"The lifeboat in sight!" Who at such a time would not pray God's best blessing on the lifeboat, on the stalwart men who man it, and on the noble Society which supports it?

Certain it is that many a prayer of this kind was ejaculated on board the Wellington that night, while the passengers re-echoed the good news, and hurriedly went on deck. But what an awful scene of dreary desolation presented itself when they got there! The flares gave forth just enough light to make darkness visible—ropes, masts, yards, sails, everything in indescribable confusion, and the sea breaking over all with a violence that rendered it extremely difficult to maintain a footing even in the most sheltered position.

Fortunately by this time the vessel had been beaten sufficiently high on the shoal to prevent the terrible rolling to which she had been at first subjected; and as the officers and seamen vied with each other in attentions to the women and children, these latter were soon placed in comparative security, and awaited with breathless anxiety the arrival of the boat.

In order to keep the flare-lights burning all kinds of materials had been sacrificed. Deluged as they were continually by heavy seas, nothing but the most inflammable substances would burn. Hence, when their tar-barrels were exhausted, Stanley Hall and his assistants got hold of sheets, table-cloths, bedding, and garments, and saturated these with paraffine oil, of which, fortunately, there happened to be a large quantity on board. They now applied themselves with redoubled diligence to the construction and keeping alight of these flares, knowing well that the work which remained to be done before all should be rescued, was of a nature requiring time as well as care and courage.

On rushed the lifeboat through the broken water. When almost within hail, the coxswain heard the roar of an unusually heavy sea rushing behind him.

"Let go the fore-sheet," he shouted, "and hold on for your lives."

The wave—a billow broken to atoms, yet still retaining all its weight and motive force—overwhelmed the boat and passed on. Before she had quite recovered, another sea of equal size engulfed her, and as she had been turned broadside on by the first, the second caught her in its embrace and carried her like the wind bodily to leeward. Her immense breadth of beam prevented an upset, and she was finally launched into shallower water, where the sand had only a few feet of sea above it. She had been swept away full quarter of a mile in little more than a minute! Here the surf was like a boiling caldron, but there was not depth enough to admit of heavy seas.

The same sea that swept away the boat carried the fore and main masts of the Wellington by the board, and extinguished all her lights.

The boat drove quite two miles to leeward before the tug got hold of her again. To have returned to the wreck against wind and tide alone, we need scarcely repeat, would have been impossible, but with the aid of the tug she was soon towed to her old position and again cast loose.

Once more she rushed into the fight and succeeded in dropping anchor a considerable distance to windward of the wreck, from which point she veered down under her lee, but so great was the mass of broken masts, spars, and wreckage—nothing being now left but parts of the mizzen and bowsprit—that the coxswain was obliged to pay out 117 fathoms of cable to keep clear of it all.

The difficulty and danger of getting the boat alongside now became apparent to the people on the wreck, many of whom had never dreamed of such impediments before, and their hopes sank unreasonably low, just as, before, they had been raised unduly high.

With great difficulty the boat got near to the port quarter of the ship, and Pike stood up ready in the bow with a line, to which was attached a loaded cane, something like a large life-preserver.

"Heave!" shouted the coxswain.

The bowman made a deliberate and splendid cast; the weighted cane fell on the deck of the ship, and was caught by Jim Welton, who attached a hawser to it. This was drawn into the boat, and in a few seconds she was alongside. But she was now in great danger! The wild waters that heaved, surged, and leaped under the vessel's lee threatened to dash the boat in pieces against her every moment, and it was only by the unremitting and strenuous exertions of the men with boat-hooks, oars, and fenders that this was prevented. Now the boat surged up into the chains as if about to leap on board the ship; anon it sank into a gulf of spray, or sheered wildly to leeward, but by means of the hawser and cable, and a "spring" attached to the latter, she was so handled that one and another of the crew of the wreck were taken into her.

The first saved was a little child. It was too small and delicate to be swung over the side by a rope, so the captain asked Jim Welton, as being the most agile man in the ship and possessed of superabundant animal courage, to take it in his arms and leap on board. Jim agreed at once, handed over the care of his flare-lights to one of the men, and prepared for action. The poor child, which was about a year old, clung to its mother's neck with terror, and the distracted woman—a soldier's widow— could scarce be prevailed on to let the little one out of her arms.

"Oh, let me go with him," she pleaded most earnestly, "he is all that is left to me."

"You shall follow immediately; delay may be death," said the captain, kindly, as he drew the child gently but firmly from her grasp.

It was securely bound to Jim's broad bosom by means of a shawl. Watching his opportunity when the boat came surging up on the crest of a billow almost to his feet, and was about to drop far down into the trough of the sea, the young sailor sprang from the side and was caught in the outstretched arms of the lifeboat men.

It had occurred to Stanley Hall, just before this happened, that there was every probability of some of the passengers falling overboard during the process of being transferred to the boat. Stanley was of a somewhat eccentric turn of mind, and seldom allowed his thoughts to dissipate without taking action of some kind. He therefore got into the mizzen chains and quietly fastened a rope round his waist, the other end of which he tied to a stanchion.

"You'll get crushed by the boat there," cried the captain, who observed him.

"Perhaps not," was the reply.

He stood there and watched Jim Welton as he leaped. The mother of the child, unable to restrain herself, climbed on the bulwarks of the vessel. Just as she did so the boat surged up again,—so close that it required but a short step to get into her. Some of the passengers availed themselves of the chance—the poor widow among them. She sprang with a cry of joy, for she saw her child's face at the moment as they unbound him from Jim's breast, but she sprang short. Little wonder that a woman should neglect to make due allowance for the quick swooping of the boat! Next moment she was in the boiling foam. A moment later and she was in Stanley Hall's grasp, and both were swept violently to leeward, but the rope brought them up. Despite darkness and turmoil the quick-eyed coxswain and his mate had noted the incident. Pike payed out the hawser, the coxswain eased off the spring; away went the boat, and next moment Pike had Stanley by the hair. Short was the time required for their strong arms to pull him and his burden in-board; and, oh! it was a touching sight to witness the expressions of the anxious faces that were turned eagerly towards the boat, and glared pale and ghastly in the flaring light, as her sturdy crew hauled slowly up, hand over hand, and got once more under the vessel's lee.

No sooner were they within reach than another impatient passenger leaped overboard. This was Jim's faithful dog Neptune! Watching his time with the intelligence of a human being, he sprang, with much greater precision and vigour than any human being could have done, and, alighting on Pike's shoulders, almost drove that stout boatman into the bottom of the boat.

Soon the boat was as full as it could hold. All the women and children had been got into her, and many of the male passengers, so that there was no room to move; still there remained from twenty to thirty people to be rescued. Seeing this, Jim seized Neptune by the neck and flung him back into the wreck. Catching a rope that hung over the side, he also swung himself on board, saying,—"You and I must sink or swim together, Nep! Shove off, lads, and come back as soon as you can."

The hawser was slipped as he spoke; the lifeboat was hauled slowly but steadily to windward up to her anchor. Tons of water poured over her every moment, but ran through her discharging tubes, and, deeply loaded though she was, she rose buoyant from each immersion like an invincible sea-monster.

When the anchor was reached, a small portion of the foresail was set, and then, cutting the cable with one blow of a hatchet, away they went like the scudding foam right over the boiling shallows on the spit of sand.

"Hand out a blue-light there," cried the coxswain. A sharp blow caused the blue-fire to flare up and shed a light that fell strong as that of the full moon on the mingled grave, pale, stern, and terrified faces in the lifeboat.

"Safe!" muttered one of the crew.

"Safe?" was echoed in surprise, no doubt, from several fluttering hearts.

As well might that have been said to the hapless canoe-man rushing over the Falls of Niagara as to the inexperienced ones there, while they gazed, horror-struck, on the tumult of mad waters in that sudden blaze of unearthly light. Their faith in a trustworthy and intelligent boatman was not equal to their faith in their own eyes, backed by ignorance! But who will blame them for lack of faith in the circumstances? Nevertheless, they were safe. The watchful master of the tug,—laying-to off the deadly banks, now noting the compass, now casting the lead, anon peering into the wild storm,—saw the light, ran down to it, took the rescued ones on board, and, having received from the coxswain the information that there were "more coming," sent them down into his little cabin, there to be refreshed and comforted, while the lifeboat sheered off again, and once more sprang into the "broken water." So might some mighty warrior spur from the battle-field charged with despatches of the highest import bearing on the fight, and, having delivered his message, turn on his heel and rush back into the whirling tide of war to complete the victory which had been so well begun!

Once more they made for the wreck, which was by that time fast breaking up. Running right before the wind in such an awful gale, it was necessary to make the men crowd aft in order to keep the boat's head well out of the water. On this occasion one or two of the seamen of the Wellington, who had been allowed inadvertently to remain in the boat, became alarmed, for the seas were rolling high over the gunwale on each side, and rushing into her with such force as to make it a difficult matter to avoid being washed out. It was a new sensation to these men to rush thus madly between two walls of foam eight or ten feet high! They glanced backward, where another wall of foaming water seemed to be curling over the stern, as if about to drop inboard. The coxswain observed their looks, and knew their feelings. He knew there was no lack of courage in them, and that a little experience would change their minds on this point.

"Never look behind, lads," he cried; "look ahead; always look right ahead."

"Ay, Geordy," remarked one of the men,—a Scotchman,—to his mate, "it's rum sailin' this is. I thocht we was a' gaun to the bottom; but nae doot the cox'n kens best. It's a wonderfu' boat!"

