Billy Towler recovered himself, however, and received it as it was meant, in perfect good humour. The beer had mounted to his own little brain, and his large eyes glowed with more than natural light as he sat gazing into his companion's rugged face, listening with delight to the description of a mode of life which he thought admirably suited to his tastes and capabilities. He was, however, a shrewd little creature. Sad and very rough experience of life had taught him to be uncommonly circumspect for his years.

"What's your business, Morley?" he demanded eagerly.

"I've a lot of businesses," said Mr Jones with a drunken leer, "but my principal one is fishcuring. I'm a sort of shipowner too. Leastwise I've got two craft—one bein' a sloop, the other a boat. Moreover, I charter no end of vessels, an' do a good deal in the insurance way. But you'll understand more about these things all in good time, Billy. I live, while I'm at home, in Gravesend, but I've got a daughter and a mother livin' at Yarmouth, so I may say I've got a home at both places. It's a convenient sort o' thing, you see,—a town residence and a country villa, as it were. Come, I'll take you to the villa now, and introduce 'ee to the women."

So saying, this rascal paid for the poison he had been administering in large doses to himself and his apprentice, and, taking Billy's dirty little hand in his large horny fist, led him towards the centre of the town.

Poor Billy little knew the nature of the awful gulf of sin and misery into which he was now plunging with a headlong hilarious vivacity peculiarly his own. He was, indeed, well enough aware of the fact that he was a thief, and an outcast from society, and that he was a habitual breaker of the laws of God and man, but he was naturally ignorant of the extent of his guilt, as well as of the certain and terrible end to which it pointed, and, above all, he had not the most remote conception of the almost hopeless slavery to which he was doomed when once fairly secured in the baleful net which Morley Jones had begun to twine around him.

But a higher Power was leading the poor child in a way that he knew not—a way that was little suspected by his tempter—a way that has been the means of snatching many and many a little one from destruction in time past, and that will certainly save many more in time to come—as long as Christian men and women band together to unite their prayers and powers for the rescue of perishing souls.

Traversing several streets with unsteady gait—for he was now much the worse of drink—Mr Jones led his willing captive down one of those innumerable narrow streets, or passages, termed "rows," which bear some resemblance to the "closes" of the Scottish capital. In width they are much the same, but in cleanliness there is a vast difference, for whereas the closes of the northern capital are notorious for dirt, the rows of Yarmouth are celebrated for their neat tidy aspect. What the cause of the neatness of the latter may be we cannot tell, but we can bear the testimony of an eye-witness to the fact that—considering the class of inhabitants who dwell in them, their laborious lives and limited means—the rows are wondrously clean. Nearly all of them are paved with pebbles or bricks. The square courts opening out of them on right and left, although ridiculously small, are so thoroughly scoured and swept that one might roll on their floors with white garments and remain unsoiled. In each court may be observed a water-bucket and scrubbing-brush wet, usually, from recent use, also a green painted box-garden of dimensions corresponding to the court, full of well-tended flowers. Almost every door has a wooden or stone step, and each step is worn and white with repeated scrubbings—insomuch that one is irresistibly led to suspect that the "Bloaters" must have a strong infusion of the Dutch element in their nature.

Emerging at the lower end of the row, Mr Jones and his small companion hastened along the centre of a narrow street which led them into one of much wider dimensions, named Friar's Lane. Proceeding along this for some time, they diverged to the right into another of the rows not far from the old city-wall, at a place where one of the massive towers still rears its rugged head as a picturesque ruin. The moon sailed out from under a mass of clouds at this point, giving to objects the distinctness of daylight. Hitherto Billy Towler had retained some idea of the direction in which he was being led, but this last turn threw his topographical ideas into utter confusion.

"A queer place this," he remarked, as they emerged from the narrowest passage they had yet traversed into a neat, snug, and most unexpected little square, with a garden in the middle of it, and a flagstaff in one corner.

"Adam-and-Eve gardens, they call it," said Mr Jones; "we're pretty nigh home now."

"I wonder they didn't call it Eden at once," observed Billy; "it would have been shorter and comes to the same thing."

"Here we are at last," said Mr Jones, stumbling against a small door in one of the network of rows that surrounded this Yarmouth paradise. "Hope the women are in," he added, attempting to lift the latch, but, finding that the door was locked, he hammered at it with foot and fist violently.

"Hallo!" shouted the deep voice of a man within.

"Hallo, indeed! Who may you be?" growled Mr Jones with an angry oath. "Open the door, will you?"

The door was opened at once by James Welton, who stood aside to let the other pass.

"Oh! it's you, is it?" said Mr Jones. "Didn't recognise your voice through the door. I thought you couldn't have got the sloop made snug so soon. Well, lass, how are 'ee; and how's the old ooman?"

As the man made these inquiries in a half-hearty voice, he advanced into a poorly-furnished apartment, so small and low that it seemed a couple of sizes too small for him, and bestowed a kiss first upon the cheek of his old mother, who sat cowering over the fire, but brightened up on hearing his voice, and then upon the forehead of his daughter Nora, the cheerfulness of whose greeting, however, was somewhat checked when she observed the intoxicated state of her father.

Nora had a face which, though not absolutely pretty, was intensely winsome in consequence of an air of quiet womanly tenderness which surrounded it as with a halo. She was barely eighteen, but her soft eyes possessed a look of sorrow and suffering which, if not natural to them, had, at all events, become habitual.

"Who is this little boy, father?" she said, turning towards Billy Towler, who still stood in the doorway a silent but acute observer of all that went on.

"Oh, that? why—a—that's my noo 'prentice just come down from Gravesend. He's been helpin' for some time in the 'hang'" (by which Mr Jones meant the place where his fish were cured), "and I'm goin' to take him to sea with me next trip. Come in, Billy, and make yourself at home."

The boy obeyed with alacrity, and made no objection to a cup of tea and slice of bread and butter which Nora placed before him—supper being just then in progress.

"You'd better get aboard as soon as may be," said Jones to Jim Welton somewhat sternly. "I didn't expect you to leave the sloop tonight."

"And I didn't intend to leave her," replied Jim, taking no notice of the tone in which this was said; "but I thought I'd come up to ask if you wished me to begin dischargin' early to-morrow morning."

"No, we're not going to discharge," returned Jones.

"Not going to discharge!" echoed Jim in surprise. "No. I find that it's not worth while discharging any part of the cargo here. On the contrary, I mean to fill up with bloaters and run over with them to the coast of France; so you can go and stow the top tier of casks more firmly, and get ready for the noo ones. Good-night."

The tone in which this was said left no excuse for Jim to linger, so he bade the household good-night and departed.

He had not gone far, however, when he was arrested by the sound of a light footstep. It was that of Nora, who had followed him.

"Nora!" exclaimed the young sailor in surprise, returning quickly and taking one of the girl's hands in both of his.

"Oh, Jim!" said Nora, with a look and tone of earnest entreaty, "don't, don't forsake him just now—if the love which you have so often professed for me be true, don't forsake him, I beseech you."

Jim protested in the most emphatic terms that he had no intention of forsaking anybody, and made a great many more protestations, in the midst of which there were numerous ardent and more or less appropriate references to hearts that never deserted their colours, sheet-anchors that held on through thick and thin, and needles that pointed, without the smallest shadow of variation, to the pole.

"But what makes you think I'm going to leave him?" he asked, at the end of one of those flights.

"Because he is so rough to 'ee, Jim," replied the girl, leaning her head on her lover's shoulder; "he spoke so gruff even now, and I thought you went away huffed. Oh, Jim, you are the only one that has any influence over him—"

"Not the only one," returned Jim, quietly smoothing the fair girl's hair with his hard strong hand.

"Well, the only man, at any rate," continued Nora, "especially when he is overcome with that dreadful drink. Dear Jim, you won't forsake him, will you, even though he should insult, even though he should strike you?"

"No, never! Because he is your father, Nora, I'll stick by him in spite of all he can say or do to me, and try, God helping me, to save him. But I cannot stick by him if—"

"If what?" asked the girl anxiously, observing that he hesitated.

"If he does anything against the laws," said Jim in a low voice. "It isn't that I'm afraid of my good name—I'd even let that go, for your sake, if by so doing I could get him out of mischief; and as long as I know nothing against him for certain, I'll stand by him. But if he does fall, and I come to know it, I must leave him, Nora, because I won't be art and part in it. I could no longer go on my knees to pray for him if I did that, Nora. Moreover, if anything o' that sort should happen, I must leave the country, because he'd be sure to be caught and tried, and I will never stand witness against your father if I can avoid it by fair means."

Poor Nora hung her head as she asked in a low voice if Jim really thought her father was engaged in illegal practices.

"I can't say that I do," replied the youth earnestly. "Come, cheer up, dearest Nora. After all, it is chiefly through reports that my suspicions have been aroused, and we all know how easy it is for an enemy to raise an evil report. But, Nora, I wish you had not bound me to secrecy as to my reason for sticking by your father. Why should I not say boldly that it's all for love of you?"

"Why should you wish to give any reason at all, Jim, and above all, that reason?" asked Nora, looking up with a blush.

