The captain sat down, his face glowing with this satisfactory recognition of his work.
“I met Cap’n Hargreaves as I was a-coming up,” he said; “and I explained to him your ideas on the subject, an’ he went straight back, as straight as he could go, to make out his disbursement sheet.”
“Ah! we shall soon have things on a better footing now,” said the governor, unfolding the paper, while the skipper gazed abstractedly through the small, dirty panes of the office window at the bustle on the quay below.
For a short space there was silence in the office, broken only by the half-audible interjections of the reader. Then he spoke.
“Simmons!” he said sharply.
The old clerk slipped from his stool, and obeying the motions of his employer inspected, in great astonishment, the first disbursement sheet which had ever entered the office. He read through every item in an astonished whisper, and, having finished, followed the governor’s example and gazed at the heavy figure by the window.
“Captain Fazackerly,” said his employer, at length, breaking a painful silence.
“Sir,” said the captain, turning his head a little.
“I’ve been talking with Simmons about these disbursement sheets,” said the owner, somewhat awkwardly; “Simmons is afraid they’ll give him a lot of extra trouble.”
The captain turned his head a little more, and gazed stolidly at the astonished Simmons.
“A man oughtn’t to mind a little extra trouble if the firm wishes it,” he said somewhat severely.
“He’s afraid it would throw his books out a bit,” continued the owner, deftly avoiding the gaze of the injured clerk. “You see, Simmons’ book-keeping is of the old-fashioned kind, cap’n, star-fishes and all that kind of thing,” he continued, incoherently, as the gaze of Simmons, refusing to be longer avoided, broke the thread of his discourse. “So I think we’ll put the paper on the fire, cap’n, and do business in the old way. Have you got the money with you?”
“I have, sir,” said Fazackerly, feeling in his pocket, as he mournfully watched his last night’s work blazing up the chimney.
“Fire away, then,” said the owner, almost cordially.
Captain Fazackerly advanced to the table, and clearing his throat, fixed his eyes in a reflective stare on the opposite wall and commenced:—
“Blown away fore lower topsail, fore-staysail, and carried away lifts to staysail. To sailmaker for above, eleven pounds eighteen shillings and ten-pence,” he said, with relish. “Tug out to the bar, three pounds. To twenty-eight pounds black soot, I mean paint—”
RULE OF THREE
The long summer day had gone and twilight was just merging into night. A ray of light from the lantern at the end of the quay went trembling across the sea, and in the little harbour the dusky shapes of a few small craft lay motionless on the dark water.
The master of the schooner Harebell came slowly towards the harbour, accompanied by his mate. Both men had provided ashore for a voyage which included no intoxicants, and the dignity of the skipper, always a salient feature, had developed tremendously under the influence of brown stout. He stepped aboard his schooner importantly, and then, turning to the mate, who was about to follow, suddenly held up his hand for silence.
“What did I tell you?” he inquired severely as the mate got quietly aboard.
“About knocking down the two policemen?” guessed the mate, somewhat puzzled.
“No,” said the other shortly. “Listen.”
The mate listened. From the foc’sle came low gruff voices of men, broken by the silvery ring of women’s laughter.
“Well, I’m a Dutchman,” said the mate the air of one who felt he was expected to say something.
“After all I said to ‘em,” said the skipper with weary dignity. “You ‘eard what I said to them Jack?”
“Nobody could ha’ swore louder,” testified the mate.
“An’ here they are,” said the skipper, “defying of me. After all I said to ‘em. After all the threats I—I employed.”
“Employed,” repeated the mate with relish.
“They’ve been and gone and asked them females down the foc’sle again. You know what I said I’d do, Jack, if they did.”
“Said you’d eat ‘em without salt,” quoted the other helpfully.
“I’ll do worse than that, Jack,” said the skipper after a moment’s discomfiture. “What’s to hinder us casting off quietly and taking them along with us?
“If you ask me,” said the mate, “I should think you couldn’t please the crew better.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said the other, nodding sagaciously, “don’t make no noise, Jack.”