Having so said, the sedate Scot dismissed his anxieties, and thereafter appeared to regard the surrounding chaos of water with no other feelings than philosophic interest and curiosity.

On nearing the wreck the second time, it was found that the tide had fallen so low that they could scarcely get alongside. Three times they struck on the shoal; on the third occasion the mizzen-mast and sail were blown out of the boat. They managed to drop anchor, however, and to veer down under the port bow of the Wellington, whence the anxious survivors threw ropes to them, and, one after another, leaped or swung themselves into the boat. But they were so long about it that before all had been got out the coxswain was obliged to drop to leeward to prevent being left aground. In spite of this, the boat got fast, and now they could neither advance to the wreck for the nine men who still remained in her, nor push off to rejoin the tug.

The space between the boat and vessel was crossed by such a continuous rush of broken water that for a time it was impossible to attempt anything, but as the tide fell the coxswain consulted with his bowman, and both agreed to venture to wade to the wreck, those on board having become so exhausted as to be unable or unwilling to make further effort to save themselves.

Acting on this resolve they with one of their men sprang into the raging surf and staggered to the wreck, where they induced two of the crew to leap overboard and brought them safely to the boat. Others of the lifeboat crew then joined them and four more were rescued. [See note 1.]

The tide had been at its lowest when this desperate work was begun,— before it was finished it had turned. This, coupled with the fact that they had all been nearly swept away during the last effort; and that there was a fresh burst of violence in the gale, induced them to wait until the tide should rise. When it did so sufficiently, they hauled and shoved the boat alongside, and the captain, who was one of the three remaining men, made a desperate spring, but missed the boat and was whirled away. Pike made a grasp at him but missed. The coxswain seized a life-buoy and hurled it towards him. It fell within his reach, and it was supposed that he had caught it, but they could not be certain. The boat was now afloat and bumping violently. If they had cut the cable in order to rescue the captain, which they could by no means make sure of doing, the improbability of being able to return in time to save the two remaining men would have been very great. It seemed to be life or death in either case, so they stuck by the wreck.

It was grey dawn now, and the wreckage was knocking against and around them to such an extent that the coxswain began to fear for the safety of his boat. Yet he was loath to leave the men to perish.

"Jump now, lads!" he cried, sheering up alongside, "it's your last chance. It's death to all of us if we stop longer here!"

The men sprang together. One gained the side of the boat and was saved, the other was swept away. He made frantic efforts to gain the boat, but before his companion had been got inboard he was out of sight, and although the cable was promptly cut and the sail set he could not be found. The boat was then run down along the sands in search of the captain. The coxswain knew well from experience that he must certainly have been swept by the current in the same direction as the wreckage. He therefore followed this, and in a short time had the inexpressible satisfaction and good fortune to find the captain. He had caught the life-buoy, and having managed to get it under his arms had floated about for the greater part of an hour. Though nearly dead he was still sensible, and, after being well chafed and refreshed with a little rum from the coxswain's case-bottle—provided for occasions of this sort—he recovered.

The great work of the lifeboat had now been accomplished, but they could not feel that it had been thoroughly completed without one more effort being made to save the lost man. They therefore ran still farther down the sand in the direction where he had been last seen. They followed the drift of wreckage as before. Presently the bowman uttered a thrilling shout, for, through the turmoil of dashing spray, he saw the man clinging to a spar!

So unexpected was this happy event that the whole crew involuntarily gave vent to a ringing cheer, although, in the circumstances, and considering the nature of their exhausting work and the time they had been exposed to it, one might have supposed them incapable of such a burst of enthusiasm.

In a few moments he was rescued, and now, with light hearts, they ran for the tug, which was clearly visible in the rapidly increasing daylight. They did not put off time in transferring the saved men to the steamer. The big hawser,—their familiar bond of attachment,—was made fast to them, and away went that noble big brother and splendid little sister straight for Ramsgate harbour. [See note 2.]

But the work of that wild night was not yet finished. On their way home they fell in with a schooner, the foretopmast and bowsprit of which were gone. As she was drifting towards the sands they hailed her. No reply being made, the lifeboat was towed alongside, and, on being boarded, it was found that she was a derelict. Probably she had got upon the sands during the night, been forsaken by her crew in their own boat—in which event there was small chance of any being saved—and had drifted off again at the change of the tide.

Be that as it might, six lifeboat men were put on board. Finding no water in her, they slipt her two cables, which were hanging from the bow, a rope was made fast to the steamer, and she was taken in tow.

It was drawing towards noon when they neared the harbour. Very different indeed was the aspect of things there then from what it had been when they went out on their errand of mercy thirteen hours before. Although the gale was still blowing fresh it had moderated greatly. The black clouds no longer held possession of the sky, but were pierced, scattered, and gilded, as they were rolled away, by the victorious sun. The sea still raged and showed its white "teeth" fiercely, as if its spirit had been too much roused to be easily appeased; but blue sky appeared in patches everywhere; the rain had ceased, and the people of the town and visitors swarmed out to enjoy the returning sunshine, inhale the fresh sea-breeze, and await, anxiously, the return of the lifeboat—for, of course, every one in the town was aware by that time that she had been out all night.

When, at length, the smoke of the "big brother" was observed drawing near, the people flocked in hundreds to the piers and cliffs.—Wherever a point of vantage was to be had, dozens of spectators crowned it. Wherever a point of danger was to be gained, daring spirits—chiefly in the shape of small boys—took it by storm, in absolute contempt of the police. "Jacob's Ladder"—the cliff staircase—was crowded from top to bottom. The west pier was rendered invisible to its outer extremity by human beings. The east pier, as far as it was dry, was covered by the fashion and beauty—as well as by the fishy and tarry—of the town. Beyond the point of dryness it was more or less besieged by those who were reckless, riotous, and ridiculously fond of salt-water spray. The yards and shrouds of the crowded and much damaged shipping in the harbour were manned, and the windows of the town that commanded the sea were filled with human faces. An absolute battery of telescopes, like small artillery, was levelled at the approaching tug. Everywhere were to be seen and heard evidences of excitement, anxiety, and expectation.

It was not long before it was announced that flags were seen flying at the mast-heads of the tug and lifeboat—a sure evidence that a rescue had been successfully accomplished. This caused many a burst of cheering from the crowds, as the fact and its import became gradually known. But these were as nothing compared with the cheers that arose when the steamer, with the lifeboat and the schooner in tow, drew near, and it could be seen that there were many people on board—among them women and children. When they finally surged past the pier-head on the crest of a tremendous billow, and swept into the harbour under a vast shower of spray that burst over the pier and rose above the mast-heads of the shipping within—as if to pour a libation on the gallant crews— then a succession of cheers, that cannot be described, welcomed the victors and re-echoed from the chalk-cliffs, to be caught up and sent out again and again in thrilling cadence on the mad sea, which had thus been plundered of its booty and disappointed of its prey!

Scarfs and hats and kerchiefs and hands were waved in wild enthusiasm, strangely mingled with tender pity, when the exhausted women and children and the worn-out and battered lifeboat-men were landed. Many cheered, no doubt, to think of the strong hearts and invincible courage that dwelt in the breasts of Britain's sons; while others,—tracing things at once to their true source,—cheered in broken tones, or were incompetent to cheer at all, when they thought with thankfulness of Britain's faith in the Word of God, which, directly or indirectly, had given that courage its inspiration, and filled those hearts with fire.

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Note 1. The coxswain—Mr Isaac Jarman—who has rendered heroic service in the Ramsgate Lifeboat during the last ten years, has been personally instrumental in saving between four and five hundred lives.

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Note 2. If the reader should desire to know something more of the history of the celebrated Ramsgate lifeboat, which, owing to its position, opportunities, and advantages, has had the most stirring career of all the lifeboat fleet, we advise the perusal of a work (at present in the press, if it be not already published) named Storm Warriors, or the Ramsgate Lifeboat and the Goodwin Sands, by the Reverend John Gilmore, whose able and thrilling articles on the lifeboat-service in Macmillan's Magazine are well known.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

SHOWS THAT THERE ARE NO EFFECTS WITHOUT ADEQUATE CAUSES.

There were not a few surprising and unexpected meetings that day on Ramsgate pier. Foremost among the hundreds who pressed forward to shake the lifeboat-men by the hand, and to sympathise with and congratulate the wrecked and rescued people, was Mr George Durant. It mattered nothing to that stout enthusiast that his hat had been swept away into hopeless destruction during his frantic efforts to get to the front, leaving his polished head exposed to the still considerable fury of the blast and the intermittent violence of the sun; and it mattered, if possible, still less that the wreck turned out to be one of his own vessels; but it was a matter of the greatest interest and amazement to him to find that the first man he should meet in the crowd and seize in a hearty embrace, was his young friend, Stanley Hall.

"What, Stanney!" he exclaimed in unmitigated surprise; "is it—can it be? Prodigious sight!"

The old gentleman could say no more, but continued for a few seconds to wring the hands of his young friend, gaze in his face, and vent himself in gusts of surprise and bursts of tearful laughter, to the great interest and amusement of the bystanders.