"Because," said the youth, with a perplexed look, "my secrecy about the matter has puzzled my father to such an extent that his confidence in me is entirely shaken. I have been all my life accustomed to open all my heart to him, and now, without rhyme or reason, as he thinks, I have suddenly gone right round on the other tack, and at the same time, as he says, I have taken up with doubtful company. Now, if—"

The sound of approaching footsteps here brought the interview to an abrupt close. Nora ran back to her poor home, and Jim Welton, directing his steps towards the harbour, returned on board the little sloop which had been named after the girl of his heart.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

TREATS OF QUEEKER AND OTHERS—ALSO OF YOUTHFUL JEALOUSY, LOVE, POETRY, AND CONFUSION OF IDEAS.

Returning, now, to the moon-struck and Katie-smitten Queeker, we find that poetic individual walking disconsolately in front of Mr George Durant's mansion.

In a previous chapter it has been said that, after composing his celebrated lines to the lantern of the floating light, he resolved to drop in upon the Durants about tea-time—and well did Queeker know their tea-time, although, every time he went there uninvited, the miserable hypocrite expressed surprise at finding them engaged with that meal, and said he had supposed they must have finished tea by that time!

But, on arriving at the corner of the street, his fluttering heart failed him. The thought of the cousin was a stumbling-block which he could not surmount. He had never met her before; he feared that she might be witty, or sarcastic, or sharp in some way or other, and would certainly make game of him in the presence of Katie. He had observed this cousin narrowly at the singing-class, and had been much impressed with her appearance; but whether this impression was favourable or unfavourable was to him, in the then confused state of his feelings, a matter of great uncertainty. Now that he was about to face her, he felt convinced that she must be a cynic, who would poison the mind of Katie against him, and no power within his unfortunate body was capable of inducing him to advance and raise the knocker.

Thus he hung in torments of suspense until nine o'clock, when—in a fit of desperation, he rushed madly at the door and committed himself by hitting it with his fist.

His equanimity was not restored by its being opened by Mr Durant himself.

"Queeker!" exclaimed the old gentleman in surprise; "come in, my dear sir; did you stumble against the door? I hope you haven't hurt yourself?"

"Not at all—a—no, not at all; the fact is, I ran up the steps rather hastily, and—how do you do, Miss Durant? I hope you are quite well?"

Poor Queeker said this and shook hands with as much earnestness as if he had not seen Katie for five years.

"Quite well, thank you. My cousin, Fanny Hennings—Mr Queeker."

Fanny bowed and Mr Queeker bowed, and, with a flushed countenance, asked her about the state of her health with unnatural anxiety.

"Thank you, Mr Squeeker, I am very well," replied Fanny.

The unhappy youth would have corrected her in regard to his name, but hesitated and missed the opportunity, and when, shortly afterwards, while engaged in conversation with Mr Durant, he observed Fanny giggling violently in a corner by herself, he felt assured that Katie had kindly made the correction for him.

The announcement of supper relieved him slightly, and he was beginning to calm down over a piece of bread and cheese when the door-bell rang. Immediately after a heavy foot was heard in the passage, the parlour door was flung open, the maid announced Mr Hall, and a tall elegant young man entered the room. His figure was slender, but his chest was deep and his shoulders were broad and square. An incipient moustache of fair hair floated like a summer cloud on his upper lip, which expanded with a hearty smile as he advanced towards Mr Durant and held out his hand.

"You have forgotten me, I fear," he said.

"Forgotten you!" exclaimed the old gentleman, starting up and seizing the young man's hand, which he shook violently—"forgotten Stanley Hall—little Stanney, as I used to call you? Man, how you are grown, to be sure. What a wonderful change!"

"For the worse, I fear!" exclaimed the youth, laughing.

"Come, no fishing for compliments, sir. Let me introduce you to my daughter Katie, my niece Fanny Hennings, and my young friend Queeker. Now, then, sit down, and make yourself at home; you're just in time; we've only just begun; ring the bell for another plate, Katie. How glad I am to see you, Stanney, my boy—I can't call you by any other than the old name, you see. How did you leave your father, and what brings you here? Come, out with it all at once. I declare you have quite excited me."

Well was it for poor Queeker that every one was too much occupied with the newcomer to pay any attention to him, for he could not prevent his visage from betraying something of the feelings which harrowed up his soul. The moment he set eyes on Stanley Hall, mortal jealousy—keen, rampant, virulent jealousy of the worst type—penetrated every fibre of his being, and turned his heart to stone! We cannot afford space to detail the various shades of agony, the degrees of despair, through which this unfortunate young man passed during that evening. A thick volume would not suffice to contain it all. Language is powerless to express it. Only those who have similarly suffered can conceive it.

Of course, we need scarcely add that there was no occasion for jealousy. Nothing was further from the mind of Stanley than the idea of falling in love with Katie. Nevertheless, politeness required that he should address himself to her occasionally. At such times, Queeker's soul was stabbed in an unutterable manner. He managed to command himself, notwithstanding. To his credit, be it said, that he refrained from using the carving-knife. He even joined with some show of interest (of course hypocritical) in the conversation.

Stanley Hall was not only good-looking, but good-humoured, and full of quiet fun and anecdote, so that he quickly ingratiated himself with all the members of the family.

"D'you know it makes me feel young again to hear these old stories about your father's college-life," said Mr Durant. "Have some more cheese, Stanney—you look like a man who ought to have a good appetite—fill your glass and pass the bottle—thanks. Now, how comes it that you have turned up in this out-of-the-way part of the world? By-the-bye, I hope you intend to stay some time, and that you will take up your quarters with me? You can't imagine how much pleasure it would give me to have the son of my old companion as a guest for some time. I'm sure that Katie joins me heartily in this hope."

Queeker's spirit sank with horror, and when Katie smilingly seconded her father's proposal, his heart stood still with dismay. Fanny Hennings, who had begun to suspect that there was something wrong with Queeker, put her handkerchief to her mouth, and coughed with what appeared to be unreasonable energy.

"I regret," said Stanley (and Queeker's breath came more freely), "that my stay must necessarily be short. I need not say that it would afford me the highest pleasure to accept your kind invitation" (he turned with a slight bow to Katie, and Queeker almost fainted), "but the truth is, that I have come down on a particular piece of business, in regard to which I wish to have your advice, and must return to London to-morrow or next day at furthest."

Queeker's heart resumed its office.

"I am sorry to hear that—very sorry. However, you shall stay to-night at all events; and you shall have the best advice I can give you on any subject you choose to mention. By the way talking of advice, you're an M.D. now, I fancy?"

"Not yet," replied Stanley. "I am not quite fledged, although nearly so, and I wish to go on a voyage before completing my course."

"Quite right, quite right—see a little of life first, eh? But how comes it, Stanney, that you took kindly to the work at last, for, when I knew you first you could not bear the idea of becoming a doctor?"

"One's ideas change, I suppose," replied the youth, with a smile,—"probably my making the discovery that I had some talent in that direction had something to do with it."

"H'm; how did you make that discovery, my boy?" asked the old gentleman.

"That question can't easily be answered except by my inflicting on you a chapter of my early life," replied Stanley, laughing.

"Then inflict it on us without delay, my boy. I shall delight to listen, and so, I am sure, will Katie and Fanny. As to my young friend Queeker, he is of a somewhat literary turn, and may perhaps throw the incidents into verse, if they are of a sufficiently romantic character!"

Katie and Fanny declared they would be charmed to hear about it, and Queeker said, in a savagely jesting tone, that he was so used to things being inflicted on him, that he didn't mind—rather liked it than otherwise!

"But you must not imagine," said Stanley, "that I have a thrilling narrative to give you, I can merely relate the two incidents which fixed my destiny in regard to a profession. You remember, I daresay, that my heart was once set upon going to sea. Well, like most boys, I refused to listen to advice on that point, and told my father that I should never make a surgeon—that I had no taste or talent for the medical profession. The more my father tried to reason me out of my desire, the more obstinate I became. The only excuse that I can plead is that I was very young, very ignorant, and very stupid. One day, however, I was left in the surgery with a number of dirty phials to wash—my father having gone to visit a patient at a short distance, when our servant came running in, saying that there was a cab at the door with a poor boy who had got his cheek badly cut. As I knew that my father would be at home in less than quarter of an hour, I ordered him to be brought in. The poor child—a little delicate boy—was very pale, and bleeding profusely from a deep gash in the cheek, made accidentally by a knife with which he had been playing. The mouth was cut open almost to the ear. We laid him on a sofa, and I did what I could to stop the flow of blood. I was not sixteen at the time, and, being very small for my age, had never before felt myself in a position to offer advice, and indeed I had not much to offer. But one of the bystanders said to me while we were looking at the child,—

"'What do you think should be done, sir?'

"The mere fact of being asked my opinion gratified my vanity, and the respectful 'sir' with which the question concluded caused my heart to beat high with unwonted emotion. It was the first time I had ever been addressed gravely as a man; it was a new sensation, and I think may be regarded as an era in my existence.

"With much gravity I replied that of course the wound ought to be sewed up.

"'Then sooner it's done the better, I think,' said the bystander, 'for the poor child will bleed to death if it is allowed to go on like that.'

"A sudden resolution entered into my mind. I stroked my chin and frowned, as if in deep thought, then, turning to the man who had spoken, said,—'It ought certainly to be done with as little delay as possible; I expect my father to return every minute; but as it is an urgent case, I will myself undertake it, if the parents of the child have no objection.'

"'Seems to me, lad,' remarked a country fellow, who had helped to carry the child in, 'that it beant a time to talk o' parients objectin' w'en the cheeld's blood'n to deth. Ye'd better fa' to work at once—if 'ee knows how.'

