometimes write what I may call a masculine hand," observed the captain.

"You are quite right, Captain Bowels," said Miss Peppy; "some write all angles and some all rounds. One never knows how one is to expect one's correspondents to write. Not that I have many, but one of them writes square, a most extraordinary hand, and quite illegible. Most people seem to be proud of not being able to write, except schoolboys and girls. There is no accounting for the surprising things that are scratched on paper with a pen and called writing. But in a world of things of that sort what is one to expect? It is just like all the rest, and I have given up thinking about it altogether. I hope you have, Captain Bowels?"

"Not quite, but very nearly," replied the gallant captain.

"Dinner at last," said Colonel Crusty, as the gong sounded its hideous though welcome alarm. "Captain Bowels, will you take my daughter? Miss Stuart, allow me. Sorry we've got no one for you, Mr Stuart."

Kenneth fancied there was a touch of irony in the last observation, but he did not feel jealous, for two reasons—first, he knew, (from Miss Peppy), that the captain was no favourite with Colonel Crusty, and was only tolerated because of having been introduced by an intimate friend and old school companion of the former; and, second, being already in love with another, he did not wish to have the honour of handing Bella down to dinner at all.

During dinner Miss Peppy reminded Kenneth that he had promised to go to the Sailors' Home that evening with the parcel which Mrs Gaff wished to be delivered to her cousin George Dollins. Bella remarked, in a sweet voice, that Sir Kenneth's promises were not to be relied on, and that it would be wiser to transfer the trust to Captain Bowels, a proposal which the gallant captain received with a laugh and a sotto voce remark to Bella that his fidelity to promises depended on the youth and beauty of the lady to whom they were made.

Soon after the ladies retired Kenneth rose, and, apologising for leaving the table so early, set forth on his mission.

The night was calm and pleasant, but dark—a few stars alone rendering the darkness visible. Kenneth had to pass through the garden of the colonel's house before reaching the road that led to the heart of the town where the Sailors' Home was situated. He felt sad that evening, unusually so, and wandered in the grounds for some time in a meditative mood.

There was a bower at the extremity of the garden to which, during the few days of his visit, he had frequently repaired with the volatile Bella. He entered it now, and sat down. Presently there was a rustle among the leaves behind him, and a light hand was laid on his shoulder.

"Faithless man!" said Bella in a tremulous voice, "I have been expecting you for half-an-hour at least. My portmanteau is packed, and I only await the word from you, dearest Charles—"

"Charles!" exclaimed Kenneth, starting up.

Bella uttered a suppressed scream.

"Oh! Mr Stuart, you won't tell my father? I mistook you for capt—."

"Hold, Miss Crusty; do not speak hastily. I know nothing of that of which you seem desirous that I should not speak. Pray be calm."

"Of course I know that you don't know," cried Bella passionately, "but you are capable of guessing, and—and—"

The poor girl burst into a flood of tears, and rushed from the bower, leaving Kenneth in a most unenviable state of perplexity.

The words that she had uttered, coupled with what he had seen of the intimacy subsisting between her and Captain Bowels, and the fact that the name of the captain was Charles, were quite sufficient to convince him that an immediate elopement was intended. He entertained a strong dislike to the captain, and therefore somewhat hastily concluded that he was a villain. Impressed with this conviction, his first impulse was to return to the house, and warn the colonel of his daughter's danger; but then he felt that he might be mistaken, and that, instead of doing good, he might lay himself open to severe rebuke for interfering in matters with which he had nothing to do. After vacillating therefore, a few minutes, he at last made up his mind first to execute his errand to the cousin of Mrs Gaff, and then consider what should next be done. He resolved on this course all the more readily that he was sure the mistake Bella had made would frustrate the elopement, at least on that night.

Kenneth carried the parcel, which Mrs Gaff had put up with so much care and anxiety, under his arm, and a thick stick in his right hand. He was so passionately fond of the sea and all connected with it, that he liked to dress in semi-sailor costume, and mingle with seamen. Consequently he went out on this occasion clad in a rough pea-jacket and a sailor's cap. He looked more like a respectable skipper or first-mate than a country gentleman.

Passing rapidly through the streets of Athenbury, he soon reached the docks, where he made inquiry for the Sailors' Home. He found it in a retired street, near the principal wharf.

A group of seamen were collected round the door, smoking their pipes and spinning yarns. The glare of a street-lamp shone full upon them, enabling Kenneth to observe their faces. He went up to one, and asked if a sailor of the name of Dollins was in the Home at the time.

The man said Dollins had been there that day, but he was not within at the present time. He was usually to be found at the tavern of the "Two Bottles."