Mr Durant's inconsistent conduct may be partly accounted for and excused by the fact that Stanley had stepped on the pier with no other garments on than a pair of trousers and a shirt, the former having a large rent on the right knee, and the latter being torn open at the breast, in consequence of the violent removal of all the buttons when its owner was dragged into the lifeboat. As, in addition to this, the young man's dishevelled hair did duty for a cap, and his face and hands were smeared with oil and tar from the flare-lights which he had assisted to keep up so energetically, it is not surprising that the first sight of him had a powerful effect on Mr Durant.

"Why, Stanney," he said at length, "you look as if you were some strange sea-monster just broke loose from Neptune's menagerie!"

Perhaps this idea had been suggested by the rope round Stanley's waist, the cut end of which still dangled at his side, for Mr Durant took hold of it inquiringly.

"Ay, sir," put in the coxswain, who chanced to be near him, "that bit of rope is a scarf of honour. He saved the life of a soldier's widow with it."

There was a tendency to cheer on the part of the bystanders who heard this.

"God bless you, Stanney, my boy! Come and get dressed," said the old gentleman, suddenly seizing his friend's arm and pushing his way through the crowd, "come along; oh, don't talk to me of the ship. I know that it's lost; no matter—you are saved. And do you come along with us Wel—Wel—what's the name of —? Ah! Welton—come; my daughter is here somewhere. I left her near the parapet. Never mind, she knows her way home."

Katie certainly was there, and when, over the heads of the people—for she had mounted with characteristic energy on the parapet, assisted by Queeker and accompanied by Fanny Hennings—she beheld Stanley Hall in such a plight, she felt a disposition to laugh and cry and faint all at once. She resisted the tendency, however, although the expression of her face and her rapid change of colour induced Queeker with anxious haste to throw out his arms to catch her.

"Ha!" exclaimed Queeker, "I knew it!"

What Queeker knew he never explained. It may have had reference to certain suspicions entertained in regard to the impression made by the young student on Katie the night of their first meeting; we cannot tell, but we know that he followed up the exclamation with the muttered remark, "It was fortunate that I pulled up in time."

Herein Queeker exhibited the innate tendency of the human heart to deceive itself. That furious little poetical fox-hunter had, by his own confession, felt the pangs of a guilty conscience in turning, just because he could not help it, from Katie to Fanny, yet here he was now basely and coolly taking credit to himself for having "pulled up in time!"

"Oh, look at the dear little children!" exclaimed Fanny, pointing towards a part of the crowd where several seamen were carrying the rescued and still terrified little ones in their strong arms, while others assisted the women along, and wrapped dry shawls round them.

"How dreadful to think," said Katie, making a hard struggle to suppress her agitation, "that all these would have been lost but for the lifeboat; and how wonderful to think that some of our own friends should be among them!"

"Ay, there be many more besides these saved last night, miss," remarked a sturdy old boatman who chanced to be standing beside her. "All along the east coast the lifeboats has bin out, miss, you may be sure; and they don't often shove off without bringin' somethin' back to show for their pains, though they don't all 'ave steamers for to tug 'em out. There's the Broadstairs boat, now; I've jist heerd she was out all night an' saved fifteen lives; an' the Walmer and Deal boats has fetched in a lot, I believe, though we han't got particklers yet."

Besides those whom we have mentioned as gazing with the crowd at the arrival of the lifeboat, Morley Jones, and Nora, and Billy Towler were there. Jones and Billy had returned from London together the night before the storm, and, like nearly every one else in the town, had turned out to witness the arrival of the lifeboat.

Dick Moy also was there, and that huge lump of good-nature spent the time in making sagacious remarks and wise comments on wind and weather, wrecks and rescues, in a manner that commanded the intense admiration of a knot of visitors who happened to be near him, and who regarded him as a choice specimen—a sort of type—of the British son of Neptune.

"This is wot I says," observed Dick, while the people were landing "so long as there's 'ope, 'old on. Never say die, and never give in; them's my sentiments. 'Cause why? no one never knows wot may turn up. If your ship goes down; w'y, wot then? Strike out, to be sure. P'r'aps you may be picked up afore long. If sharks is near, p'r'aps you may be picked down. You can never tell. If you gets on a shoal, wot then? w'y, stick to the ship till a lifeboat comes off to 'ee. Don't never go for to take to your own boats. If you do—capsize, an' Davy Jones's locker is the word. If the lifeboat can't git alongside; w'y, wait till it can. If it can't; w'y, it can only be said that it couldn't. No use cryin' over spilt milk, you know. Not that I cares for milk. It don't keep at sea, d'ye see; an's only fit for babbys. If the lifeboat capsizes; w'y, then, owin' to her parfection o' build, she rights again, an' you, 'avin' on cork jackets, p'r'aps, gits into 'er by the lifelines, all handy. If you 'aven't got no cork jackets on, w'y, them that has'll pick 'ee up. If not, it's like enough you'll go down. But no matter, you've did yer best, an' man, woman, or child can do no more. You can only die once, d'ye see?"

Whether the admiring audience did or did not see the full force of these remarks, they undoubtedly saw enough in the gigantic tar to esteem him a marvel of philosophic wisdom. Judging by their looks that he was highly appreciated, it is just possible that Dick Moy might have been tempted to extend his discourse, had not a move in the crowd showed a general tendency towards dispersion, the rescued people having been removed, some to the Sailor's Home, others to the residences of hospitable people in the town.

Now, it must not be imagined that all these characters in our tale have been thus brought together, merely at our pleasure, without rhyme or reason, and in utter disregard of the law of probabilities. By no means.

Mr Robert Queeker had started for Ramsgate, as the reader knows, on a secret mission, which, as is also well known, was somewhat violently interrupted by the sporting tendencies of that poetical law-clerk; but no sooner did Queeker recover from his wounds than—with the irresistible ardour of a Wellington, or a Blucher, or a bull-dog, or a boarding-school belle—he returned to the charge, made out his intended visit, set his traps, baited his lines, fastened his snares, and whatever else appertained to his secret mission, so entirely to the satisfaction of Messrs. Merryheart and Dashope, that these estimable men resolved, some time afterwards, to send him back again to the scene of his labours, to push still further the dark workings of his mission. Elate with success the earnest Queeker prepared to go. Oh, what joy if she would only go with him!

"And why not?" cried Queeker, starting up when this thought struck him, as if it had struck him too hard and he were about to retaliate,—"Why not? That is the question."

He emphasised that as if all other questions, Hamlet's included, sank into insignificance by contrast.

"Only last night," continued Queeker to himself, still standing bolt upright in a frenzy of inspiration, and running his fingers fiercely through his hair, so as to make it stand bolt upright too—"only last night I heard old Durant say he could not make up his mind where to go to spend the autumn this year. Why not Ramsgate? why not Ramsgate?

"Its chalky cliffs, and yellow sand, And rides, and walks, and weather, Its windows, which a view command Of everything together.

"Its pleasant walks, and pretty shops, To fascinate the belles, Its foaming waves, like washing-slops, To captivate the swells.

"Its boats and boatmen, brave and true, Who lounge upon the jetty, And smile upon the girls too— At least when they are pretty.

"Oh! Ramsgate, where in all the earth, Beside the lovely sea, Can any town of note or worth Be found to equal thee?

"Nowhere!" said Queeker, bringing his fist down on the table with a force that made the ink leap, when he had finished these verses—verses, however, which cost him two hours and a profuse perspiration to produce.

It was exactly a quarter to eight p.m. by the Yarmouth custom-house clock, due allowance being made for variation, when this "Nowhere!" was uttered, and it was precisely a quarter past nine p.m. that day week when the Durants drove up to the door of the Fortress Hotel in Ramsgate, and ordered beds and tea,—so powerful was the influence of a great mind when brought to bear on Fanny Hennings, who exercised irresistible influence over the good-natured Katie, whose power over her indulgent father was absolute!

Not less natural was the presence, in Ramsgate, of Billy Towler. We have already mentioned that, for peculiarly crooked ends of his own, Morley Jones had changed his abode to Ramsgate—his country abode, that is. His headquarters and town department continued as before to flourish in Gravesend, in the form of a public-house, which had once caught fire at a time, strange to say, when the spirit and beer casks were all nearly empty, a curious fact which the proprietor alone was aware of, but thought it advisable not to mention when he went to receive the 200 pounds of insurance which had been effected on the premises a few weeks before! It will thus be seen that Mr Jones's assurance, in the matter of dealing with insurance, was considerable.

Having taken up his temporary abode, then, in Ramsgate, and placed his mother and daughter therein as permanent residents, Mr Jones commenced such a close investigation as to the sudden disappearance of his ally Billy, that he wormed out of the unwilling but helpless Nora not only what had become of him, but the name and place of his habitation. Having accomplished this, he dressed himself in a blue nautical suit with brass buttons, took the morning train to London, and in due course presented himself at the door of the Grotto, where he requested permission to see the boy Towler.

The request being granted, he was shown into a room, and Billy was soon after let in upon him.

"Hallo! young Walleye, why, what ever has come over you?" he exclaimed in great surprise, on observing that Billy's face was clean, in which condition he had never before seen it, and his hair brushed, an extraordinary novelty; and, most astonishing of all, that he wore unragged garments.

Billy, who, although outwardly much altered, had apparently lost none of his hearty ways and sharp intelligence, stopped short in the middle of the room, thrust both hands deep into his trousers pockets, opened his eyes very wide, and gave vent to a low prolonged whistle.

"What game may you be up to?" he said, at the end of the musical prelude.

"You are greatly improved, Billy," said Jones, holding out his hand.

"I'm not aweer," replied the boy, drawing back, "as I've got to thank you for it."