"I cast upon this man a look of scorn, but made no reply. Going to the drawer in which the surgical instruments were kept, I took out those that suited my purpose, and went to work with a degree of coolness which astonished myself. I had often seen my father sew up wounds, and had assisted at many an operation of the kind, so that, although altogether unpractised, I was not ignorant of the proper mode of procedure. The people looked on with breathless interest. When I had completed the operation, I saw my father looking over the shoulders of the people with an expression of unutterable surprise not unmingled with amusement. I blushed deeply, and began some sort of explanation, which, however, he cut short by observing in an off-hand manner, that the thing had been done very well, and the child had better be carried into my bedroom and left there to rest for some time. He thus got the people out of the surgery, and then, when we were alone, told me that I was a born surgeon, that he could not have done it much better himself, and, in short, praised me to such an extent that I felt quite proud of my performance."

Queeker, who had listened up to this point with breathless attention, suddenly said—

"D'you mean to say that you really did that?"

"I do," replied Stanley with an amused smile.

"Sewed up a mouth cut all the way to the ear?"

"Yes."

"With a—a—"

"With a needle and thread," said Stanley.

Queeker's powers of utterance were paralysed. He looked at the young doctor with a species of awe-stricken admiration. Jealousy, for the time, was in abeyance.

"This, then, was the beginning of your love for the profession?" said Mr Durant.

"Undoubtedly it was, but a subsequent event confirmed me in my devotion to it, and induced me to give up all thoughts of the sea. The praise that I had received from my father—who was not usually lavish of complimentary remarks—made me ambitious to excel in other departments of surgery, so I fixed upon the extraction of teeth as my next step in the profession. My father had a pretty large practice in that way. We lived, as you remember, in the midst of a populous rural district, and had frequent visits from farm servants and labourers with heads tied up and lugubrious faces.

"I began to fit myself for duty by hammering big nails into a block of wood, and drawing them out again. This was a device of my own, for I wished to give my father another surprise, and did not wish to betray what I was about, by asking his advice as to how I should proceed. I then extracted the teeth from the jaw-bones of all the sheep's-heads that I could lay hands on; after a good deal of practice in this way, I tried to tempt our cook with an offer of five shillings to let me extract a back tooth which had caused her a great deal of suffering at intervals for many months; but she was a timid woman, and would not have allowed me for five guineas, I believe, even to look into her mouth. I also tried to tempt our small stable-boy with a similar sum. He was a plucky little fellow, and, although there was not an unsound tooth in his head, agreed to let me draw one of the smallest of his back teeth for seven and sixpence if it should come out the first pull, and sixpence for every extra rug! I thought the little fellow extravagant in his demands, but, rather than lose the chance, submitted. He sat down quite boldly on our operating chair, but grew pale when I advanced with the instrument; when I tried to open his mouth, he began to whimper, and finally, struggling out of my grasp, fled. I afterwards gave him sixpence, however, for affording me, as I told him, so much pleasurable anticipation.

"After this I cast about for another subject, but failed to procure a live one. It occurred to me, however, that I might try my hand on two skeletons that hung in our garret, so I got their heads off without delay, and gradually extracted every tooth in their jaws. As there were about sixty teeth, I think, in each pair, I felt myself much improved before the jaws were toothless. At last, I resolved to take advantage of the first opportunity that should offer, during my father's absence, to practise on the living subject. It was not long before I had a chance.

"One morning my father went out, leaving me in the surgery, as was his wont. I was deeply immersed in a book on anatomy, when I heard a tremendous double rap—as if made with the head of a stick—at the outer door, and immediately after the question put in the gruff bass voice of an Irishman, 'Is the dactur within?'

"A tremendous growl of disappointment followed the reply. Then, after a pause, 'Is the assistant within?' This was followed by a heavy tread in the passage and, next moment; an enormous man, in very ragged fustian, with a bronzed hairy face, and a reaping-hook under his arm, stood in the surgery, his head almost touching the ceiling.

"'Sure it's niver the dactur's assistant ye are?' he exclaimed, with a look of surprise.

"I rose, drew myself up, and, endeavouring to look very solemn, said that I was, and demanded to know if I could do anything for him.

"'Ah, then, it's a small assistant ye are, anyhow,' he remarked; but stopped suddenly and his huge countenance was convulsed with pain, as he clapped his hand to his face, and uttered a groan, which was at least three parts composed of a growl.

"'Hooroo! whirr-r-hach! musha, but it's like the cratur o' Vesoovious all alive-o—in me head. Av it don't split up me jaw—there—ha—och!'

"The giant stamped his foot with such violence that all the glasses, cups, and vials in the room rang again, and, clapping both hands over his mouth, he bent himself double in a paroxysm of agony.

"I felt a strange mixture of wild delight and alarm shoot through me. The chance had come in my way, but in anticipating it I had somehow always contemplated operating on some poor boy or old woman. My thoughts had never depicted such a herculean and rude specimen of humanity. At first, he would not believe me capable of extracting a tooth; but I spoke with such cool self-possession and assurance—though far from feeling either—that he consented to submit to the operation. For the sake of additional security, I seated him on the floor, and took his head between my knees; and I confess that when seated thus, in such close proximity to his rugged as well as massive head, gazing into the cavern filled with elephantine tusks, my heart almost failed me. Far back, in the darkest corner of the cave, I saw the decayed tooth—a massive lump of glistening ivory, with a black pit in the middle of it. Screwing up my courage to the utmost, I applied the key. The giant winced at the touch, but clasped his hard hands together—evidently prepared for the worst. I began to twist with right good-will. The man roared furiously, and gave a convulsive heave that almost upset myself and the big chair, and disengaged the key!

"'Oh, come,' said I, remonstratively, 'you ought to stand it better than that! why, the worst of it was almost over.'

"'Was it, though?' he inquired earnestly, with an upward glance, that gave to his countenance in that position a hideous aspect. 'Sure it had need be, for the worst baits all that iver I drained of. Go at it again, me boy.'

"Resolving to make sure work of it next time, I fixed the key again, and, after getting it pretty tight—at which point he evidently fancied the worst had been again reached—I put forth all my strength in one tremendous twist.

"I failed for a moment to draw the tusk, but I drew forth a prolonged roar, that can by no means be conceived or described. The Irishman struggled. I held on tight to his head with my knees. The chair tottered on its legs. Letting go the hair of his head, I clapped my left hand to my right, and with both arms redoubled the strain. The roar rose into a terrible yowl. There was a crash like the rending of a forest tree. I dropped the instrument, sprang up, turned the chair on the top of the man, and cramming it down on him rushed to the door, which I threw open, and then faced about.

"There was a huge iron pestle lying on a table near my hand. Seizing it, I swayed it gently to and fro, ready to knock him down with it if he should rush at me, or to turn and fly, as should seem most advisable. I was terribly excited, and a good deal alarmed as to the possible consequences, but managed with much difficulty to look collected.

"The big chair was hurled into a corner as he rose sputtering from the floor, and holding his jaws with both hands.

"'Och! ye spalpeen, is that the way ye trait people?'

"'Yes,' I replied in a voice of forced calmness, 'we usually put a restraint on strong men like you, when they're likely to be violent.'

"I saw the corners of his eyes wrinkle a little, and felt more confidence.

"'Arrah, but it's the jawbone ye've took out, ye goormacalluchscrowl!'

"'No, it isn't, it's only the tooth,' I replied, going forward and picking it up from the floor.

"The amazement of the man is not to be described. I gave him a tumbler of water, and, pointing to a basin, told him to wash out his mouth, which he did, looking at me all the time, however, and following me with his astonished eyes, as I moved about the room. He seemed to have been bereft of the power of speech; for all that he could say after that was, 'Och! av yer small yer cliver!'

"On leaving he asked what was to pay. I said that I'd ask nothing, as he had stood it so well; and he left me with the same look of astonishment in his eyes and words of commendation on his lips."

"Well, that was a tremendous experience to begin with," said Mr Durant, laughing; "and so it made you a doctor?"

"It helped. When my father came home I presented him with the tooth, and from that day to this I have been hard at work; but I feel a little seedy just now from over-study, so I have resolved to try to get a berth as surgeon on board a ship bound for India, Australia, China, or South America, and, as you are a shipowner and old friend, I thought it just possible you might be not only willing but able to help me to what I want."

"And you thought right, Stanney, my boy," said the old gentleman heartily; "I have a ship going to sail for India in a few weeks, and we have not yet appointed a surgeon. You shall have that berth if it suits you."

At this point they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant maid with the announcement that there was a man in the lobby who wished to see Mr Durant.

"I'll be back shortly," said the old gentleman to Stanley as he rose; "go to the drawing-room, girls, and give Mr Hall some music. You'll find that my Katie sings and plays very sweetly, although she won't let me say so. Fanny joins her with a fine contralto, I believe, and Queeker, too, he sings—a—a what is it, Queeker?—a bass or a baritone—eh?"

Without waiting for a reply, Mr Durant left the room, and found Morley Jones standing in the lobby, hat in hand.

The old gentleman's expression changed instantly, and he said with much severity—

"Well, Mr Jones, what do you want?"

Morley begged the favour of a private interview for a few minutes. After a moment's hesitation, Mr Durant led him into his study.

"Another loan, I suppose?" said the old gentleman, as he lit the gas.

"I had expected to have called to pay the last loan, sir," replied Mr Jones somewhat boldly, "but one can't force the market. I have my sloop down here loaded with herrings, and if I chose to sell at a loss, could pay my debt to you twice over; but surely it can scarcely be expected of me to do that. I hear there is a rise in France just now, and mean to run over there with them. I shall be sure to dispose of 'em to advantage. On my return, I'll pay your loan with interest."