He set an example of silence himself, and aided by the mate, cast off the warps which held his unconscious visitors to their native town, and the wind being off the shore the little schooner drifted silently away from the quay.
The skipper went to the wheel, and the noise of the mate hauling on the jib brought a rough head out of the foc’sle, the owner of which, after a cry to his mates below, sprang up on deck and looked round in bewilderment.
“Stand by, there!” cried the skipper as the others came rushing on deck. “Shake ‘em out.”
“Beggin’ your pardin’, sir,” said one of them with more politeness in his tones than he had ever used before, “but—”
“Stand by!” said the skipper.
“Now then!” shouted the mate sharply, “lively there! Lively with it!”
The men looked at each other helplessly and went to their posts as a scream of dismay arose from the fair beings below who, having just begun to realise their position, were coming on deck to try and improve it.
“What!” roared the skipper in pretended astonishment, “what! Gells aboard after all I said? It can’t be; I must be dreaming!”
“Take us back!” wailed the damsels, ignoring the sarcasm; “take us back, captain.”
“No, I can’t go back,” said the skipper. “You see what comes o’ disobedience, my gells. Lively there on that mains’l, d’ye hear?”
“We won’t do it again,” cried the girls, as the schooner came to the mouth of the harbour and they smelt the dark sea beyond. “Take us back.”
“It can’t be done,” said the skipper cheerfully.
“It’s agin the lor, sir,” said Ephraim Biddle solemnly.
“What! Taking my own ship out?” said the skipper in affected surprise. “How was I to know they were there? I’m not going back; ‘tain’t likely. As they’ve made their beds, so they must lay on ‘em.”
“They ain’t got no beds,” said George Scott hastily. “It ain’t fair to punish the gals for us, sir.”
“Hold your tongue,” said the skipper sharply.
“It’s agin the lor, sir,” said Biddle again. “If so be they’re passengers, this ship ain’t licensed to carry passengers. If so be as they’re took out agin their will, it’s abduction—I see the other day a chap had seven years for abducting one gal, three sevens—three sevens is—three sevens is—well, it’s more years than you’d like to be in prison, sir.”
“Bosh,” said the skipper, “they’re stowaways, an’ I shall put ‘em ashore at the first port we touch at—Plymouth.”
A heartrending series of screams from the stowaways rounded his sentence, screams which gave way to sustained sobbing, as the schooner, catching the wind, began to move through the water.
“You’d better get below, my gals,” said Biddle, who was the eldest member of the crew, consolingly.
“Why don’t you make him take us back?” said Jenny Evans, the biggest of the three girls, indignantly.
“‘Cos we can’t, my dear,” said Biddle reluctantly; “it’s agin the lor. You don’t want to see us put into prison, do you?”
“I don’t mind,” said Miss Evans tearfully, “so long as we get back. George, take us back.”
“I can’t,” said Scott sullenly.
“Well, you can look for somebody else, then,” said Miss Evans with temper. “You won’t marry me. How much would you get if you did make the skipper put back?”
“Very likely six months,” said Biddle solemnly.
“Six months would soon pass away,” said Miss Evans briskly, as she wiped her eye.
“It would be a rest,” said Miss Williams coaxingly.
The men not seeing things in quite the same light, they announced their intention of having nothing more to do with them, and crowding together in the bows beneath two or three blankets, condoled tearfully with each other on their misfortunes. For some time the men stood by offering clumsy consolations, but, tired at last of repeated rebuffs and insults, went below and turned in, leaving the satisfied skipper at the wheel.
The night was clear and the wind light. As the effects of his libations wore off the skipper had some misgivings as to the wisdom of his action, but it was too late to return, and he resolved to carry on.
Looking at all the circumstances of the case, he thought it best to keep the wheel in his own hands for a time, and the dawn came in the early hours and found him still at his post.
Objects began to stand out clearly in the growing light, and three dispirited girls put their heads out from their blankets and sniffed disdainfully at the sharp morning air. Then after an animated discussion they arose, and casting their blankets aside, walked up to the skipper and eyed him thoughtfully.