"Come, Billy, this ain't friendly, is it, after all I've done for you?" said Jones, remonstratively; "I only want you to come out an' 'ave a talk with me about things, an' I'll give 'ee a swig o' beer or whatever you take a fancy to. You ain't goin' to show the white feather and become a milksop, are you?"

"Now, look here, Mister Jones," said the boy, with an air of decision that there was no mistaking, as he retreated nearer to the door; "I don't want for to have nothin' more to do with you. I've see'd much more than enough of 'ee. You knows me pretty well, an' you knows that wotiver else I may be, I ain't a hippercrite. I knows enough o' your doin's to make you look pretty blue if I like, but for reasons of my own, wot you've got nothink to do with, I don't mean to peach. All I ax is, that you goes your way an' let me alone. That's where it is. The people here seem to 'ave got a notion that I've got a soul as well as a body, and that it ain't 'xactly sitch a worthless thing as to be never thought of, and throw'd away like an old shoe. They may be wrong, and they may be right, but I'm inclined to agree with 'em. Let me tell 'ee that you 'ave did more than anybody else to show me the evil of wicked ways, so you needn't stand there grinnin' like a rackishoot wi' the toothache. I've jined the Band of Hope, too, so I don't want none o' your beer nor nothin' else, an' if you offers to lay hands on me, I'll yell out like a she-spurtindeel, an' bring in the guv'nor, wot's fit to wollop six o' you any day with his left hand."

This last part of Billy's speech was made with additional fire, in consequence of Morley Jones taking a step towards him in anger.

"Well, boy," he said, sternly, "hypocrite or not, you've learned yer lesson pretty pat, so you may do as you please. It's little that a chip like you could do to get me convicted on anything you've seen or heard as yet, an' if ye did succeed, it would only serve to give yourself a lift on the way to the gallows. But it wasn't to trouble myself about you and your wishes that I came here for (the wily rascal assumed an air and tone of indifference at this point); if you had only waited to hear what I'd got to say, before you began to spit fire, you might have saved your breath. The fact is that my Nora is very ill—so ill that I fear she stands a poor chance o' gittin' better. I'm goin' to send her away on a long sea voyage. P'r'aps that may do her good; if not, it's all up with her. She begged and prayed me so earnestly to come here and take you down to see her before she goes, that I could not refuse her— particularly as I happened to have business in London anyhow. If I'd known how you would take it, I would have saved myself the trouble of comin'. However, I'll bid you good-day now."

"Jones," said the boy earnestly, "that's a lie."

"Very good," retorted the man, putting on his hat carelessly, "I'll take back that message with your compliments—eh?"

"No; but," said Billy, almost whimpering with anxiety, "is Nora really ill?"

"I don't wish you to come if you don't want to," replied Jones; "you can stop here till doomsday for me. But do you suppose I'd come here for the mere amusement of hearing you give me the lie?"

"I'll go!" said Billy, with as much emphasis as he had previously expressed on declining to go.

The matter was soon explained to the manager of the Grotto. Mr Jones was so plausible, and gave such unexceptionable references, that it is no disparagement to the penetration of the superintendent of that day to say that he was deceived. The result was, as we have shown, that Billy ere long found his way to Ramsgate.

When Mr Jones introduced him ceremoniously to Nora, he indulged in a prolonged and hearty fit of laughter. Nora gazed at Billy with a look of intense amazement, and Billy stared at Nora with a very mingled expression of countenance, for he at once saw through the deception that had been practised on him, and fully appreciated the difficulty of his position—his powers of explanation being hampered by a warning, given him long ago by his friend Jim Welton, that he must be careful how he let Nora into the full knowledge of her father's wickedness.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

CONFIDENCES AND CROSS PURPOSES.

Katie Durant, sitting with a happy smile on her fair face, and good-will in her sweet heart to all mankind—womankind included, which says a good deal for her—was busy with a beautiful sketch of a picturesque watermill, meditating on the stirring scene she had so recently witnessed, when a visitor was announced.

"Who can it be?" inquired Katie; "papa is out, you know, and no one can want me."

The lodging-house keeper, Mrs Cackles, smiled at the idea of no one wanting Katie, knowing, as she did, that there were at least twenty people who would have given all they were worth in the world to possess her, either in the form of wife, sister, daughter, friend governess, or companion.

"Well, miss, she do wants you, and says as no one else will do."

"Oh, a lady, please show her in, Mrs Cackles."

"Well, she ain't a lady, either, though I've seen many a lady as would give their weight in gold to be like her."

So saying the landlady departed, and in a few seconds introduced Nora.

"Miss Jones!" cried Katie, rising with a pleased smile and holding out her hand; "this is a very unexpected pleasure."

"Thank you, Miss Durant. I felt sure you would remember me," said Nora, taking a seat, "and I also feel sure that you will assist me with your advice in a matter of some difficulty, especially as it relates to the boy about whose sick brother you came to me at Yarmouth some time ago— you remember?"

"Oh! Billy Towler," exclaimed Katie, with animation; "yes, I remember; you are right in expecting me to be interested in him. Let me hear all about it."

Hereupon Nora gave Katie an insight into much of Billy Towler's history, especially dwelling on that part of it which related to his being sent to the Grotto, in the hope of saving him from the evil influences that were brought to bear upon him in his intercourse with her father.

"Not," she said, somewhat anxiously, "that I mean you to suppose my dear father teaches him anything that is wicked; but his business leads him much among bad men—and—they drink and smoke, you know, which is very bad for a young boy to see; and many of them are awful swearers. Now, poor Billy has been induced to leave the Grotto and to come down here, for what purpose I don't know; but I am so disappointed, because I had hoped he would not have got tired of it so soon; and what distresses me most is, that he does not speak all his mind to me; I can see that, for he is very fond of me, and did not use to conceal things from me—at least I fancied not. The strange thing about it too is, that he says he is willing to return to the Grotto immediately, if I wish it."

"I am very very sorry to hear all this," said Katie, with a troubled air; "but what do you propose to do, and how can I assist you?—only tell me, and I shall be so happy to do it, if it be in my power."

"I really don't know how to put it to you, dear Miss Durant, and I could not have ventured if you had not been so very kind when I met you in Yarmouth; but—but your father owns several vessels, I believe, and— and—you will excuse me referring to it, I know—he was so good as to get a situation on board of the Wellington—which has so unfortunately been wrecked—for a young—a—a young—man; one of those who was saved—"

"Yes, yes," said Katie, quickly, thinking of Stanley Hall, and blushing scarlet; "I know the young gentleman to whom you refer; well, go on."

"Well," continued Nora, thinking of Jim Welton, and blushing scarlet too, "that young man said to me that he felt sure if I were to make application to Mr Durant through you, he would give Billy a situation in one of his ships, and so get him out of harm's way."

"He was right," said Katie, with a somewhat puzzled expression; "and you may rely on my doing what I can for the poor boy with papa, who is always happy to help in such cases; but I was not aware that Mr Hall knew either you or Billy."

"Mr Hall!" exclaimed Nora, in surprise.

"Did you not refer to him just now?"

"No, miss; I meant James Welton."

"Oh!" exclaimed Katie, prolonging that monosyllable in a sliding scale, ranging from low to high and back to low again, which was peculiarly suggestive; "I beg your pardon, I quite misunderstood you; well, you may tell Mr Welton that I will befriend Billy to the utmost of my power."

The door opened as she spoke, and cousin Fanny entered.

"Katie, I've come to tell you that Mr Queek—" She stopped short on observing Nora, who rose hastily, thanked Katie earnestly for the kind interest she had expressed in her little friend, and took her leave.

"This is a very interesting little incident, Fan," said Katie with delight when they were alone; "quite a romancelet of real life. Let me see; here is a poor boy—the boy who deceived us, you remember—whom bad companions are trying to decoy into the wicked meshes of their dreadful net, and a sweet young girl, a sort of guardian angel as it were, comes to me and asks my aid to save the boy, and have him sent to sea. Isn't it delightful? Quite the ground-work of a tale—and might be so nicely illustrated," added Katie, glancing at her drawings. "But forgive me, Fan; I interrupted you. What were you going to tell me?"

"Only that Mr Queeker cannot come to tea tonight, as he has business to attend to connected with his secret mission," replied Fanny.

"How interesting it would be," said Katie, musing, "if we could only manage to mix up this mission of Mr Queeker's in the plot of our romance; wouldn't it? Come, I will put away my drawing for to-day, and finish the copy of papa's quarterly cash-account for those dreadful Board of Trade people; then we shall go to the pier and have a walk, and on our way we will call on that poor old bedridden woman whom papa has ferreted out, and give her some tea and sugar. Isn't it strange that papa should have discovered one so soon? I suppose you are aware of his penchant for old women, Fan?"

"No, I was not aware of it," said Fan, smiling.

Whatever Fan said, she accompanied with a smile. Indeed a smile was the necessary result of the opening of her little mouth for whatever purpose—not an affected smile, but a merry one—which always had the effect, her face being plump, of half shutting her eyes.

"Yes," continued Katie, with animation, "papa is so fond of old women, particularly if they are very old, and very little, and thin; they must be thin, though. I don't think he cares much for them if they are fat. He says that fat people are so jolly that they don't need to be cared for, but he dotes upon the little thin ones."

Fanny smiled, and observed that that was curious. "So it is," observed Katie; "now my taste lies in the direction of old men. I like to visit poor old men much better than poor old women, and the older and more helpless they are the more I like them."