Morley Jones paused, and Mr Durant looked at him attentively for a few seconds.

"Is this all you came to tell me?"

"Why, no sir, not exactly," replied Jones, a little disconcerted by the stern manner of the old gentleman. "The sloop is not quite filled up, she could stow a few more casks, but I have been cleaned out, and unless I can get the loan of forty or fifty pounds—"

"Ha! I thought so. Are you aware, Mr Jones, that your character for honesty has of late been called in question?"

"I am aware that I have got enemies," replied the fish-merchant coldly. "If their false reports are to be believed to my disadvantage, of course I cannot expect—"

"It is not my belief in their reports," replied Mr Durant, "that creates suspicion in me, but I couple these reports with the fact that you have again and again deceived me in regard to the repayment of the loans which you have already received at various times from me."

"I can't help ill-luck, sir," said Morley with a downcast look. "If men's friends always deserted them at the same time with fortune there would be an end of all trade."

"Mr Jones," said the other decidedly, "I tell you plainly that you are presumptuous when you count me one of your friends. Your deceased brother, having been an old and faithful servant of mine, was considered by me a friend, and it is out of regard to his memory alone that I have assisted you. Even now, I will lend you the sum you ask, but be assured it is the last you shall ever get from me. I distrust you, sir, and I tell you so—flatly."

While he was speaking the old gentleman had opened a desk. He now sat down and wrote out a cheque, which he handed to his visitor, who received it with a grim smile and a curt acknowledgment, and instantly took his leave.

Mr Durant smoothed the frown from his brow, and returned to the drawing-room, where Katie's sweet voice instantly charmed away the memory of the evil spirit that had just left him.

The table was covered with beautiful pencil sketches and chalk-heads and water-colour drawings in various stages of progression—all of which were the production of the same fair, busy, and talented little hand that copied the accounts for the Board of Trade, for love instead of money, without a blot, and without defrauding of dot or stroke a single i or t!

Queeker was gazing at one of the sketches with an aspect so haggard and savage that Mr Durant could not refrain from remarking it.

"Why, Queeker, you seem to be displeased with that drawing, eh? What's wrong with it?"

"Oh, ah!" exclaimed the youth, starting, and becoming very red in the face—"no, not with the drawing, it is beautiful—most beautiful, but I—in—fact I was thinking, sir, that thought sometimes leads us into regions of gloom in which—where—one can't see one's way, and ignes fatui mislead or—or—"

"Very true, Queeker," interrupted the old gentleman, good-humouredly; "thought is a wonderful quality of the mind—transports us in a moment from the Indies to the poles; fastens with equal facility on the substantial and the impalpable; gropes among the vague generalities of the abstract, and wriggles with ease through the thick obscurities of the concrete—eh, Queeker? Come, give us a song, like a good fellow."

"I never sing—I cannot sing, sir," said the youth, hurriedly.

"No! why, I thought Katie said you were attending the singing-class."

The fat cousin was observed here to put her handkerchief to her mouth and bend convulsively over a drawing.

Queeker explained that he had just begun to attend, but had not yet attained sufficient confidence to sing in public. Then, starting up he suddenly pulled out his watch, exclaimed that he was quite ashamed of having remained so late, shook hands nervously all round, and, rushing from the house, left Stanley Hall in possession of the field!

Now, the poor youth's state of mind is not easily accounted for. Stanley, being a close observer, had at an early part of the evening detected the cause of Queeker's jealousy, and, being a kindly fellow, sought, by devoting himself to Fanny Hennings, to relieve his young friend; but, strange to say, Queeker was not relieved! This fact was a matter of profound astonishment even to Queeker himself, who went home that night in a state of mind which cannot be adequately described, sat down before his desk, and, with his head buried in his hands, thought intensely.

"Can it be," he murmured in a sepulchral voice, looking up with an expression of horror, "that I love them both? Impossible. Horrible! Perish the thought—yes." Seizing a pen:—

"Perish the thought Which never ought To be, Let not the thing."

"Thing—wing—bing—ping—jing—ring—ling—ting—cling—dear me! what a lot of words with little or no meaning there are in the English language!—what will rhyme with—ah! I have it—sting—"

"Let not the thing Reveal its sting To me!"

Having penned these lines, Queeker heaved a deep sigh—cast one long lingering gaze on the moon, and went to bed.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE SLOOP NORA—MR. JONES BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE, AND BILLY TOWLER, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE, THOUGHTFUL.

A dead calm, with a soft, golden, half-transparent mist, had settled down on Old Father Thames, when, early one morning, the sloop Nora floated rather than sailed towards the mouth of that celebrated river, bent, in the absence of wind, on creeping out to sea with the tide.

Jim Welton stood at the helm, which, in the circumstances, required only attention from one of his legs, so that his hands rested idly in his coat pockets. Morley Jones stood beside him.

"So you managed the insurance, did you?" said Jim in a careless way, as though he put the question more for the sake of saying something than for any interest he had in the matter.

Mr Jones, whose eyes and manner betrayed the fact that even at that early hour he had made application to the demon-spirit which led him captive at its will, looked suspiciously at his questioner, and replied—

"Well, yes, I've managed it."

"For how much?" inquired Jim.

"For 300 pounds."

Jim looked surprised. "D'ye think the herring are worth that?" he asked.

"No, they ain't, but there's some general cargo besides as'll make it up to that, includin' the value o' the sloop, which I've put down at 100 pounds. Moreover, Jim, I have named you as the skipper. They required his name, d'ye see, and as I'm not exactly a seafarin' man myself, an' wanted to appear only as the owner, I named you."

"But that was wrong," said Jim, "for I'm not the master."

"Yes, you are," replied Morley, with a laugh. "I make you master now. So, pray, Captain Welton, attend to your duty, and be civil to your employer. There's a breeze coming that will send you foul o' the Maplin light if you don't look out."

"What's the name o' the passenger that came aboard at Gravesend, and what makes him take a fancy to such a craft as this?" inquired Jim.

"I can answer these questions for myself," said the passenger referred to, who happened at that moment to come on deck. "My name is Stanley Hall, and I have taken a fancy to the Nora chiefly because she somewhat resembles in size and rig a yacht which belonged to my father, and in which I have had many a pleasant cruise. I am fond of the sea, and prefer going to Ramsgate in this way rather than by rail. I suppose you will approve my preference of the sea?" he added, with a smile.

"I do, indeed," responded Jim. "The sea is my native element. I could swim in it as soon a'most as I could walk, and I believe that—one way or other, in or on it—I have had more to do with it than with the land."

"You are a good swimmer, then, I doubt not?" said Stanley.

"Pretty fair," replied Jim, modestly.

"Pretty fair!" echoed Morley Jones, "why, he's the best swimmer, I'll be bound, in Norfolk—ay, if he were brought to the test I do b'lieve he'd turn out to be the best in the kingdom."

On the strength of this subject the two young men struck up an acquaintance, which, before they had been long together, ripened into what might almost be styled a friendship. They had many sympathies in common. Both were athletic; both were mentally as well as physically active, and, although Stanley Hall had the inestimable advantage of a liberal education, Jim Welton possessed a naturally powerful intellect, with a capacity for turning every scrap of knowledge to good use.

Their conversation was at that time, however, cut short by the springing up of a breeze, which rendered it necessary that the closest attention should be paid to the management of the vessel among the numerous shoals which rendered the navigation there somewhat difficult.

It may be that many thousands of those who annually leave London on voyages, short and long—of profit and pleasure—have very little idea of the intricacy of the channels through which they pass, and the number of obstructions which, in the shape of sandbanks, intersect the mouth of the Thames at its junction with the ocean. Without pilots, and an elaborate well-considered system of lights, buoys, and beacons, a vessel would be about as likely to reach London from the ocean, or vice versa, in safety, as a man who should attempt to run through an old timber-yard blindfold would be to escape with unbroken neck and shins. Of shoals there are the East and West Barrows, the Nob, the Knock, the John, the Sunk, the Girdler, and the Long sands, all lying like so many ground-sharks, quiet, unobtrusive, but very deadly, waiting for ships to devour, and getting them too, very frequently, despite the precautions taken to rob them of their costly food.

These sand-sharks (if we may be allowed the expression) separate the main channels, which are named respectively the Swin or King's channel, on the north, and the Prince's, the Queen's, and the South channels, on the south. The channel through which the Nora passed was the Swin, which, though not used by first-class ships, is perhaps the most frequented by the greater portion of the coasting and colliery vessels, and all the east country craft. The traffic is so great as to be almost continuous; innumerable vessels being seen in fine weather passing to and fro as far as the eye can reach. To mark this channel alone there was, at the time we write of, the Mouse light-vessel, at the western extremity of the Mouse sand; the Maplin lighthouse, on the sand of the same name; the Swin middle light-vessel, at the western extremity of the Middle and Heaps sand; the Whittaker beacon, and the Sunk light-vessel on the Sunk sand—besides other beacons and numerous buoys. When we add that floating lights and beacons cost thousands and hundreds of pounds to build, and that even buoys are valued in many cases at more than a hundred pounds each, besides the cost of maintenance, it may be conceived that the great work of lighting and buoying the channels of the kingdom—apart from the light-house system altogether—is one of considerable expense, constant anxiety, and vast national importance. It may also be conceived that the Elder Brethren of the Corporation of Trinity House—by whom, from the time of Henry VIII down to the present day, that arduous duty has been admirably performed—hold a position of the highest responsibility.