“As easy as easy,” said Jenny Evans confidently, as she drew herself up to her full height, and looked down at the indignant man.
“Why, he isn’t any bigger than a boy,” said Miss Williams savagely.
“Pity we didn’t think of it before,” said Miss Davies. “I s’pose the crew won’t help him?”
“Not they,” said Miss Evans scornfully. “If they do, we’ll serve them the same.”
They went off, leaving the skipper a prey to gathering uneasiness, watching their movements with wrinkled brow. From the forecastle and the galley they produced two mops and a broom, and he caught his breath sharply as Miss Evans came on deck with a pot of white paint in one hand and a pot of tar in the other.
“Now, girls,” said Miss Evans.
“Put those things down,” said the skipper in a peremptory voice.
“Sha’n’t,” said Miss Evans bluntly. “You haven’t got enough on yours,” she said, turning to Miss Davies. “Don’t spoil the skipper for a ha’porth of tar.”
At this new version of an old saw they laughed joyously, and with mops dripping tar and paint on the deck, marched in military style up to the skipper, and halted in front of him, smiling wickedly.
Then the heart of the skipper waxed sore faint within him, and, with a wild yell, he summoned his trusty crew to his side.
The crew came on deck slowly, and casting furtive glances at the scene, pushed Ephraim Biddle to the front.
“Take those mops away from ‘em,” said the skipper haughtily.
“Don’t you interfere,” said Miss Evans, looking at them over her shoulder.
“Else we’ll give you some,” said Miss Williams bloodthirstily.
“Take those mops away from ‘em!” bawled the skipper, instinctively drawing back as Miss Evans made a pass at him.
“I don’t see as ‘ow we can interfere, sir,” said Biddle with deep respect.
“What!” said the astonished skipper.
“It would be agin the lor for us to interfere with people,” said Biddle, turning to his mates, “dead agin the lor.”
“Don’t you talk rubbish,” said the skipper anxiously. “Take ‘em away from ‘em. It’s my tar and my paint, and—”
“You shall have it,” said Miss Evans reassuringly.
“If we touched ‘em,” said Biddle impressively, “it’d be an assault at lor. ‘Sides which, they’d probably muss us up with ‘em. All we can do, sir, is to stand by and see fair play.”
“Fair play!” cried the skipper dancing with rage, and turning hastily to the mate, who had just come on the scene. “Take those things away from ‘em, Jack.”
“Well, if it’s all the same to you,” said the mate, “I’d rather not be drawn into it.”
“But I’d rather you were,” said the skipper sharply. “Take ‘em away.”
“How?” inquired the mate pertinently.
“I order you to take ‘em away,” said the skipper. “How, is your affair.”
“I’m not goin’ to raise my hand against a woman for anybody,” said the mate with decision. “It’s no part of my work to get messed up with tar and paint from lady passengers.”
“It’s part of your work to obey me, though,” said the skipper, raising his voice; “all of you. There’s five of you, with the mate, and only three gells. What are you afraid of?”
“Are you going to take us back?” demanded Jenny Evans.
“Run away,” said the skipper with dignity. “Run away.”
“I shall ask you three times,” said Miss Evans sternly. “One—are you going back? Two—are you going back? Three–”
In the midst of a breathless silence she drew within striking distance, while her allies, taking up a position on either flank of the enemy, listened attentively to the instructions of their leader.
“Be careful he doesn’t catch hold of the mops,” said Miss Evans; “but if he does, the others are to hit him over the head with the handles. Never mind about hurting him.”
“Take this wheel a minnit, Jack,” said the skipper, pale but determined.
The mate came forward and took it unwillingly, and the skipper, trying hard to conceal his trepidation, walked towards Miss Evans and tried to quell her with his eye. The power of the human eye is notorious, and Miss Evans showed her sense of the danger she ran by making an energetic attempt to close the skipper’s with her mop, causing him to duck with amazing nimbleness. At the same moment another mop loaded with white paint was pushed into the back of his neck. He turned with a cry of rage, and then realising the odds against him flung his dignity to the winds and dodged with the agility of a schoolboy. Through the galley and round the masts he went with the avenging mops in mad pursuit, until breathless and exhausted he suddenly sprang on to the side and climbed frantically into the rigging.