Fanny smiled again, and observed that that was curious too.

"So it is," said Katie, "very odd that papa should like the old women and I should like the old men; but so it is. Now, Fan, we'll get ready and—oh how provoking! That must be another visitor! People find papa out so soon wherever we go, and then they give him no rest."

"A boy wishes to see you, miss," said Mrs Cackles.

"Me?" exclaimed Katie in surprise.

"Yes, miss, and he says he wants to see you alone on important business."

Katie looked at Fanny and smiled. Fanny returned the smile, and immediately left the room.

"Show him in, Mrs Cackles."

The landlady withdrew, and ushered in no less a personage than Billy Towler himself, who stopped at the door, and stood with his hat in his hand, and an unusually confused expression in his looks. "Please, miss," said Billy, "you knows me, I think?"

Katie admitted that she knew him, and, knowing in her heart that she meant to befriend him, it suddenly occurred to her that it would be well to begin with a little salutary severity by way of punishment for his former misdeeds.

"Last time I saw you, miss, I did you," said Billy with a slight grin.

"You did," replied Katie with a slight frown, "and I hope you have come to apologise for your naughty conduct."

"Well, I can't 'xactly say as I have come to do that, but I dessay I may as well begin that way. I'm very sorry, miss, for havin' did you, an' I've called now to see if I can't do you again."

Katie could not restrain a laugh at the impudence of this remark, but she immediately regretted it, because Billy took encouragement and laughed too; she therefore frowned with intense severity, and, still remembering that she meant ultimately to befriend the boy, resolved to make him in the meantime feel the consequences of his former misdeeds.

"Come, boy," she said sharply, "don't add impertinence to your wickedness, but let me know at once what you want with me."

Billy was evidently taken aback by this rebuff. He looked surprised, and did not seem to know how to proceed. At length he put strong constraint upon himself, and said, in rather a gruff tone—

"Well, miss, I—a—the fact is—you know a gal named Nora Jones, don't you? Anyhow, she knows you, an' has said to me so often that you was a parfect angel, that—that—"

"That you came to see," interrupted Katie, glancing at her shoulders, "whether I really had wings, or not, eh?"

Katie said this with a still darker frown; for she thought that the urchin was jesting. Nothing was further from his intention. Knowing this, and, not finding the angelic looks and tones which he had been led to expect, Billy felt still more puzzled and inclined to be cross.

"Seems to me that there's a screw loose somewheres," said Billy, scratching the point of his nose in his vexation. "Hows'ever, I came here to ax your advice, and although you cer'nly don't 'ave wings nor the style o' looks wot's usual in 'eavenly wisiters, I'll make a clean breast of it—so here goes."

Hereupon the poor boy related how he had been decoyed from the Grotto— of which establishment he gave a graphic and glowing account—and said that he was resolved to have nothing more to do with Morley Jones, but meant to return to the Grotto without delay—that evening if possible. He had a difficulty, however, which was, that he could not speak freely to Nora about her father, for fear of hurting her feelings or enlightening her too much as to his true character, in regard to which she did not yet know the worst. One evil result of this was that she had begun to suspect there was something wrong as to his own affection for herself—which was altogether a mistake. Billy made the last remark with a flush of earnest indignation and a blow of his small hand on his diminutive knee! He then said that another evil result was that he could not see his way to explain to Nora why he wished to be off in such a hurry, and, worst of all, he had not a sixpence in the world wherewith to pay his fare to London, and had no means of getting one.

"And so," said Katie, still keeping up her fictitious indignation, "you come to beg money from me?"

"Not to beg, Miss—to borrer."

"Ah! and thus to do me a second time," said Katie.

It must not be supposed that Katie's sympathetic heart had suddenly become adamantine. On the contrary, she had listened with deep interest to all that her youthful visitor had to say, and rejoiced in the thought that she had given to her such a splendid opportunity of doing good and frustrating evil; but the little spice of mischief in her character induced her still to keep up the fiction of being suspicious, in order to give Billy a salutary lesson. In addition to this, she had not quite got over the supposed insult of being mistaken for an angel! She therefore declined, in the meantime, to advance the required sum— ten-and-sixpence—although the boy earnestly promised to repay her with his first earnings.

"No," she said, with a gravity which she found it difficult to maintain, "I cannot give you such a sum until I have seen and consulted with my father on the subject; but I may tell you that I respect your sentiments regarding Nora and your intention to forsake your evil ways. If you will call here again in the evening I will see what can be done for you."

Saying this, and meditating in her heart that she would not only give Billy the ten-and-sixpence to enable him to return to the Grotto, but would induce her father to give him permanent employment in one of his ships, she showed Billy to the door, and bade him be a good boy and take care of himself.

Thereafter she recalled Fanny, and, for her benefit, re-enacted the whole scene between herself and Billy Towler, in a manner so graphic and enthusiastic, as to throw that amiable creature into convulsions of laughter, which bade fair to terminate her career in a premature fit of juvenile apoplexy.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

MYSTERIOUS DOINGS.

Disappointed, displeased, and sorely puzzled, Billy Towler took his way towards the harbour, with his hands thrust desperately into his pockets, and an unwonted expression of discontent on his countenance. So deeply did he take the matter to heart, that he suffered one small boy to inquire pathetically, "if 'e'd bin long in that state o' grumps?" and another to suggest that, "if 'e couldn't be 'appier than that, 'e'd better go an' drown hisself," without vouchsafing a retort, or even a glance of recognition.

Passing the harbour, he went down to the beach, and there unexpectedly met with Mr Morley Jones.

"Hallo! my young bantam," exclaimed Morley, with a look of surprise.

"Well, old Cochin-china, wot's up?" replied Billy, in a gruff tone. "Drunk as usual, I see."

Being somewhat desperate, the boy did not see, or did not mind the savage glance with which Mr Jones favoured him. The glance was, however, exchanged quickly for an idiotic smile, as he retorted—

"Well, I ain't so drunk but I can see to steer my course, lad. Come, I've got a noo boat, what d'ye say to go an' have a sail? The fact is, Billy, I was just on my way up to the house to ax you to go with me, so it's good luck that I didn't miss you. Will 'ee go, lad?"

At any other time the boy would have refused; but his recent disappointment in regard to the angelic nature of Katie still rankled so powerfully in his breast, that he swung round and said—"Get along, then—I'm your man—it's all up now—never say die—in for a penny in for a pound," and a variety of similar expressions, all of which tended to convince Mr Jones that Billy Towler happened to be in a humour that was extremely suitable to his purposes. He therefore led him towards his boat, which, he said, was lying on the beach at Broadstairs all ready to shove off.

The distance to Broadstairs was about two miles, and the walk thither was enlivened by a drunken commentary on the fallacy of human hopes in general on the part of Mr Jones, and a brisk fire of caustic repartee on the part of Master Towler.

A close observer might have noticed that, while these two were passing along the beach, at the base of the high cliffs of chalk running between Ramsgate and Broadstairs, two heads were thrust cautiously out of one of the small caverns or recesses which have been made in these cliffs by the action of the waves. The one head bore a striking resemblance to that of Robert Queeker, Esquire, and the other to that of Mr Larks.

How these two came to be together, and to be there, it is not our business to say. Authors are fortunately not bound to account for everything they relate. All that we know is, that Mr Queeker was there in the furtherance, probably, of his secret mission, and that Mr Larks' missions appeared to be always more or less secret. At all events, there they were together; fellow-students, apparently, of the geology or conchology of that region, if one might judge from the earnest manner in which they stooped and gazed at the sands, and picked up bits of flint or small shells, over which they held frequent, and, no doubt, learned discussions of an intensely engrossing nature.

It might have been also noticed by a close observer, that these stoopings to pick up specimens, and these stoppages to discuss, invariably occurred when Mr Jones and Master Billy chanced to pause or to look behind them. At last the boat was reached. It lay on the beach not far from the small harbour of Broadstairs, already surrounded by the rising tide. About the same time the geological and conchological studies of Messrs. Queeker and Larks coming to an end, these scientific men betook themselves suddenly to the shelter of a small cave, whence they sat watching, with intense interest, the movements of the man and boy, thus proving themselves gifted with a truly Baconian spirit of general inquiry into simple facts, with a view to future inductions.

"Jump in, Billy," said Jones, "and don't wet your feet; I can easily shove her off alone."

Billy obeyed.

"Hallo! wot have 'ee got here?" he cried, touching a large tarpaulin bag with his foot.

"Only some grub," answered Jones, putting his shoulder to the bow of the boat.

"And a compass too!" cried Billy, looking round in surprise.

"Ay, it may come on thick, you know," said Jones, as the boat's keel grated over the sand.

"I say, stop!" cried Billy; "you're up to some mischief; come, let me ashore."

Mr Jones made no reply, but continued to push off the boat. Seeing this, the boy leaped overboard, but Jones caught him. For one instant there was a struggle; then poor Billy was lifted in the strong man's arms, and hurled back into the boat. Next moment it was afloat, and Jones leaped inboard. Billy was not to be overcome so easily, however. He sprang up, and again made a leap over the gunwale, but Jones caught him by the collar, and, after a severe struggle, dragged him into the boat, and gave him a blow on the head with his clenched fist, which stunned him. Then, seizing the oars, he pulled off. After getting well away from the beach he hoisted a small lug-sail, and stood out to sea.