It is not our intention, however, to trouble the reader with further remarks on this subject at this point in our tale. In a future chapter we shall add a few facts regarding the Trinity Corporation, which will doubtless prove interesting; meanwhile we have said sufficient to show that there was good reason for Jim Welton to hold his tongue and mind his helm.

When the dangerous navigation was past, Mr Jones took Billy Towler apart, and, sitting down near the weather gangway, entered into a private and confidential talk with that sprightly youngster.

"Billy, my boy," he said, with a leer that was meant to be at once amiable and patronising, "you and I suit each other very well, don't we?"

Billy, who had been uncommonly well treated by his new master, thrust his hands into the waistband of his trousers, and, putting his head meditatively on one side, said in a low voice—

"H'm—well, yes, you suit me pretty well."

The respectable fish-curer chuckled, and patted his protege on the back. After which he proceeded to discuss, or rather to detail, some matters which, had he been less affected by the contents of Square-Tom, he might have hesitated to touch upon.

"Yes" he said, "you'll do very well, Billy. You're a good boy and a sharp one, which, you see, is exactly what I need. There are a lot o' small matters that I want you to do for me, and that couldn't be very well done by anybody else; 'cause, d'ye see, there ain't many lads o' your age who unite so many good qualities."

"Very true," remarked Billy, gravely nodding his head—which, by the way, was now decorated with a small straw hat and blue ribbon, as was his little body with a blue Guernsey shirt, and his small legs with white duck trousers of approved sailor cut.

"Now, among other things," resumed Morley, "I want you to learn some lessons."

Billy shook his head with much decision.

"That won't go down, Mister Jones. I don't mean for to larn no more lessons. I've 'ad more than enough o' that. Fact is I consider myself edicated raither 'igher than usual. Can't I read and write, and do a bit o' cypherin'? Moreover, I knows that the world goes round the sun, w'ich is contrairy to the notions o' the haincients, wot wos rediklous enough to suppose that the sun went round the world. And don't I know that the earth is like a orange, flattened at the poles? though I don't b'lieve there is no poles, an' don't care a button if there was. That's enough o' jogrify for my money; w'en I wants more I'll ax for it."

"But it ain't that sort o' lesson I mean, Billy," said Mr Jones, who was somewhat amused at the indignant tone in which all this was said. "The lesson I want you to learn is this: I want you to git off by heart what you and I are doin', an' going to do, so that if you should ever come to be questioned about it at different times by different people, you might always give 'em the same intelligent answer,—d'ye understand?"

"Whew!" whistled the boy, opening his eyes and showing his teeth; "beaks an' maginstrates, eh?"

"Just so. And remember, my boy, that you and I have been doin' one or two things together of late that makes it best for both of us to be very affectionate to, and careful about, each other. D'ye understand that?"

Billy Towler pursed his little red lips as he nodded his small head and winked one of his large blue eyes. A slight deepening of the red on his cheeks told eloquently enough that he did understand that.

The tempter had gone a long way in his course by that time. So many of the folds of the thin net had been thrown over the little thoughtless victim, that, light-hearted and defiant though he was by nature, he had begun to experience a sense of restraint which was quite new to him.

"Now, Billy," continued Jones, "let me tell you that our prospects are pretty bright just now. I have effected an insurance on my sloop and cargo for 300 pounds, which means that I've been to a certain great city that you and I know of, and paid into a company—we shall call it the Submarine Insurance Company—a small sum for a bit of paper, which they call a policy, by which they bind themselves to pay me 300 pounds if I should lose my ship and cargo. You see, my lad, the risks of the sea are very great, and there's no knowing what may happen between this and the coast of France, to which we are bound after touching at Ramsgate. D'ye understand?"

Billy shook his head, and with an air of perplexity said that he "wasn't quite up to that dodge—didn't exactly see through it."

"Supposin'," said he, "you does lose the sloop an' cargo, why, wot then?—the sloop an' cargo cost somethin', I dessay?"

"Ah, Billy, you're a smart boy—a knowing young rascal," replied Mr Jones, nodding approval; "of course they cost something, but therein lies the advantage. The whole affair, sloop an' cargo, ain't worth more than a few pounds; so, if I throw it all away, it will be only losing a few pounds for the sake of gaining three hundred. What think you of that, lad?"

"I think the Submarine Insurance Company must be oncommon green to be took in so easy," replied the youngster with a knowing smile.

"They ain't exactly green either, boy, but they know that if they made much fuss and bother about insuring they would soon lose their customers, so they often run the risk of a knowin' fellow like me, and take the loss rather than scare people away. You know, if a grocer was in the habit of carefully weighing and testing with acid every sovereign he got before he would sell a trifle over the counter,—if he called every note in question, and sent up to the bank to see whether it wasn't a forgery, why, his honest customers wouldn't be able to stand it. They'd give him up. So he just gives the sovereign a ring and the note a glance an' takes his chance. So it is in some respects with insurance companies. They look at the man and the papers, see that all's right, as well as they can, and hope for the best. That's how it is."

"Ha! they must be jolly companies to have to do with. I'd like to transact some business with them submarines," said the boy, gravely.

"And so you shall, my lad, so you shall," cried Mr Jones with a laugh; "all in good time. Well, as I was saying, the cargo ain't worth much; it don't extend down to the keel, Billy, by no means; and as for the sloop—she's not worth a rope's-end. She's as rotten as an old coffin. It's all I've been able to do to make her old timbers hold together for this voyage."

Billy Towler opened his eyes very wide at this, and felt slightly uncomfortable.

"If she goes down in mid-channel," said he, "it strikes me that the submarines will get the best of it, 'cause it don't seem to me that you're able to swim eight or ten miles at a stretch."

"We have a boat, Billy, we have a boat, my smart boy."

Mr Jones accompanied this remark with a wink and a slight poke with his thumb in the smart boy's side, which, however, did not seem to have the effect of reassuring Billy, for he continued to raise various objections, such as the improbability of the sloop giving them time to get into a boat when she took it into her head to go down, and the likelihood of their reaching the land in the event of such a disaster occurring during a gale or even a stiff breeze. To all of which Mr Jones replied that he might make his mind easy, because he (Jones) knew well what he was about, and would manage the thing cleverly.

"Now, Billy, here's the lesson that you've got to learn. Besides remembering everything that I have told you, and only answering questions in the way that I have partly explained, and will explain more fully at another time, you will take particular note that we left the Thames to-day all right with a full cargo—Jim Welton bein' master, and one passenger bein' aboard, whom we agreed to put ashore at Ramsgate. That you heard me say the vessel and cargo were insured for 300 pounds, but were worth more, and that I said I hoped to make a quick voyage over and back. Besides all this, Billy, boy, you'll keep a sharp look-out, and won't be surprised if I should teach you to steer, and get the others on board to go below. If you should observe me do anything while you are steering, or should hear any noises, you'll be so busy with the tiller and the compass that you'll forget all about that, and never be able to answer any questions about such things at all. Have I made all that quite plain to you?"

"Yes, captain; hall right."

Billy had taken to styling his new employer captain, and Mr Jones did not object.

"Well, go for'ard and take a nap. I shall want you to-night perhaps; it may be not till to-morrow night."

The small boy went forward, as he was bid, and, leaning over the bulwark of the Nora, watched for a long time the rippling foam that curled from her bows and slid quietly along her black hull, but Billy's thoughts were not, like his eyes, fixed upon the foam. For the first time in his life, perhaps, the foundling outcast began to feel that he was running in a dangerous road, and entertained some misgivings that he was an uncommonly wild, if not wicked, fellow. It is not to be supposed that his perceptions on this subject were very clear, or his meditations unusually profound, but it is certain that, during the short period of his residence in the school of which mention has been made, his conscience had been awakened and partially enlightened, so that his precociously quick intelligence enabled him to arrive at a more just apprehension of his condition than might have been expected,— considering his years and early training.

We do not say that Billy's heart smote him. That little organ was susceptible only of impressions of jollity and mischief. In other respects—never having been appealed to by love—it was as hard as a small millstone. But the poor boy's anxieties were aroused, and the new sensation appeared to add a dozen years to his life. Up to this time he had been accustomed to estimate his wickednesses by the number of days, weeks, or months of incarceration that they involved—"a wipe," he would say, "was so many weeks," a "silver sneezing-box," or a "gold ticker," in certain circumstances, so many more; while a "crack," i.e. a burglary (to which, by the way, he had only aspired as yet) might cost something like a trip over the sea at the Queen's expense; but it had never entered into the head of the small transgressor of the law to meditate such an awful deed as the sinking of a ship, involving as it did the possibility of murder and suicide, or hanging if he should escape the latter contingency.

Moreover, he now began to realise more clearly the fact that he had cast in his lot with a desperate man, who would stick at nothing, and from whose clutches he felt assured that it would be no easy matter to escape. He resolved, however, to make the attempt the first favourable opportunity that should offer; and while the resolve was forming in his small brain his little brows frowned sternly at the foam on the Nora's cutwater. When the resolve was fairly formed, fixed, and disposed of, Billy's brow cleared, and his heart rose superior to its cares. He turned gaily round. Observing that the seaman, who with himself and Jim Welton composed the crew of the sloop, was sitting on the heel of the bowsprit half asleep, he knocked his cap off, dived down the fore-hatch with a merry laugh, flung himself into his berth, and instantly fell asleep, to dream of the dearest joys that had as yet crossed his earthly path—namely, his wayward wanderings, on long summer days, among the sunny fields and hedgerows of Hampstead, Kensington, Finchley, and other suburbs of London.



