The new mate carefully adjusted his red necktie and smiled indulgently.
“Well, you’re the prettiest cap’n I’ve ever sailed under,” he said. “What do they call that red cap you’ve got on? Tam-o’-Shanter is it?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl shortly.
“You mean you won’t tell me,” said the other, with a look of anger in his soft dark eyes.
“Just as you like,” said she, and Lee, whistling softly, turned on his heel and began to busy himself with some small matter forward.
The rest of the day passed quietly, though there was a freedom in the new mate’s manner which made the redoubtable skipper of the Osprey regret her change of crew, and to treat him with more civility than her proud spirit quite approved of. There was but little wind, and the barge merely crawled along as the captain and mate, with surreptitious glances, took each other’s measure.
“This is the nicest trip I’ve ever had,” said Lee, as he came up from an unduly prolonged tea, with a strong-smelling cigar in his mouth. “I’ve brought your jacket up.”
“I don’t want it, thank you,” said the girl.
“Better have it,” said Lee, holding it up for her.
“When I want my jacket I’ll put it on myself,” said the girl.
“All right, no offence,” said the other airily. “What an obstinate little devil you are.”
“Have you got any drink down there?” inquired the girl, eyeing him sternly.
“Just a little drop o’ whiskey, my dear, for the spasms,” said Lee facetiously. “Will you have a drop?”
“I won’t have any drinking here,” said she sharply. “If you want to drink, wait till you get ashore.”
“YOU won’t have any drinking!” said the other, opening his eyes, and with a quiet chuckle he dived below and brought up a bottle and a glass. “Here’s wishing a better temper to you, my dear,” he said amiably, as he tossed off a glass. “Come, you’d better have a drop. It’ll put a little colour in your cheeks.”
“Put it away now, there’s a good fellow,” said the captain timidly, as she looked anxiously at the nearest sail, some two miles distant.
“It’s the only friend I’ve got,” said Lee, sprawling gracefully on the hatches, and replenishing his glass. “Look here. Are you on for a bargain?”
“What do you mean?” inquired the girl.
“Give me a kiss, little spitfire, and I won’t take another drop to-night,” said the new mate tenderly. “Come, I won’t tell.”
“You may drink yourself to death before I’ll do that,” said the girl, striving to speak calmly. “Don’t talk that nonsense to me again.”
She stooped over as she spoke and made a sudden grab at the bottle, but the new mate was too quick for her, and, snatching it up jeeringly, dared her to come for it.
“Come on, come and fight for it,” said he; “hit me if you like, I don’t mind; your little fist won’t hurt.”
No answer being vouchsafed to this invitation he applied himself to his only friend again, while the girl, now thoroughly frightened, steered in silence.
“Better get the sidelights out,” said she at length.
“Plenty o’ time,” said Lee.
“Take the helm, then, while I do it,” said the girl, biting her lips.
The fellow rose and came towards her, and, as she made way for him, threw his arm round her waist and tried to detain her. Her heart beating quickly, she walked forward, and, not without a hesitating glance at the drunken figure at the wheel, descended into the fo’c’sle for the lamps.
The next moment, with a gasping little cry, she sank down on a locker as the dark figure of a man rose and stood by her.
“Don’t be frightened,” it said quietly.
“Jack?” said the girl.
“That’s me,” said the figure. “You didn’t expect to see me, did you? I thought perhaps you didn’t know what was good for you, so I stowed myself away last night, and here I am.”
“Have you heard what that fellow has been saying to me?” demanded Miss Cringle, with a spice of the old temper leavening her voice once more.
“Every word,” said the mate cheerfully.
“Why didn’t you come up and stand by me?” inquired the girl hotly.
The mate hung his head.
“Oh,” said the girl, and her tones were those of acute disappointment, “you’re afraid.”
“I’m not,” said the mate scornfully.
“Why didn’t you come up, then, instead of skulking down here?” inquired the girl.
The mate scratched the back of his neck and smiled, but weakly. “Well, I — I thought” — he began, and stopped.