All this was witnessed by the scientific men in the cave through a couple of small pocket-telescopes, which brought the expression of Jones's and Billy's countenances clearly into view. At first Mr Queeker, with poetic fervour, started up, intent on rushing to the rescue of the oppressed; but Mr Larks, with prosaic hardness of heart, held him forcibly back, and told him to make his mind easy, adding that Mr Jones had no intention of doing the boy any further harm. Whereupon Queeker submitted with a sigh. The two friends then issued from the cave, shook hands, and bade each other goodbye with a laugh—the man with the keen grey eyes following the path that led to Broadstairs, while the lawyer's clerk returned to Ramsgate by the beach.

Meanwhile the sun went down, and the lanterns of the Goodwin, the Gull, and the South sandhead floating lights went up. The shades of evening fell, and the stars came out—one by one at first; then by twos and threes; at last by bursts of constellations, until the whole heavens glowed with a galaxy of distant worlds. During all this time Mr Jones sat at the helm of his little boat, and held steadily out to sea. The wind being light, he made small progress, but that circumstance did not seem to trouble him much.

"You'd better have a bit supper, lad," said Jones in a careless way. "Of course you're welcome to starve yourself if 'ee choose, but by so doin' you'll only make yourself uncomfortable for nothing. You're in for it now, an' can't help yourself."

Billy was seated on one of the thwarts, looking very savage, with his right eye nearly closed by the blow which had caused him to succumb.

"P'r'aps I mayn't be able to help myself," he replied, "but I can peach upon you, anyhow."

"So you can, my lad, if you want to spend eight or ten years in limbo," retorted Jones, spitting out his quid of tobacco, and supplying its place with a new one. "You and I are in the same boat, Billy, whether ashore or afloat; we sink or swim together."

No more was said for some time. Jones knew that the boy was in his power, and resolved to bide his time. Billy felt that he had at least the chance of being revenged if he chose to sacrifice himself, so he "nursed his wrath to keep it warm."

About an hour afterwards a squall struck the boat, and nearly capsized it; but Jones, who was quite sobered by that time, threw her head quickly into the wind, and Billy, forgetting everything else, leaped up with his wonted activity, loosened the sail, and reefed it. The squall soon passed away, and left them almost becalmed, as before.

"That was well done, Billy," said Jones, in a cheerful tone; "you'd make a smart sailor, my lad."

Billy made no reply; and, despite his efforts to the contrary, felt highly flattered. He also felt the pangs of hunger, and, after resisting them for some time, resolved to eat, as it were, under protest. With a reckless, wilful air, therefore, he opened the tarpaulin bag, and helped himself to a large "hunk" of bread and a piece of cheese. Whereupon Mr Jones smiled grimly, and remarked that there was nothing like grub for giving a man heart—except grog, he added, producing a case-bottle from his pocket and applying it to his mouth.

"Have a pull, lad? No! well, please yourself. I ain't goin' to join the temperance move myself yet," said Jones, replacing the bottle in his pocket.

The short squall having carried the boat nearer to the Gull lightship than was desirable, Mr Jones tried to keep as far off from her as possible, while the tide should sweep them past; but the wind having almost died away, he did not succeed in this; however, he knew that darkness would prevent recognition, so he thought it best not to take to the oars, but to hold on, intending to slip quietly by, not supposing that Billy would think it of any use to hail the vessel; but Billy happened to think otherwise.

"Gull ahoy! hoy!" he shouted at the top of his shrill voice.

"Boat ahoy!" responded Jack Shales, who happened to be on duty; but no response was given to Jack, for the good reason that Jones had instantly clapped his hand on Billy's mouth, and half-choked him.

"That's odd," remarked Jack, after repeating his cry twice. "I could swear it was the voice of that sharp little rascal Billy Towler."

"If it wasn't it was his ghost," replied Jerry MacGowl, who chanced to be on deck at the time.

"Sure enough it's very ghost-like," said Shales, as the boat glided silently and slowly out of the circle of the lantern's light, and faded from their vision.

Mr Jones did not follow up his act with further violence. He merely assured Billy that he was a foolish fellow, and that it was of no use to struggle against his fate.

As time wore on, poor Billy felt dreadfully sleepy, and would have given a good deal for some of the grog in his companion's case-bottle, but, resolving to stand upon his dignity, would not condescend to ask for it. At length he lay down and slept, and Jones covered him with a pilot-coat.

No soft spot in the scoundrel's heart induced him to perform this act of apparent kindness. He knew the poor boy's temperament, and resolved to attack him on his weakest point.

When Billy awoke the day was just breaking. He stretched himself, yawned, sat up, and looked about him with the confused air of one not quite awake.

"Hallo!" he cried gaily, "where on earth am I?"

"You ain't on earth, lad; you're afloat," replied Jones, who still sat at the helm.

At once the boy remembered everything, and shrank within himself. As he did so, he observed the pilot-coat which covered him, and knew that it must have been placed where it was by Jones. His resolution to hold out was shaken; still he did not give in.

Mr Jones now began to comment in a quiet good-natured way upon the weather and the prospects of the voyage (which excited Billy's curiosity very much), and suggested that breakfast would not be a bad thing, and that a drop o' rum might be agreeable, but took care never to make his remarks so pointed as to call for an answer. Just as the sun was rising he got up slowly, cast loose the stays and halyards of mast and sail, lifted the mast out of its place, and deliberately hove the whole affair overboard, remarking in a quiet tone that, having served his purpose, he didn't want mast or sail any longer. In the same deliberate way he unshipped the rudder and cast it away. He followed this up by throwing overboard one of the oars, and then taking the only remaining oar, he sculled and steered the boat therewith gently.

Billy, who thought his companion must be either drunk or mad, could contain himself no longer.

"I say, old fellow," he remarked, "you're comin' it pretty strong! Wot on earth are you up to, and where in all the world are 'ee goin' to?"

"Oh come, you know," answered Jones in a remonstrative tone, "I may be an easy-goin' chap, but I can't be expected to tell all my secrets except to friends."

"Well, well," said Billy, with a sigh, "it's no use tryin' to hold out. I'll be as friendly as I can; only. I tells you candid, I'll mizzle whenever I gits ashore. I'm not agoin' to tell no end o' lies to please you any longer, so I give 'ee fair warning," said Billy stoutly.

"All right, my lad," said the wily Jones, who felt that having subdued the boy thus far, he would have little difficulty in subduing him still further, in course of time, and by dint of judicious treatment; "I don't want 'ee to tell lies on my account, an' I'll let you go free as soon as ever we get ashore. So now, let's shake hands over it, and have a glass o' grog and a bit o' breakfast."

Billy shook hands, and took a sip out of the case-bottle, by way of clenching the reconciliation. The two then had breakfast together, and, while this meal was in progress, Jones informed his little friend of the nature of the "game" he was engaged in playing out.

"You must know, my lad," said Mr Jones, "that you and I have been wrecked. We are the only survivors of the brig Skylark, which was run down in a fog by a large three-masted screw steamer on the night of the thirteenth—that's three nights ago, Billy. The Skylark sank immediately, and every soul on board was lost except you and me, because the steamer, as is too often the case in such accidents, passed on and left us to our fate. You and I was saved by consequence of bein' smart and gettin' into this here small boat—which is one o' the Skylark's boats—only just in time to save ourselves; but she had only one oar in her, and no mast, or sail, or rudder, as you see, Billy; nevertheless we managed to keep her goin' with the one oar up to this time, and no doubt," said Mr Jones with a grin, "we'll manage to keep her goin' till we're picked up and carried safe into port."

Billy's eyes had opened very wide and very round as Mr Jones's description proceeded; gradually, as his surprise increased, his mouth also opened and elongated, but he said never a word, though he breathed hard.

"Now, Billy, my boy," pursued Mr Jones, "I tell 'ee all this, of course, in strict confidence. The Skylark, you must know, was loaded with a valuable cargo of fine herrings, worth about 200 pounds. There was 780 barrels of 'em, and 800 boxes. The brig was worth 100 pounds, so the whole affair was valued at 300 pounds sterling."

"You don't mean to tell me," said Billy, catching his breath, "that there warn't never no such a wessel as the Skylark?"

"Never that I know of," replied Jones with a smile, "except in my brain, and on the books o' several insurance companies."

Billy's eyes and mouth grew visibly rounder, but he said nothing more, and Mr Jones, renewing his quid, went on—

"Well, my lad, before this here Skylark left the port of London for Cherbourg, I insured her in no fewer than five insurance Companies. You'll understand that that ain't regular, my boy, but at each office I said that the vessel was not insured in any other, and they believed me. You must know that a good deal of business is done by these Companies in good faith, which gives a chance to smart fellows like me and you to turn an honest penny, d'ye see? They are pretty soft, luckily."

Mr Jones happened to be mistaken in this opinion, as the sequel will show, but Billy believed him at the time, and wondered that they were "so green."

"Yes," continued Jones, counting on his fingers, "I'm in for 300 pounds with the Advance Company, and 300 pounds with the Tied Harbours Company, and 225 pounds with the Home and Abroad Company, and 200 pounds with the Submarine Company, and 300 pounds with the Friend-in-need Company—the whole makin' a snug little sum of 1325 pounds. 'In for a penny, in for a pound,' is my motto, you see; so, lad, you and I shall make our fortunes, if all goes well, and you only continue game and clever."