CHAPTER NINE.

MR. JONES TAKES STRONG MEASURES TO SECURE HIS ENDS, AND INTRODUCES BILLY AND HIS FRIENDS TO SOME NEW SCENES AND MOMENTS.

Again we are in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin sands. It is evening. The sun has just gone down. The air and sea are perfectly still. The stars are coming out one by one, and the floating lights have already hoisted their never-failing signals.

The Nora lies becalmed not far from the Goodwin buoy, with her sails hanging idly on the yards. Bill Towler stands at the helm with all the aspect and importance of a steersman, but without any other duty to perform than the tiller could have performed for itself. Morley Jones stands beside him with his hands in his coat pockets, and Stanley Hall sits on the cabin skylight gazing with interest at the innumerable lights of the shipping in the roadstead, and the more distant houses on shore. Jim Welton, having been told that he will have to keep watch all night, is down below taking a nap, and Grundy, having been ordered below to attend to some trifling duty in the fore part of the vessel, is also indulging in slumber.

Long and earnestly and anxiously had Morley Jones watched for an opportunity to carry his plans into execution, but as yet without success. Either circumstances were against him, or his heart had failed him at the push. He walked up and down the deck with uncertain steps, sat down and rose up frequently, and growled a good deal—all of which symptoms were put down by Stanley to the fact that there was no wind.

At last Morley stopped in front of his passenger and said to him—

"I really think you'd better go below and have a nap, Mr Hall. It's quite clear that we are not goin' to have a breeze till night, and it may be early morning when we call you to go ashore; so, if you want to be fit for much work to-morrow, you'd better sleep while you may."

"Thank you, I don't require much sleep," replied Stanley; "in fact, I can easily do without rest at any time for a single night, and be quite able for work next day. Besides, I have no particular work to do to-morrow, and I delight to sit at this time of the night and watch the shipping. I'm not in your way, am I?"

"Oh, not at all, not at all," replied the fish-merchant, as he resumed his irregular walk.

This question was prompted by the urgency with which the advice to go below had been given.

Seeing that nothing was to be made of his passenger in this way, Morley Jones cast about in his mind to hit upon another expedient to get rid of him, and reproached himself for having been tempted by a good fare to let him have a passage.

Suddenly his eye was attracted by a dark object floating in the sea a considerable distance to the southward of them.

"That's lucky," muttered Jones, after examining it carefully with the glass, while a gleam of satisfaction shot across his dark countenance; "could not have come in better time. Nothing could be better."

Shutting up the glass with decision, he turned round, and the look of satisfaction gave place to one of impatience as his eye fell on Stanley Hall, who still sat with folded arms on the skylight, looking as composed and serene as if he had taken up his quarters there for the night. After one or two hasty turns on the deck, an idea appeared to hit Mr Jones, for he smiled in a grim fashion, and muttered, "I'll try that, if the breeze would only come."

The breeze appeared to have been waiting for an invitation, for one or two "cat's-paws" ruffled the surface of the sea as he spoke.

"Mind your helm, boy," said Mr Jones suddenly; "let her away a point; so, steady. Keep her as she goes; and, harkee" (he stooped down and whispered), "when I open the skylight do you call down, 'breeze freshenin', sir, and has shifted a point to the west'ard.'"

"By the way, Mr Hall," said Jones, turning abruptly to his passenger, "you take so much interest in navigation that I should like to show you a new chart I've got of the channels on this part of the coast. Will you step below?"

"With pleasure," replied Stanley, rising and following Jones, who immediately spread out on the cabin table one of his most intricate charts,—which, as he had expected, the young student began to examine with much interest,—at the same time plying the other with numerous questions.

"Stay," said Jones, "I'll open the skylight—don't you find the cabin close?"

No sooner was the skylight opened than the small voice of Billy Towler was heard shouting—

"Breeze freshenin', sir, and has shifted a pint to the west'ard."

"All right," replied Jones;—"excuse me, sir, I'll take a look at the sheets and braces and see that all's fast—be back in a few minutes."

He went on deck, leaving Stanley busy with the chart.

"You're a smart boy, Billy. Now do as I tell 'ee, and keep your weather eye open. D'ye see that bit o' floating wreck a-head? Well, keep straight for that and run right against it. I'll trust to 'ee, boy, that ye don't miss it."

Billy said that he would be careful, but resolved in his heart that he would miss it!

Jones then went aft to a locker near the stern, whence he returned with a mallet and chisel, and went below. Immediately thereafter Billy heard the regular though slight blows of the mallet, and pursed his red lips and screwed up his small visage into a complicated sign of intelligence.

There was very little wind, and the sloop made slow progress towards the piece of wreck although it was very near, and Billy steered as far from it as he could without absolutely altering the course.

Presently Jones returned on deck and replaced the mallet and chisel in the locker. He was very warm and wiped the perspiration frequently from his forehead. Observing that the sloop was not so near the wreck as he had expected, he suddenly seized the small steersman by the neck and shook him as a terrier dog shakes a rat.

"Billy," said he, quickly, in a low but stern voice, "it's of no use. I see what you are up to. Your steerin' clear o' that won't prevent this sloop from bein' at the bottom in quarter of an hour, if not sooner! If you hit it you may save yourself and me a world of trouble. It's so much for your own interest, boy, to hit that bit of wreck, that I'll trust you again."

So saying, Jones went down into the cabin, apologised for having kept Stanley waiting so long, said that he could not leave the boy at the helm alone for more than a few minutes at a time, and that he would have to return on deck immediately after he had made an entry on the log slate.

Had any one watched Morley Jones while he was making that entry on the log slate, he would have perceived that the strong man's hand trembled excessively, that perspiration stood in beads upon his brow, and that the entry itself consisted of a number of unmeaning and wavering strokes.

Meanwhile Billy Towler, left in sole possession of the sloop, felt himself in a most unenviable state of mind. He knew that the crisis had arrived, and the decisive tone of his tyrant's last remark convinced him that it would be expedient for himself to obey orders. On the other hand, he remembered that he had deliberately resolved to throw off his allegiance, and as he drew near the piece of wreck, he reflected that he was at that moment assisting in an act which might cost the lives of all on board.

Driven to and fro between doubts and fears, the poor boy kept changing the course of the sloop in a way that would have soon rendered the hitting of the wreck an impossibility, when a sudden and rather sharp puff of wind caused the Nora to bend over, and the foam to curl on her bow as she slipped swiftly through the water. Billy decided at that moment to miss the wreck when he was close upon it, and for that purpose deliberately and smartly put the helm hard a-starboard.

Poor fellow, his seamanship was not equal to his courage! So badly did he steer, that the very act which was meant to carry him past the wreck, thrust him right upon it!

The shock, although a comparatively slight one, was sufficiently severe to arouse the sleepers, to whom the unwonted sensation and sound carried the idea of sudden disaster. Jim and Grundy rushed on deck, where they found Morley Jones already on the bulwarks with a boat-hook, shouting for aid, while Stanley Hall assisted him with an oar to push the sloop off what appeared to be the topmast and cross-trees of a vessel, with which she was entangled.

Jim and Grundy each seized an oar, and, exerting their strength, they were soon clear of the wreck.

"Well," observed Jim, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat, "it's lucky it was but a light topmast and a light breeze, it can't have done us any damage worth speaking of."

"I don't know that," said Jones. "There are often iron bolts and sharp points about such wreckage that don't require much force to drive 'em through a ship's bottom. Take a look into the hold, Jim, and see that all's right."

Jim descended into the hold, but immediately returned, exclaiming wildly—

"Why, the sloop's sinkin'! Lend a hand here if you don't want to go down with her," he cried, leaping towards the boat.

Stanley Hall and Grundy at once lent a hand to get out the boat, while the fish-merchant, uttering a wild oath, jumped into the hold as if to convince himself of the truth of Jim's statement. He returned quickly, exclaiming—

"She must have started a plank. It's rushing in like a sluice. Look alive, lads; out with her!"

The boat was shoved outside the bulwarks, and let go by the run; the oars were flung hastily in, and all jumped into her as quickly as possible, for the deck of the Nora was already nearly on a level with the water. They were not a minute too soon. They had not pulled fifty yards from their late home when she gave a sudden lurch to port and went down stern foremost.

To say that the party looked aghast at this sudden catastrophe, would be to give but a feeble idea of the state of their minds. For some minutes they could do nothing but stare in silence at the few feet of the Nora's topmast which alone remained above water as a sort of tombstone to mark her ocean grave.

When they did at length break silence, it was in short interjectional remarks, as they resumed the oars.

Mr Jones, without making a remark of any kind, shipped the rudder; the other four pulled.

"Shall we make for land?" asked Jim Welton, after a time.

"Not wi' the tide running like this," answered Jones; "we'll make the Gull, and get 'em to take us aboard till morning. At slack tide we can go ashore."

In perfect silence they rowed towards the floating light, which was not more than a mile distant from the scene of the disaster. As the ebb tide was running strong, Jim hailed before they were close alongside—"Gull, ahoy! heave us a rope, will you?"

There was instant bustle on board the floating light, and as the boat came sweeping past a growl of surprise was heard to issue from the mate's throat as he shouted, "Look out!"