“You thought” — prompted Miss Cringle coldly.
“I thought a little fright would do you good,” said the mate, speaking quickly, “and that it would make you appreciate me a little more when I did come.”
“Ahoy! MAGGIE! MAGGIE!” came the voice of the graceless varlet who was steering.
“I’ll MAGGIE him,” said the mate, grinding his teeth, “Why, what the — why you ‘re crying.”
“I’m not,” sobbed Miss Cringle scornfully. “I’m in a temper, that’s all.”
“I’ll knock his head off,” said the mate; “you stay down here.”
“Mag-GIE!” came the voice again, “MAG — HULLO!”
“Were you calling me, my lad?” said the mate, with dangerous politeness, as he stepped aft. “Ain’t you afraid of straining that sweet voice o’ yours? Leave go o’ that tiller.”
The other let go, and the mate’s fist took him heavily in the face and sent him sprawling on the deck. He rose with a scream of rage and rushed at his opponent, but the mate’s temper, which had suffered badly through his treatment of the last few days, was up, and he sent him heavily down again.
“There’s a little dark dingy hole forward,” said the mate, after waiting some time for him to rise again, “just the place for you to go and think over your sins in. If I see you come out of it until we get to London, I’ll hurt you. Now clear.”
The other cleared, and, carefully avoiding the girl, who was standing close by, disappeared below.
“You’ve hurt him,” said the girl, coming up to the mate and laying her hand on his arm. “What a horrid temper you’ve got.”
“It was him asking you to kiss him that upset me,” said the mate apologetically.
“He put his arm round my waist,” said Miss Cringle, blushing.
“WHAT!” said the mate, stuttering, “put his — put his arm — round — your waist — like” —
His courage suddenly forsook him.
“Like what?” inquired the girl, with superb innocence.
“Like THAT,” said the mate manfully.
“That’ll do,” said Miss Cringle softly, “that’ll do. You’re as bad as he is, only the worst of it is there is nobody here to prevent you.”
IN BORROWED PLUMES
The master of the Sarah Jane had been missing for two days, and all on board, with the exception of the boy, whom nobody troubled about, were full of joy at the circumstance. Twice before had the skipper, whose habits might, perhaps, be best described as irregular, missed his ship, and word had gone forth that the third time would be the last. His berth was a good one, and the mate wanted it in place of his own, which was wanted by Ted Jones, A. B.
“Two hours more,” said the mate anxiously to the men, as they stood leaning against the side, “and I take the ship out.”
“Under two hours’ll do it,” said Ted, peering over the side and watching the water as it slowly rose over the mud. “What’s got the old man, I wonder?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” said the mate. “You chaps stand by me and it’ll be good for all of us. Mr. Pearson said distinct the last time that if the skipper ever missed his ship again it would be his last trip in her, and he told me afore the old man that I wasn’t to wait two minutes at any time, but to bring her out right away.”
“He’s an old fool,” said Bill Loch, the other hand; “and nobody’ll miss him but the boy, and he’s been looking reg’lar worried all the morning. He looked so worried at dinner time that I give ‘im a kick to cheer him up a bit. Look at him now.”
The mate gave a supercilious glance in the direction of the boy, and then turned away. The boy, who had no idea of courting observation, stowed himself away behind the windlass; and, taking a letter from his pocket, perused it for the fourth time.
“Dear Tommy,” it began. “I take my pen in and to inform you that I’m stayin here and cant get away for the reason that I lorst my cloes at cribage larst night, also my money, and everything beside. Don’t speek to a living sole about it as the mate wants my birth, but pack up sum cloes and bring them to me without saying nuthing to noboddy. The mates cloths will do becos I havent got enny other soot, dont tell ‘im. You needen’t trouble about soks as I’ve got them left. My bed is so bad I must now conclude. Your affecshunate uncle and captin Joe Bross. P.S. Dont let the mate see you come, or else he wont let you go.”
“Two hours more,” sighed Tommy, as he put the letter back in his pocket. “How can I get any clothes when they’re all locked up? And aunt said I was to look after ‘im and see he didn’t get into no mischief.”