This last remark was a feeler, and Mr Jones paused to observe its effect, but he could scarce refrain from laughter for Billy's eyes and mouth now resembled three extremely round O's with his nose like a fat mark of admiration in the midst.

A gusty sigh was all the response he gave, however, so Mr Jones continued—

"We've been out about thirty hours, starvin' in this here little boat, you and I, so now it's about time we wos picked up; and as I see a vessel on our larboard-beam that looks like a foreigner, we'll throw the grub overboard, have another pull at the grog, bottle, and hoist a signal of distress."

In pursuance of these intentions Jones applied the case-bottle to his lips, and took a long pull, after which he offered it to Billy, who however declined. He then threw the bread-bag into the sea, and tying his handkerchief to the oar after the manner of a flag, set it up on end and awaited the result.

The vessel alluded to was presently observed to alter its course and bear down on the boat, and now Billy felt that the deciding time had come. He sat gazing at the approaching vessel in silence. Was he to give in to his fate and agree to tell lies through thick and thin in order to further the designs of Mr Jones, or was he to reveal all the moment he should get on board the vessel, and take the consequences? He thought of Katie, and resolved to give up the struggle against evil. Then Nora rose up in his mind's eye, and he determined to do the right. Then he thought of transportation for a prolonged term of years, with which Jones threatened him, and he felt inclined to turn again into the wrong road to escape from that; presently he remembered the Grotto, and the lessons of truth to God and man that he had learned there, and he made up his mind to fight in the cause of truth to the last gasp.

Mr Jones watched his face keenly, and came to the conclusion that he had quelled the boy, and should now find him a willing and useful tool, but in order to make still more sure, he employed the few minutes that remained to him in commenting on the great discomfort of a convict's life, and the great satisfaction that accrued from making one's fortune at a single stroke.

This talk was not without its effect. Billy wavered. Before he could make up his mind they were alongside the strange vessel, and next moment on her deck. Mr Jones quickly explained the circumstances of the loss of the Skylark to the sympathetic captain. Billy listened in silence, and, by silence, had assented to the falsehood. It was too late now to mend matters, so he gave way to despair, which in him frequently, if not usually, assumed the form of reckless joviality.

While this spirit was strong upon him he swore to anything. He not only admitted the truth of all that his tempter advanced, but entertained the seamen with a lively and graphic account of the running down of the Skylark, and entered into minute particulars—chiefly of a comical nature—with such recklessness that the cause of Mr Jones bade fair to resemble many a roast which is totally ruined by being overdone. Jones gave him a salutary check, however, on being landed next day at a certain town on the Kentish coast, so that when Billy was taken before the authorities, his statements were brought somewhat more into accord with those of his tempter.

The wily Mr Jones went at once with Billy to the chief officer of the coast-guard on that station, and reported the loss of his vessel with much minuteness of detail—to the effect that she had sailed from London at noon of a certain date, at the quarter ebb tide, the sky being cloudy and wind sou'-west; that the casualty occurred at five p.m. on the day following near the North Foreland Light, at half flood tide, the sky being cloudy and wind west-sou'-west; that the vessel had sunk, and all the crew had perished excepting himself and the boy. This report, with full particulars, was sent to the Board of Trade. Mr Jones then went to the agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society and related his pitiful tale to him. That gentleman happening to be an astute man, observed some discrepancies in the accounts given respectively by Billy and his master. He therefore put a variety of puzzling questions, and took down a good many notes. Mr Jones, however, had laid his plans so well, and gave such a satisfactory and plausible account of himself, that the agent felt constrained to extend to him the aid of the noble Society which he represented, and by which so much good is done to sailors directly, and indirectly to the community at large. He paid their passage to London, but resolved to make some further inquiries with a view either to confirming or allaying his suspicions.

These little matters settled, and the loss having been duly advertised in the newspapers, Mr Jones set out for London with the intention of presenting his claims to the Insurance Companies.

In the train Billy had time to reflect on the wickedness of which he had been guilty, and his heart was torn with conflicting emotions, among which repentance was perhaps the most powerful. But what, he thought, was the use of repentance now? The thing was done and could not be undone.

Could it not? Was it too late to mend? At the Grotto he had been taught that it was "never too late to mend"—but that it was sinful as well as dangerous to delay on the strength of that fact; that "now was the accepted time, now the day of salvation." When Billy thought of these things, and then looked at the stern inexorable face of the man by whom he had been enslaved, he began to give way to despair. When he thought of his good angel Nora, he felt inclined to leap out of the carriage window and escape or die! He restrained himself, however, and did nothing until the train arrived in London. Then he suddenly burst away from his captor, dived between the legs of a magnificent railway guard, whose dignity and person were overthrown by the shock, eluded the ticket-collector and several policemen, and used his active little legs so well that in a few minutes his pursuers lost him in a labyrinth of low streets not far distant from the station.

From this point he proceeded at a rapid though less furious pace direct to the Grotto, where he presented himself to the superintendent with the remark that he had "come back to make a clean breast of it."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

ON THE SCENT.

Let us change the scene and put back the clock. Ah, how many hearts would rejoice if it were as easy to return on the track of Time in real life as it is to do so in a tale!

It was the evening of the day in which Jones and Billy went to sea in the little boat. Ramsgate, Mr Durant's supper-table, with Stanley Hall and Robert Queeker as guests.

They were all very happy and merry, for Stanley was recounting with graphic power some of the incidents of his recent voyage. Mr Durant was rich enough to take the loss of his vessel with great equanimity— all the more so that it had been fully insured. Mr Queeker was in a state of bliss in consequence of having been received graciously by Fanny, whose soul was aflame with sentiment so powerful that she could not express it except through the medium of a giggle. Only once had Fanny been enabled to do full justice to herself, and that was when, alone with Katie in the mysterious gloom of a midnight confabulation, she suddenly observed that size and looks in men were absolutely nothing—less than nothing—and that in her estimation heart and intellect were everything!

In the midst of his mirth Mr Durant suddenly turned to Queeker and said—

"By the way, what made you so late of coming to-night, Queeker? I thought you had promised to come to tea."

"Well, yes, but—a—that is," stammered Queeker in confusion, "in fact I was obliged to keep an appointment in connection with the—the particular business—"

"The secret mission, in short," observed Katie, with a peculiar smile.

"Well, secret mission if you choose," laughed Queeker; "at all events it was that which prevented my getting here sooner. In truth, I did not expect to have managed to come so soon, but we came to the boat—"

Queeker stopped short and blushed violently, feeling that he had slightly, though unintentionally, committed himself.

Fanny looked at him, blushed in sympathy, and giggled.

"Oh, there's a boat in the secret mission, is there?" cried Stanley; "come, let us make a game of it. Was it an iron boat?"

"No," replied Queeker, laughing, for he felt that at all events he was safe in answering that question.

"Was it a wooden one?" asked Katie.

"Well—ye—"

"Was it a big one?" demanded Mr Durant, entering into the spirit of the game.

"No, it was a little one," said Queeker, still feeling safe, although anxious to evade reply.

"Was there a man in it?" said Katie.

Queeker hesitated.

"And a boy?" cried Stanley.

The question was put unwittingly, but being so put Queeker stammered, and again blushed.

Katie on the contrary turned pale, for her previously expressed hope that there might be some connection between Queeker's mission and Billy Towler's troubles flashed into her mind.

"But was there a boy in it?" she said, with a sudden earnestness that induced every one to look at her in surprise.

"Really, I pray—I must beg," said Queeker, "that you won't make this a matter of even jocular inquiry. Of course I know that no one here would make improper use of any information that I might give, but I have been pledged to secrecy by my employers."

"But," continued Katie in the same anxious way as before, "it will not surely be a breach of confidence merely to tell me if the boy was a small, active, good-looking little fellow, with bright eyes and curly hair."

"I am bound to admit," said Queeker, "that your description is correct."

To the amazement, not to say consternation, of every one, Katie covered her face with her hands and burst into tears, exclaiming in an agony of distress that she knew it; she had feared it after sending him away; that she had ruined him, and that it was too late now to do anything.

"No, not too late, perhaps," she repeated, suddenly raising her large beautiful eyes, which swam in tears; "oh papa, come with me up-stairs, I must speak with you alone at once."

She seized her astonished father by the hand and led him unresisting from the room.

Having hurriedly related all she knew about Billy Towler, Morley Jones, and Nora, she looked up in his face and demanded to know what was to be done.

"Done, my dear child," he replied, looking perplexed, "we must go at once and see how much can be undone. You tell me you have Nora's address. Well, we'll go there at once."

"But—but," said Katie, "Nora does not know the full extent of her father's wickedness, and we want to keep it from her if possible."

"A very proper desire to spare her pain, Katie, but in the circumstances we cannot help ourselves; we must do what we can to frustrate this man's designs and save the boy."

So saying Mr Durant descended to the dining-room. He explained that some suspicious facts had come to his daughter's knowledge which necessitated instant action; said that he was sorry Mr Queeker felt it incumbent on him to maintain secrecy in regard to his mission, but that he could not think of pressing him to act in opposition to his convictions, and, dismissing his guests with many apologies, went out with Katie in search of the abode of Nora Jones.

Stanley Hall, whose curiosity was aroused by all that had passed, went down to take a walk on the pier by way of wearing it off in a philosophical manner. He succeeded easily in getting rid of this feeling, but he could not so easily get rid of the image of Katie Durant. He had suspected himself in love with her before he sailed for India; his suspicions were increased on his return to England, and when he saw the burst of deep feeling to which she had so recently given way, and heard the genuine expressions of remorse, and beheld her sweet face bedewed with tears of regret and pity, suspicion was swallowed up in certainty.