A rope came whirling down on their heads, which was caught and held on to by Jim.

"All right, father," he said, looking up.

"All wrong, I think," replied the sire, looking down. "Why. Jim, you always turn up like a bad shilling, and in bad company too. Where ever have you come from this time?"

"From the sea, father. Don't keep jawin' there, but help us aboard, and you'll hear all about it."

By this time Jones had gained the deck, followed by Stanley Hall and Billy. These quickly gave a brief outline of the disaster, and were hospitably received on board, while Jim and Grundy made fast the tackles to their boat, and had it hoisted inboard.

"You won't require to pull ashore to-morrow," said the elder Mr Welton, as he shook his son's hand. "The tender will come off to us in the morning, and no doubt the captain will take you all ashore."

"So much the better," observed Stanley, "because it seems to me that our boat is worthy of the rotten sloop to which she belonged, and might fail to reach the shore after all!"

"Her owner is rather fond of ships and boats that have got the rot," said Mr Welton, senior, looking with a somewhat stern expression at Morley Jones, who was in the act of stooping to wring the water out of the legs of his trousers.

"If he is," said Jones, with an equally stern glance at the mate, "he is the only loser—at all events the chief one—by his fondness."

"You're right," retorted Mr Welton sharply; "the loss of a kit may be replaced, but there are some things which cannot be replaced when lost. However, you know your own affairs best. Come below, friends, and have something to eat and drink."

After the wrecked party had been hospitably entertained in the cabin with biscuit and tea, they returned to the deck, and, breaking up into small parties, walked about or leaned over the bulwarks in earnest conversation. Jack Shales and Jerry MacGowl took possession of Jim Welton, and, hurrying him forward to the windlass, made him there undergo a severe examination and cross-questioning as to how the sloop Nora had met with her disaster. These were soon joined by Billy Towler, to whom the gay manner of Shales and the rich brogue of MacGowl were irresistibly attractive.

Jim, however, proved to be much more reticent than his friends deemed either necessary or agreeable. After a prolonged process of pumping, to which he submitted with much good humour and an apparent readiness to be pumped quite dry, Jerry MacGowl exclaimed—

"Och, it ain't of no use trying to git no daiper. Sure we've sounded 'im to the bottom, an' found nothin' at all but mud."

"Ay, he's about as incomprehensible as that famous poet you're for ever givin' us screeds of. What's 'is name—somebody's son?"

"Tenny's son, av coorse," replied Jerry; "but he ain't incomprehensible, Jack; he's only too daip for a man of or'nary intellick. His thoughts is so awful profound sometimes that the longest deep-sea lead line as ever was spun can't reach the bottom of 'em. It's only such oncommon philosophers as Dick Moy there, or a boardin'-school miss (for extremes meet, you know, Jack), that can rightly make him out."

"Wot's that you're sayin' about Dick Moy?" inquired that worthy, who had just joined the group at the windlass.

"He said you was a philosopher," answered Shales. "You're another," growled Dick, bluntly, to MacGowl.

"Faix, that's true," replied Jerry; "there's two philosophers aboord of this here light, an' the luminous power of our united intellicks is so strong that I've had it in my mind more than wance to suggest that if they wos to hoist you and me to the masthead together, the Gull would git on first-rate without any lantern at all."

"Not a bad notion that," said Jack Shales. "I'll mention it to the superintendent to-morrow, when the tender comes alongside. P'raps he'll report you to the Trinity House as being willin' to serve in that way without pay, for the sake of economy."

"No, not for economy, mate," objected Dick Moy. "We can't afford to do dooty as lights without increased pay. Just think of the intellektooal force required for to keep the lights agoin' night after night."

"Ay, and the amount of the doctor's bill," broke in MacGowl, "for curin' the extra cowlds caught at the mast-head in thick weather."

"But we wouldn't go up in thick weather, stoopid," said Moy,—"wot ud be the use? Ain't the gong enough at sich times?"

"Och, to be sure. Didn't I misremember that? What a thing it is to be ready-witted, now! And since we are makin' sich radical changes in the floating-light system, what would ye say, boys, to advise the Boord to use the head of Jack Shales instead of a gong? It would sound splendiferous, for there ain't no more in it than an empty cask. The last gong they sint us down was cracked, you know, so I fancy that's considered the right sort; and if so, Jack's head is cracked enough in all conscience."

"I suppose, Jerry," said Shales, "if my head was appointed gong, you'd like that your fist should git the situation of drumstick."

"Stop your chaffin', boys, and let's catch some birds for to-morrow's dinner," said one of the men who had been listening to the conversation. "There's an uncommon lot of 'em about to-night, an' it seems to me if the fog increases we shall have more of 'em."

"Ho-o-o!

"'Sich a gittin' up stairs, and A playin' on the fiddle,'"

Sang Jack Shales, as he sprang up the wire-rope ladder that led to the lantern, round which innumerable small birds were flitting, as if desirous of launching themselves bodily into the bright light.

"What is that fellow about?" inquired Stanley Hall of the mate, as the two stood conversing near the binnacle.

"He's catching small birds, sir. We often get a number in that way here. But they ain't so numerous about the Gull as I've seen them in some of the other lightships. You may find it difficult to believe, but I do assure you, sir, that I have caught as many as five hundred birds with my own hand in the course of two hours."

"Indeed! what sort of birds?"

"Larks and starlings chiefly, but there were other kinds amongst 'em. Why, sir, they flew about my head and round the lantern like clouds of snowflakes. I was sittin' on the lantern just as Shales is sittin' now, and the birds came so thick that I had to pull my sou'-wester down over my eyes, and hold up my hands sometimes before my face to protect myself, for they hit me all over. I snapped at 'em, and caught 'em as fast as I could use my hands—gave their heads a screw, and crammed 'em into my pockets. In a short time the pockets were all as full as they could hold—coat, vest, and trousers. I had to do it so fast that many of 'em wasn't properly killed, and some came alive agin, hopped out of my pockets, and flew away."

At that moment there arose a laugh from the men as they watched their comrade, who happened to be performing a feat somewhat similar to that just described by the mate.

Jack Shales had seated himself on the roof of the lantern. This roof being opaque, he and the mast, which rose above him, and its distinctive ball on the top, were enveloped in darkness. Jack appeared like a man of ebony pictured against the dark sky. His form and motions could therefore be distinctly seen, although his features were invisible. He appeared to be engaged in resisting an attack from a host of little birds which seemed to have made up their minds to unite their powers for his destruction; the fact being that the poor things, fascinated by the brilliant light, flew over, under, and round it, with eyes so dazzled that they did not observe the man until almost too late to sheer off and avoid him. Indeed, many of them failed in this attempt, and flew right against his head, or into his bosom. These he caught, killed, and pocketed, as fast as possible, until his pockets were full, when he descended to empty them.

"Hallo! Jack, mind your eye," cried Dick Moy, as his friend set foot on the deck, "there's one of 'em agoin' off with that crooked sixpence you're so fond of."

Jack caught a starling which was in the act of wriggling out of his coat pocket, and gave it a final twist.

"Hold your hats, boys," he cried, hauling forth the game. "Talk of a Scotch moor—there's nothin' equal to the top of the Gull lantern for real sport!"

"I say, Jack," cried Mr Welton, who, with Stanley and the others, had crowded round the successful sportsman, "there are some strange birds on the ball. Gulls or crows, or owls. If you look sharp and get inside, you may perhaps catch them by the legs."

Billy Towler heard this remark, and, looking up, saw the two birds referred to, one seated on the ball at the mast-head, the other at that moment sailing round it. Now it must be told, and the reader will easily believe it, that during all this scene Billy had looked on not only with intense interest, but with a wildness of excitement peculiar to himself, while his eyes flashed, and his small hands tingled with a desire to have, not merely a finger, but, all his ten fingers, in the pie. Being only a visitor, however, and ignorant of everybody and everything connected with a floating light, he had modestly held his tongue and kept in the background. But he could no longer withstand the temptation to act. Without uttering a word, he leaped upon the rope-ladder of the lantern, and was half way up it before any one observed him, determined to forestall Jack Shales. Then there was a shouting of "Hallo! what is that scamp up to?" "Come down, you monkey!" "He'll break his neck!" "Serve him right!" "Hi! come down, will 'ee?" and similar urgent as well as complimentary expressions, to all of which Billy turned a deaf ear. Another minute and he stood on the roof of the lantern, looking up at the ball and grasping the mast, which rose—a bare pole—twelve or fifteen feet above him.

"Och! av the spalpeen tries that," exclaimed Jerry MacGowl, "it'll be the ind of 'im intirely."

Billy Towler did try it. Many a London lamp-post had he shinned up in his day. The difference did not seem to him very great. The ball, he observed, was made of light bands or lathes arranged somewhat in the form of lattice-work. It was full six feet in diameter, and had an opening in the under part by which a man could enter it. Through the lozenge-shaped openings he could see two enormous ravens perched on the top. Pausing merely for a second or two to note these facts and recover breath, he shinned up the bare pole like a monkey, and got inside the ball.

The spectators on deck stood in breathless suspense and anxiety, unable apparently to move; but when they saw Billy clamber up the side of the ball like a mouse in a wire cage, put forth his hand, seize one of the ravens by a leg and drag it through the bars to him, a ringing cheer broke forth, which was mingled with shouts of uncontrollable laughter.