He sat thinking deeply, and then, as the crew of the Sarah Jane stepped ashore to take advantage of a glass offered by the mate, he crept down to the cabin again for another desperate look round. The only articles of clothing visible belonged to Mrs. Bross, who up to this trip had been sailing in the schooner to look after its master. At these he gazed hard.
“I’ll take ’em and try an’ swop ’em for some men’s clothes,” said he suddenly, snatching the garments from the pegs. “She wouldn’t mind”; and hastily rolling them into a parcel, together with a pair of carpet slippers of the captain’s, he thrust the lot into an old biscuit bag. Then he shouldered his burden, and, going cautiously on deck, gained the shore, and set off at a trot to the address furnished in the letter.
It was a long way, and the bag was heavy. His first attempt at barter was alarming, for the pawnbroker, who had just been cautioned by the police, was in such a severe and uncomfortable state of morals, that the boy quickly snatched up his bundle again and left. Sorely troubled he walked hastily along, until, in a small bye street, his glance fell upon a baker of mild and benevolent aspect, standing behind the counter of his shop.
“If you please, sir,” said Tommy, entering, and depositing his bag on the counter, “have you got any cast-off clothes you don’t want?”
The baker turned to a shelf, and selecting a stale loaf cut it in halves, one of which he placed before the boy.
“I don’t want bread,” said Tommy desperately; “but mother has just died, and father wants mourning for the funeral. He’s only got a new suit with him, and if he can change these things of mother’s for an old suit, he’d sell his best ones to bury her with.”
He shook the articles out on the counter, and the baker’s wife, who had just come into the shop, inspected them rather favourably.
“Poor boy, so you’ve lost your mother,” she said, turning the clothes over. “It’s a good skirt, Bill.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tommy dolefully.
“What did she die of?” inquired the baker.
“Scarlet fever,” said Tommy, tearfully, mentioning the only disease he knew.
“Scar — Take them things away,” yelled the baker, pushing the clothes on to the floor, and following his wife to the other end of the shop. “Take ’em away directly, you young villain.”
His voice was so loud, his manner so imperative, that the startled boy, without stopping to argue, stuffed the clothes pell-mell into the bag again and departed. A farewell glance at the clock made him look almost as horrified as the baker.
“There’s no time to be lost,” he muttered, as he began to run; “either the old man’ll have to come in these or else stay where he is.”
He reached the house breathless, and paused before an unshaven man in time-worn greasy clothes, who was smoking a short clay pipe with much enjoyment in front of the door.
“Is Cap’n Bross here?” he panted.
“He’s upstairs,” said the man, with a leer, “sitting in sackcloth and ashes, more ashes than sackcloth. Have you got some clothes for him?”
“Look here,” said Tommy. He was down on his knees with the mouth of the bag open again, quite in the style of the practised hawker. “Give me an old suit of clothes for them. Hurry up. There’s a lovely frock.”
“Blimey,” said the man, staring, “I’ve only got these clothes. Wot d’yer take me for? A dook?”
“Well, get me some somewhere,” said Tommy. “If you don’t the cap’n ‘ll have to come in these, and I’m sure he won’t like it.”
“I wonder what he’d look like,” said the man, with a grin. “Damme if I don’t come up and see.”
“Get me some clothes,” pleaded Tommy.
“I wouldn’t get you clothes, no, not for fifty pun,” said the man severely. “Wot d’yer mean wanting to spoil people’s pleasure in that way? Come on, come and tell the cap’n what you’ve got for ‘im, I want to ‘ear what he ses. He’s been swearing ‘ard since ten o’clock this morning, but he ought to say something special over this.”
He led the way up the bare wooden stairs, followed by the harassed boy, and entered a small dirty room at the top, in the centre of which the master of the Sarah Jane sat to deny visitors, in a pair of socks and last week’s paper.
“Here’s a young gent come to bring you some clothes, cap’n,” said the man, taking the sack from the boy.
“Why didn’t you come before?” growled the captain, who was reading the advertisements.