He resolved then and there to win her, if he could, and marry her! Here a touch of perplexity assailed him, but he fought it off nobly.

He was young, no doubt, and had no money, but what then?—he was strong, had good abilities, a father in a lucrative practice, with the prospect of assisting and ultimately succeeding him. That was enough, surely.

The lodging which he had taken for a few days was retaken that night for an indefinite period, and he resolved to lay siege to her heart in due form.

But that uncertainty which is proverbial in human affairs stepped within the circle of his life and overturned his plans. On returning to his rooms he found a telegram on the table. His father, it informed him, was dangerously ill. By the next train he started for home, and arrived to find that his father was dead.

A true narrative of any portion of this world's doings must of necessity be as varied as the world itself, and equally abrupt in its transitions. From the lively supper-table Stanley Hall passed to the deathbed of his father. In like manner we must ask the reader to turn with us from the contemplation of Stanley's deep sorrow to the observation of Queeker's poetic despair.

Maddened between the desire to tell all he knew regarding the secret mission to Mr Durant, and the command laid on him by his employers to be silent, the miserable youth rushed frantically to his lodgings, without any definite intentions, but more than half inclined to sink on his knees before his desk, and look up to the moon, or stars, or; failing these, to the floating light for inspiration, and pen the direful dirge of something dreadful and desperate! He had even got the length of the first line, and had burst like a thunderbolt into his room muttering—

"Great blazing wonder of illimitable spheres,"

when he became suddenly aware of the fact that his chair was occupied by the conchological friend with whom he had spent the earlier part of that day, who was no other than the man with the keen grey eyes.

"What! still in the poetic vein?" he said, with a grave smile.

"Why—I—thought you were off to London!" exclaimed Queeker, with a very red face.

"I have seen cause to change my plan," said Mr Larks quietly.

"I'm very glad of it," replied Queeker, running his fingers through his hair and sitting down opposite his friend with a deep sigh, "because I'm in the most horrible state of perplexity. It is quite evident to me that the boy is known to Miss Durant, for she went off into such a state when I mentioned him and described him exactly."

"Indeed," said Mr Larks; "h'm! I know the boy too."

"Do you? Why didn't you tell me that?"

"There was no occasion to," said the imperturbable Mr Larks, whose visage never by any chance conveyed any expression whatever, except when he pleased, and then it conveyed only and exactly the expression that he intended. "But come," he continued, "let's hear all about it, and don't quote any poetry till you have done with the facts."

Thus exhorted Queeker described the scene at the supper-table with faithful minuteness, and, on concluding, demanded what was to be done.

"H'm!" grunted Mr Larks. "They've gone to visit Nora Jones, so you and I shall go and keep them company. Come along."

He put on his hat and went out, followed by his little friend.

In a lowly ill-furnished room in one of the poorest streets of the town, where rats and dogs and cats seemed to divide the district with poverty-stricken human beings, they found Nora sitting by the bedside of her grandmother, who appeared to be dying. A large Family Bible, from which she had been reading, was open on her knee.

Mr Larks had opened the door and entered without knocking. He and Queeker stood in the passage and saw the bed, the invalid, and the watcher through an inner door which stood ajar. They could hear the murmurings of the old woman's voice. She appeared to wander in her mind, for sometimes her words were coherent, at other times she merely babbled.

"O Morley, Morley, give it up," she said, during one of her lucid intervals; "it has been the curse of our family. Your grandfather died of it; your father—ah! he was a man, tall and straight, and so kind, till he took to it; oh me! how it changed him! But the Lord saved his soul, though he let the body fall to the dust. Blessed be His holy name for that. Give it up, Morley, my darling boy; give it up, give it up—oh, for God's sake give it up!"

She raised her voice at each entreaty until it almost reached a shriek, and then her whole frame seemed to sink down into the bed from exhaustion.

"Why don't 'ee speak to me, Morley?" she resumed after a short time, endeavouring to turn her head round.

"Dearest granny," said Nora, gently stroking one of her withered hands, which lay on the counterpane, "father is away just now. No doubt he will be back ere long."

"Ay, ay, he's always away; always away," she murmured in a querulous tone; "always coming back too, but he never comes. Oh, if he would give it up—give it up—"

She repeated this several times, and gradually dwindled off into unintelligible mutterings.

By this time Mr Larks had become aware of whispering voices in a part of the room which he could not see. Pushing the door a little farther open he entered softly, and in a darkened corner of the apartment beheld Mr Durant and Katie in close conversation with James Welton. They all rose, and Nora, seeing that the old woman had fallen into a slumber, also rose and advanced towards the strangers. Mr Durant at once explained to her who Queeker was, and Queeker introduced Mr Larks as a friend who had come to see them on important business.

"I think we know pretty well what the business is about," said Jim Welton, advancing and addressing himself to Mr Larks, "but you see," he added, glancing towards the bed, "that this is neither the time nor place to prosecute your inquiries, sir."

Mr Larks, who was by no means an unfeeling man, though very stern, said that he had no intention of intruding; he had not been aware that any one was ill in the house, and he would take it as a favour if Mr Welton would go outside and allow him the pleasure of a few words with him. Of course Jim agreed, but before going took Nora aside.

"I'll not be back to-night, dearest," he said in a low whisper. "To-morrow, early, I'll return."

"You will leave no stone unturned?" said Nora.

"Not one. I'll do my best to save him."

"And you have told me the worst—told me all?" asked Nora, with a look of intense grief mingled with anxiety on her pale face.

"I have," said Jim, in a tone and with a look so earnest and truthful that Nora required no further assurance. She gave him a kindly but inexpressibly sad smile, and returned to her stool beside the bed. Her lover and Mr Larks went out, followed by Queeker.

"We won't intrude on you longer to-night," said Katie, going up to Nora and laying her hand quietly on her shoulder.

"Your visit is no intrusion," said Nora, looking up with a quiet smile. "It was love that brought you here, I know. May our dear Lord bless you and your father for wishing to comfort the heart of one who needs it so much—oh, so much." She put her hands before her face and was silent. Katie tried in vain to speak. The tears coursed freely down her cheeks, but never a word could she utter. She put her arm round the neck of the poor girl and kissed her. This was a language which Nora understood;— many words could not have expressed so much; no words could have expressed more.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

MR. JONES IS OUTWITTED, AND NORA IS LEFT DESOLATE.

When Morley Jones found himself suddenly deserted by his ally Billy Towler, he retired to the privacy of a box in a low public-house in Thames Street, and there, under the stimulus of a stiff glass of grog, consulted with himself as to the best mode of procedure under the trying circumstances in which he found himself placed. He thought it probable, after half an hour of severe meditation, that Billy would return to the Grotto, but that, for his own sake, he would give a false account of his absence, and say nothing about the loss of the Skylark. Feeling somewhat relieved in mind by his conclusions on this head, he drank off his grog, called for another glass, and then set himself to the consideration of how far the disappearance of the boy would interfere with his obtaining payment of the various sums due by the Insurance Offices. This point was either more knotty and difficult to unravel than the previous one, or the grog began to render his intellect less capable of grappling with it. At all events it cost him an hour to determine his course of action, and required another glass of grog to enable him to put the whole matter fairly before his mental vision in one comprehensive view. This, however, accomplished, he called for a fourth glass of grog "for luck," and reeled out of the house to carry out his deep-laid plans.

His first act was to proceed to Greenwich, where a branch of his fish-curing business existed, or was supposed to exist. Here he met a friend who offered to treat him. Unfortunately for the success of his schemes he accepted this offer, and, in the course of a debauch, revealed so much of his private affairs that the friend, after seeing him safely to his lodging, and bidding him an affectionate farewell, went up to London by the first boat on the following morning, and presented himself to the managers of various Insurance Companies, to whom he made revelations which were variously received by these gentlemen; some of them opening their eyes in amazement, while others opened their mouths in amusement, and gave him to understand that he was very much in the position of a man who should carry coals to Newcastle— they being then in possession of all the information given, and a great deal more besides.

The manager of the Submarine Insurance Company was the most facetious among these gentlemen on hearing the revelations of Mr Jones's "friend."

"Can you tell me," said that gentleman, when he had pumped the "friend" dry, "which of us is likely to receive the distinguished honour of the first visit from Mr Jones?"

"He said summat about your own office, sir," replied the informer; "leastwise I think he did, but I ain't quite sartin."

"H'm! not unlikely," observed the manager; "we have had the pleasure of paying him something before to-day. Come here, I will introduce you to an acquaintance of Mr Jones, who takes a deep interest in him. He has just arrived from Ramsgate."

Opening a door, the manager ushered the informer into a small room where a stout man with peculiarly keen grey eyes was warming himself at the fire.

"Allow me to introduce you, Mr Larks, to a friend of Mr Jones, who may be of some use. I will leave you together for a little," said the manager, with a laugh, as he retired and shut the door.

It is not necessary that we should enter into details as to how Mr Jones went about the business of drawing his nets ashore—so to speak,— and how those who took a special interest in Mr Jones carefully assisted him, and, up to a certain point, furthered all his proceedings. It is sufficient to say that, about a fortnight after his arrival in London—all the preliminary steps having been taken—he presented himself one fine forenoon at the office of the Submarine Insurance Company.