The operation of drawing the ill-omened bird through the somewhat narrow opening against the feathers, had the double effect of ruffling it out to a round and ragged shape, very much beyond its ordinary size, and of rousing its spirit to ten times its wonted ferocity, insomuch that, when once fairly inside, it attacked its captor with claw, beak, and wing furiously. It had to do battle, however, with an infant Hercules. Billy held on tight to its leg, and managed to restrain its head and wings with one arm, while with the other he embraced the mast and slid down to the lantern; but not before the raven freed its head and one of its wings, and renewed its violent resistance.

On the lantern he paused for a moment to make the captive more secure, and then let his legs drop over the edge of the lantern, intending to get on the rounds of the ladder, but his foot missed the first one. In his effort to regain it he slipped. At that instant the bird freed his head, and with a triumphant "caw!" gave Billy an awful peck on the nose. The result was that the poor boy fell back. He could not restrain a shriek as he did so, but he still kept hold of the raven, and made a wild grasp with his disengaged hand. Fortunately he caught the ladder, and remained swinging and making vain efforts to hook his leg round one of the ropes.

"Let go the bird!" shouted the mate, rushing underneath the struggling youth, resolved at all hazards to be ready to break his fall if he should let go.

"Howld on!" yelled Jerry MacGowl, springing up the ladder—as Jack Shales afterwards said—like a Chimpanzee maniac, and clutching Billy by the neck.

"Ye may let go now, ye spalpeen," said Jerry, as he held the upper half of Billy's shirt, vest, and jacket in his powerful and capacious grasp, "I'll howld ye safe enough."

At that moment the raven managed to free its dishevelled wings, the fierce flapping of which it added to its clamorous cries and struggles of indignation. Feeling himself safe, Billy let go his hold, and used the freed hand to seize the raven's other leg. Then the Irishman descended, and thus, amid the riotous wriggles and screams of the dishevelled bird, and the cheers, laughter, and congratulations of his friends, our little hero reached the deck in safety.

But this was not the end of their bird-catching on that memorable occasion. It was, indeed, the grand incident of the night—the culminating point, as it were, of the battle—but there was a good deal of light skirmishing afterwards. Billy's spirit, having been fairly roused, was not easily allayed. After having had a piece of plaister stuck on the point of his nose, which soon swelled up to twice its ordinary dimensions, and became bulbous in appearance, he would fain have returned to the lantern to prosecute the war with renewed energy. This, however, Mr Welton senior would by no means permit, so the youngster was obliged to content himself with skirmishing on deck, in which he was also successful.

One starling he found asleep in the fold of a tarpaulin. Another he discovered in a snug corner under the lee of one of the men's coats, and both were captured easily. Then Dick Moy showed him a plan whereby he caught half a dozen birds in as many minutes. He placed a small hand-lantern on the deck, and spread a white handkerchief in front of it. The birds immediately swarmed round this so vigorously, that they even overturned the lantern once or twice. Finally, settling down on the handkerchief, they went to sleep. It was evident that the poor things had not been flying about for mere pleasure. They had been undoubtedly fascinated by the ship's glaring light, and had kept flying round it until nearly exhausted, insomuch that they fell asleep almost immediately after settling down on the handkerchief, and were easily laid hold of.

During the intervals of this warfare Mr George Welton related to Billy Towler and Stanley Hall numerous anecdotes of his experience in bird-catching on board the floating lights. Mr Welton had been long in the service, and had passed through all the grades; having commenced as a seaman, and risen to be a lamplighter and a mate—the position he then occupied. His office might, perhaps, be more correctly described as second master, because the two were never on board at the same time, each relieving the other month about, and thus each being in a precisely similar position as to command, though not so in regard to pay.

"There was one occasion," said the mate, "when I had a tough set-to with a bird, something like what you have had to-night, youngster. I was stationed at the time in the Newarp light-vessel, off the Norfolk coast. It happened not long after the light had gone up. I observed a very large bird settle on the roof of the lantern, so I went cautiously up, hopin' it would turn out a good one to eat, because you must know we don't go catchin' these birds for mere pastime. We're very glad to get 'em to eat; and I can assure you the larks make excellent pies. Well, I raised my head slowly above the lantern and pounced on it. Instantly its claws went deep into my hands. I seized its neck, and tried to choke it; but the harder I squeezed, the harder it nipped, until I was forced to sing out for help. Leavin' go the neck, in order to have one hand free, I descended the ladder with the bird hanging to the other hand by its claws. I found I had no occasion to hold tight to it, for it held tight to me! Before I got down, however, it had recovered a bit, let go, and flew away, but took refuge soon after in the lantern-house on deck. Here I caught it a second time, and once more received the same punishment from its claws. I killed it at last, and then found, to my disgust, that it was a monster sparrow-hawk, and not fit for food!"

"Somethink floatin' alongside, sir," said Dick Moy, running aft at that moment and catching up a boat-hook, with which he made a dart at the object in question, and struck, but failed to secure it.

"What is it, Moy?" asked Mr Welton.

"On'y a bit o' wreck, I think. It looked like a corp at first."

Soon after this most of the people on board the Gull went below and turned in, leaving the deck in charge of the regular watch, which, on that occasion, consisted of Dick and his friend Jack Shales. Jerry MacGowl kept them company for a time, being, as he observed, "sintimentally inclined" that night.

Stanley Hall, attracted by the fineness of the night, also remained on deck a short time after the others were gone.

"Do you often see dead bodies floating past?" he asked of Dick Moy.

"Not wery often, sir, but occasionally we does. You see, we're so nigh the Goodwin sands, where wrecks take place in the winter months pritty constant, that poor fellers are sometimes washed past us; but they ain't always dead. One night we heard loud cries not far off from us, but it was blowin' a gale, and the night was so dark we could see nothin'. We could no more have launched our boat than we could 'ave gone over the falls o' Niagary without capsizin'. When next the relief comed off, we heard that it was three poor fellers gone past on a piece of wreck."

"Were they lost?" inquired Stanley.

"No, sir, they warn't all of 'em lost. A brig saw 'em at daylight, but just as they wos being picked up, one wos so exhausted he slipped off the wreck an wos drownded. 'Nother time," continued Moy, as he paced slowly to and fro, "we seed a corp float past, and tried to 'ook it with the boat-'ook, but missed it. It wos on its face, and we could see it 'ad on a belt and sheath-knife. There wos a bald spot on the 'ead, and the gulls wos peckin' at it, so we know'd it wos dead—wery likely a long time."

"There's a tight little craft," remarked Shales, pointing to a vessel which floated at no great distance off.

"W'ich d'ye mean?" asked Dick; for there were so many vessels, some at anchor and some floating past with the tide, like phantom ships, that it was not easy to make out which vessel was referred to; "the one wi' the shoulder-o'-mutton mains'l?"

"No; that schooner with the raking masts an' topsail?"

"Ah, that's a purty little thing from owld Ireland," returned Jerry MacGowl. "I'd know her anywhere by the cut of her jib. Av she would only spaik, she'd let ye hear the brogue."

"Since ye know her so well, Paddy, p'raps you can tell us what's her cargo?" said Jack Shales.

"Of coorse I can—it's fruit an' timber," replied Jerry.

"Fruit and timber!" exclaimed Stanley with a laugh; "I was not aware that such articles were exported from Ireland."

"Ah, sure they are, yer honour," replied Jerry. "No doubt the English, with that low spirit of jealousy that's pecooliar to 'em, would say it was brooms an' taties, but we calls it fruit and timber!"

"After that, Jerry, I think it is time for me to turn in, so I wish you both a good-night, lads."

"Good-night, sir, good-night," replied the men, as Stanley descended to his berth, leaving the watch to spin yarns and perambulate the deck until the bright beams of the floating light should be rendered unnecessary by the brighter beams of the rising sun.



CHAPTER TEN.

TREATS OF TENDER SUBJECTS OF A PECULIAR KIND, AND SHOWS HOW BILLY TOWLER GOT INTO SCRAPES AND OUT OF THEM.

The fact that we know not what a day may bring forth, receives frequent, and sometimes very striking, illustration in the experience of most people. That the day may begin with calm and sunshine, yet end in clouds and tempest—or vice versa—is a truism which need not be enforced. Nevertheless, it is a truism which men are none the worse of being reminded of now and then. Poor Billy Towler was very powerfully reminded of it on the day following his night-adventure with the ravens; and his master was taught that the best-laid plans of men, as well as mice, are apt to get disordered, as the sequel will show.

Next morning the look-out on board the Gull lightship reported the Trinity steam-tender in sight, off the mouth of Ramsgate harbour, and the ensign was at once hoisted as an intimation that she had been observed.

This arrangement, by the way, of hoisting a signal on board the floating lights when any of the Trinity yachts chance to heave in sight, is a clever device, whereby the vigilance of light-ship crews is secured, because the time of the appearing of these yachts is irregular, and, therefore, a matter of uncertainty. Every one knows the natural and almost irresistible tendency of the human mind to relax in vigilance when the demand on attention is continual—that the act, by becoming a mere matter of daily routine, loses much of its intensity. The crews of floating lights are, more than most men, required to be perpetually on the alert, because, besides the danger that would threaten innumerable ships should their vessels drift from their stations, or any part of their management be neglected, there is great danger to themselves of being run into during dark stormy nights or foggy days. Constant vigilance is partly secured, no doubt, by a sense of duty in the men; it is increased by the feeling of personal risk that would result from carelessness; and it is almost perfected by the order for the hoisting of a flag as above referred to.