“Coward!” said Miss Evans, shaking her weapon at him.
“Come down,” cried Miss Williams. “Come down like a man.”
“It’s no good wasting time over him,” said Miss Evans, after another vain appeal to the skipper’s manhood. “He’s escaped. Get some more stuff on your mops.”
The mate, who had been laughing boisterously, checked himself suddenly, and assumed a gravity of demeanour more in accordance with his position. The mops were dipped in solemn silence, and Miss Evans approaching regarded him significantly.
“Now, my dears,” said the mate, waving his hand with a deprecatory gesture, “don’t be silly.”
“Don’t be what?” inquired the sensitive Miss Evans, raising her mop.
“You know what I mean,” said the mate hastily. “I can’t help myself.”
“Well, we’re going to help you,” said Miss Evans. “Turn the ship round.”
“You obey orders, Jack,” cried the skipper from aloft.
“It’s all very well for you sitting up there in peace and comfort,” said the mate indignantly. “I’m not going to be tarred to please you. Come down and take charge of your ship.”
“Do your duty, Jack,” said the skipper, who was polishing his face with a handkerchief. “They won’t touch you. They daren’t. They’re afraid to.”
“You’re egging ‘em on,” cried the mate wrathfully. “I won’t steer; come and take it yourself.”
He darted behind the wheel as Miss Evans, who was getting impatient, made a thrust at him, and then, springing out, gained the side and rushed up the rigging after his captain. Biddle, who was standing close by, gazed earnestly at them and took the wheel.
“You won’t hurt old Biddle, I know,” he said, trying to speak confidently.
“Of course not,” said Miss Evans emphatically.
“Tar don’t hurt,” explained Miss Williams.
“It’s good for you,” said the third lady positively. “One—two–”
“It’s no good,” said the mate as Ephraim came suddenly into the rigging; “you’ll have to give in.”
“I’m damned if I will,” said the infuriated skipper. Then an idea occurred to him, and puckering his face shrewdly he began to descend.
“All right,” he said shortly, as Miss Evans advanced to receive him. “I’ll go back.”
He took the wheel; the schooner came round before the wind, and the willing crew, letting the sheets go, hauled them in again on the port side.
“And now, my lads,” said the skipper with a benevolent smile, “just clear that mess up off the decks, and you may as well pitch them mops overboard. They’ll never be any good again.”
He spoke carelessly, albeit his voice trembled a little, but his heart sank within him as Miss Evans, with a horrible contortion of her pretty face, intended for a wink, waved them back.
“You stay where you are,” she said imperiously; “we’ll throw them overboard—when we’ve done with them. What did you say, captain?”
The skipper was about to repeat it with great readiness when Miss Evans raised her trusty mop. The words died away on his lips, and after a hopeless glance from his mate to the crew and from the crew to the rigging, he accepted his defeat, and in grim silence took them home again.
PICKLED HERRING
There was a sudden uproar on deck, and angry shouts, accompanied by an incessant barking; the master of the brig Arethusa stopped with his knife midway to his mouth, and exchanging glances with the mate, put it down and rose to his feet.
“They’re chevying that poor animal again,” he said hotly. “It’s scandalous.”
“Rupert can take care of himself,” said the mate calmly, continuing his meal. “I expect, if the truth’s known, it’s him ‘s been doin’ the chevying.”
“You’re as bad as the rest of ‘em,” said the skipper angrily, as a large brown retriever came bounding into the cabin. “Poor old Rupe! what have they been doin’ to you?”
The dog, with a satisfied air, sat down panting by his chair, listening quietly to the subdued hubbub which sounded from the companion.
“Well, what is it?” roared the skipper, patting his favourite’s head.
“It’s that blasted dawg, sir,” cried an angry voice from above. “Go down and show ‘im your leg, Joe.”