The man put his hand in the sack, and pulled out the clothes. “What do you think of ’em?” he asked expectantly.
The captain strove vainly to tell him, but his tongue mercifully forsook its office, and dried between his lips. His brain rang with sentences of scorching iniquity, but they got no further.
“Well, say thank you, if you can’t say nothing else,” suggested his tormentor hopefully.
“I couldn’t bring nothing else,” said Tommy hurriedly; “all the things was locked up. I tried to swop ’em and nearly got locked up for it. Put these on and hurry up.”
The captain moistened his lips with his tongue.
“The mate’ll get off directly she floats,” continued Tommy. “Put these on and spoil his little game. It’s raining a little now. Nobody’ll see you, and as soon as you git aboard you can borrow some of the men’s clothes.”
“That’s the ticket, cap’n,” said the man. “Lord lumme, you’ll ‘ave everybody falling in love with you.”
“Hurry up,” said Tommy, dancing with impatience. “Hurry up.”
The skipper, dazed and wild-eyed, stood still while his two assistants hastily dressed him, bickering somewhat about details as they did so.
“He ought to be tight-laced, I tell you,” said the man.
“He can’t be tight-laced without stays,” said Tommy scornfully. “You ought to know that.”
“Ho, can’t he,” said the other, discomfited. “You know too much for a young-un. Well, put a bit o’ line round ‘im then.”
“We can’t wait for a line,” said Tommy, who was standing on tip-toe to tie the skipper’s bonnet on. “Now tie the scarf over his chin to hide his beard, and put this veil on. It’s a good job he ain’t got a moustache.”
The other complied, and then fell back a pace or two to gaze at his handiwork. “Strewth, though I sees it as shouldn’t, you look a treat!” he remarked complacently. “Now, young-un, take ‘old of his arm. Go up the back streets, and if you see anybody looking at you, call ‘im Mar.”
The two set off, after the man, who was a born realist, had tried to snatch a kiss from the skipper on the threshold. Fortunately for the success of the venture, it was pelting with rain, and, though a
few people gazed curiously at the couple as they went hastily along, they were unmolested, and gained the wharf in safety, arriving just in time to see the schooner shoving off from the side.
At the sight the skipper held up his skirts and ran. “Ahoy!” he shouted. “Wait a minute.”
The mate gave one look of blank astonishment at the extraordinary figure, and then turned away; but at that moment the stern came within jumping distance of the wharf, and uncle and nephew, moved with one impulse leaped for it and gained the deck in safety.
“Why didn’t you wait when I hailed you?” demanded the skipper fiercely.
“How was I to know it was you?” inquired the mate surlily, as he realised his defeat. “I thought it was the Empress of Rooshia.”
The skipper stared at him dumbly.
“An’ if you take my advice,” said the mate, with a sneer, “you’ll keep them things on. I never see you look so well in anything afore.”
“I want to borrow some o’ your clothes, Bob,” said the skipper, eyeing him steadily.
“Where’s your own?” asked the other.
“I don’t know,” said the skipper. “I was took with a fit last night, Bob, and when I woke up this morning they were gone. Somebody must have took advantage of my helpless state and taken ’em.”
“Very likely,” said the mate, turning away to shout an order to the crew, who were busy setting sail.
“Where are they, old man?” inquired the skipper.
“How should I know?” asked the other, becoming interested in the men again.
“I mean YOUR clothes,” said the skipper, who was fast losing his temper.
“Oh, mine?” said the mate. “Well, as a matter o’ fact, I don’t like lending my clothes. I’m rather pertickler. You might have a fit in THEM.”
“You won’t lend ’em to me?” asked the skipper.
“I won’t,” said the mate, speaking loudly, and frowning significantly at the crew, who were listening.
“Very good,” said the skipper. “Ted, come here. Where’s your other clothes?”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Ted, shifting uneasily from one leg to the other, and glancing at the mate for support; “but they ain’t fit for the likes of you to wear, sir.” “I’m the best judge of that,” said the skipper sharply. “Fetch ’em up.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 118