“An’ ‘ave another lump took out of it, I s’pose,” said another voice sourly. “Not me.”
“I don’t want to look at no legs while I’m at dinner,” cried the skipper. “O’ course the dog ‘ll bite you if you’ve been teasing him.”
“There’s nobody been teasing ‘im,” said the angry voice again. “That’s the second one ‘e’s bit, and now Joe’s goin’ to have ‘im killed—ain’t you, Joe?”
Joe’s reply was not audible, although the infuriated skipper was straining his ears to catch it.
“Who’s going to have the dog killed?” he demanded, going up on deck, while Rupert, who evidently thought he had an interest in the proceedings, followed unobtrusively behind.
“I am, sir,” said Joe Bates, who was sitting on the hatch while the cook bathed an ugly wound in his leg. “A dog’s only allowed one bite, and he’s ‘ad two this week.”
“He bit me on Monday,” said the seaman who had spoken before. “Now he’s done for hisself.”
“Hold your tongue!” said the skipper angrily. “You think you know a lot about the law, Sam Clark; let me tell you a dog’s entitled to have as many bites as ever he likes, so as he don’t bite the same person twice.”
“That ain’t the way I’ve ‘eard it put afore,” said Clark, somewhat taken back.
“He’s the cutest dog breathing,” said the skipper fondly, “and he knows all about it. He won’t bite either of you again.”
“And wot about them as ‘asn’t been bit yet, sir?” inquired the cook.
“Don’t halloo before you’re hurt,” advised the skipper. “If you don’t tease him he won’t bite you.”
He went down to his dinner, followed by the sagacious Rupert, leaving the hands to go forward again, and to mutinously discuss a situation which was fast becoming unbearable.
“It can’t go on no longer, Joe,” said Clark firmly; “this settles it.”
“Where is the stuff?” inquired the cook in a whisper.
“In my chest,” said Clark softly. “I bought it the night he bit me.”
“It’s a risky thing to do,” said Bates.
“‘Ow risky?” asked Sam scornfully. “The dog eats the stuff and dies. Who’s going to say what he died of? As for suspicions, let the old man suspect as much as he likes. It ain’t proof.”
The stronger mind had its way, as usual, and the next day the skipper, coming quietly on deck, was just in time to see Joe Bates throw down a fine fat bloater in front of the now amiable Rupert. He covered the distance between himself and the dog in three bounds, and seizing it by the neck, tore the fish from its eager jaws and held it aloft.
“I just caught ‘im in the act!” he cried, as the mate came on deck. “What did you give that to my dog for?” he inquired of the conscience-stricken Bates.
“I wanted to make friends with him,” stammered the other.
“It’s poisoned, you rascal, and you know it,” said the skipper vehemently.
“Wish I may die, sir,” began Joe.
“That’ll do,” said the skipper harshly. “You’ve tried to poison my dog.”
“I ain’t,” said Joe firmly.
“You ain’t been trying to kill ‘im with a poisoned bloater?” demanded the skipper.
“Certainly not, sir,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t do such a thing. I couldn’t if I tried.”
“Very good then,” said the skipper; “if it’s all right you eat it, and I’ll beg your pardon.”
“I ain’t goin’ to eat after a dog,” said Joe, shuffling.
“The dog’s as clean as you are,” said the skipper. “I’d sooner eat after him than you.”
“Well, you eat it then, sir,” said Bates desperately. “If it’s poisoned you’ll die, and I’ll be ‘ung for it. I can’t say no fairer than that, can I?”
There was a slight murmur from the men, who stood by watching the skipper with an air of unholy expectancy.
“Well, the boy shall eat it then,” said the skipper. “Eat that bloater, boy, and I’ll give you sixpence.”
The boy came forward slowly, and looking from the men to the skipper, and from the skipper back to the men, began to whimper.
“If you think it’s poisoned,” interrupted the mate, “you oughtn’t to make the boy eat it. I don’t like boys, but you must draw the line somewhere.”
“It’s poisoned,” said the skipper, shaking it at Bates, “and they know it. Well, I’ll keep it till we get to port, and then I’ll have it analysed. And it’ll be a sorry day for you, Bates, when I hear it’s poisoned. A month’s hard labour is what you’ll get.”
He turned away and went below with as much dignity as could be expected of a man carrying a mangled herring, and placing it on a clean plate, solemnly locked it up in his state-room.
For two days the crew heard no more about it, though the skipper’s eyes gleamed dangerously each time that they fell upon the shrinking Bates. The weather was almost tropical, with not an air stirring, and the Arethusa, bearing its dread secret still locked in its state-room, rose and fell upon a sea of glassy smoothness without making any progress worth recording.
“I wish you’d keep that thing in your berth, George,” said the skipper, as they sat at tea the second evening; “it puts me in a passion every time I look at it.”
“I couldn’t think of it, cap’n,” replied the mate firmly; “it makes me angry enough as it is. Every time I think of ‘em trying to poison that poor dumb creature I sort o’ choke. I try to forget it.”
The skipper, eyeing him furtively, helped himself to another cup of tea.
“You haven’t got a tin box with a lid to it, I s’pose?” he remarked somewhat shamefacedly.
The mate shook his head. “I looked for one this morning,” he said. “There ain’t so much as a bottle aboard we could shove it into, and it wants shoving into something—bad, it does.”
“I don’t like to be beat,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “All them grinning monkeys for’ard ‘ud think it a rare good joke. I’d throw it overboard if it wasn’t for that. We can’t keep it this weather.”
“Well, look ‘ere; ‘ere’s a way out of it,” said the mate. “Call Joe down, and make him keep it in the foc’sle and take care of it. That’ll punish ‘em all too.”
“Why, you idiot, he’d lose it!” rapped out the other impatiently.
“O’ course he would,” said the mate; “but that’s the most digernified way out of it for you. You can call ‘im all sorts o’ things, and abuse ‘im for the rest of his life. They’ll prove themselves guilty by chucking it away, won’t they?”
It really seemed the only thing to be done. The skipper finished his tea in silence, and then going on deck called the crew aft and apprised them of his intentions, threatening them with all sorts of pains and penalties if the treasure about to be confided to their keeping should be lost The cook was sent below for it, and, at the skipper’s bidding, handed it to the grinning Joe.
“And mind,” said the skipper as he turned away, “I leave it in your keepin’, and if it’s missing I shall understand that you’ve made away with it, and I shall take it as a sign of guilt, and act according.”
The end came sooner even than he expected. They were at breakfast next morning when Joe, looking somewhat pale, came down to the cabin, followed by Clark, bearing before him an empty plate.
“Well?” said the skipper fiercely.
“It’s about the ‘erring, sir,” said Joe, twisting his cap between his hands.
“Well?” roared the skipper again.
“It’s gone, sir,” said Joe, in bereaved accents.
“You mean you’ve thrown it away, you infernal rascal!” bellowed the skipper.
“No, sir,” said Joe.
“Ah! I s’pose it walked up on deck and jumped overboard,” said the mate.
“No, sir,” said Joe softly. “The dog ate it, sir.”
The skipper swung round in his seat and regarded him open-mouthed.
“The—dog—ate—it?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir; Clark saw ‘im do it—didn’t you, Clark?”
“I did,” said Clark promptly. He had made his position doubly sure by throwing it overboard himself.
“It comes to the same thing, sir,” said Joe sanctimoniously; “my innercence is proved just the same. You’ll find the dog won’t take no ‘urt through it, sir. You watch ‘im.”
The skipper breathed hard, but made no reply.
“If you don’t believe me, sir, p’raps you’d like to see the plate where ‘e licked it?” said Joe. “Give me the plate, Sam.”
He turned to take it, but in place of handing it to him that useful witness dropped it and made hurriedly for the companion-ladder, and by strenuous efforts reached the deck before Joe, although that veracious gentleman, assisted from below by strong and willing arms, made a good second.