CHAPTER VII
The search at Bymouth obtained no further assistance from Sam. For the remainder of their stay there he hardly moved from the ship, preferring to smoke his pipe in peace on board to meeting certain jocular spirits ashore who wanted to buy bootlaces. Conversation with Dick and the boy he declined altogether, and it was not until they had reached Cocklemouth that he deigned to accept a pipe of tobacco from the cook's box.
Cocklemouth is a small lone place on the Welsh coast. When a large ship gets into the tiny harbor the inhabitants come down to see it, and the skippers of small craft pop up from their cabins and yell out to know where it's coming to. Even when they see it bound and guided by many hawsers they are not satisfied, but dangling fenders in an obtrusive fashion over the sides of their ships, prepare for the worst.
"We won't find 'im 'ere, cookie," said Sam, as the syndicate sat on deck on the evening of their arrival gazing contemplatively at the few scattered lights which appeared as twilight deepened into night. "Lonesome little place."
"I ain't got much 'ope of finding 'im anywhere," assented the cook.
"If it wasn't for fear of Dick finding 'im," said Sam viciously, "or the boy, I'd just give it up, cookie."
"If anybody finds 'im it'll be the skipper hisself," said the cook, lowering his voice as the person alluded to passed them on his way ashore. "He goes to the police station with the portrait and arsts them there. What chance 'ave we got after that?"
The seaman shook his head, and after sitting for some time in silence, went ashore with the cook and drank himself into a state of hopeless pessimism. In this condition he forgave everybody, and feeling very low, made his will by the simple process of giving his knife to Dick and two and sevenpence to Henry. The trouble he had in revoking it next morning furnished a striking illustration of the depths to which poor humanity can descend.
It was bright and fine next day, and after breakfast his spirits rose. The persistent tinkle of a cracked bell from a small brick church in the town, and the appearance of two girls walking along the quay with hymn-books, followed by two young men without, reminded him that it was Sunday.
The skipper, who was endeavoring to form new habits, obeyed the summons of the bell. The mate took a healthful walk of three miles, while the crew sat about the deck watching the cook's preparations for dinner, and occasionally lending him some slight assistance. It was not until the meal was despatched that they arrayed themselves in their Sunday clothes and went ashore.
Dick went first, having thoughtfully provided himself with the photograph which had been lent for the use of all of them. He walked at first into the town, but the bare shuttered shops and deserted streets worked upon his feelings, and with his hands in his pockets, he walked back in the direction of the harbor. Here he got into conversation with an elderly man of sedate aspect, and after a little general talk, beginning with the weather and ending with tobacco, he produced the photograph and broached the subject of Captain Gething.
"Well, I've seen a man very much like it," said his new friend after a prolonged study.
"Where?" asked Dick eagerly.
"I won't say it's the same man," said the other slowly, as he handed the portrait back, "but if it ain't him it's his brother."
"Where?" repeated Dick impatiently.
"Well, I don't know that I ought to interfere," said the man; "it ain't my business."
"If a bob would—" began Dick.
"It would," said the man, smiling as he pocketed it. "He lives at Piggott's Bay," he said impressively.
"And where might that be?" inquired the seaman.
The man turned and pointed across a piece of untidy waste ground to a coastguard's path which wound its way along the top of the cliffs.
"Follow that path as straight as you can go," said he.
"How far?" said Dick.
"Well, some people make a long journey of it, and some a short one," said the other oracularly. "Shall we say six miles?"
Dick said he would sooner say three.
"An easy six, then," said the man smiling indulgently. "Well, good-day to you."
"Good-day, mate," said Dick, and plunging into the débris before him, started on his walk.
It was unfortunate for him in the sequel that Sam and the cook, who had started out for a quiet stroll, without any intention of looking for Captain Gething, or any nonsense of that kind, had witnessed the interview from a distance. By dint of hurrying they overtook the elderly man of sedate aspect, and by dint of cross-questioning, elicited the cause of Dick's sudden departure.
"Which way is it?" inquired Sam.
"You follow him," said the man, indicating the figure in front as it slowly ascended the cliff, "and you'll be there as soon as he will."
The comfortable stroll was abandoned, and the couple, keeping at a respectful distance, followed their unconscious comrade. The day was hot, and the path, which sometimes ran along the top of the cliff and sometimes along the side of it, had apparently escaped the attention of the local County Council. No other person was in sight, and the only things that moved were a few sheep nibbling the short grass, which scampered off at their approach, and a gull or two poised overhead.
"We want to get there afore 'e does," said Sam, treading gingerly along a difficult piece of path.
"He'd see us if we ran along the beach," said the cook.
"We can't run on shingle," said Sam; "and it don't seem much good just gettin' there to see 'im find the cap'n, does it?"
"We must wait for an hoppertunity," said the cook.
Sam grunted.
"An' when it comes, seize it at once," continued the cook, who disapproved of the grunt.
They kept on for some time steadily, though Sam complained bitterly about the heat as he mopped his streaming brow.
"He's going down on to the beach," said the cook suddenly. "Make a spurt for it, Sam, and we'll pass him."
The stout seaman responded to the best of his ability, and arriving at the place where Dick had disappeared, flung himself down on the grass and lay there panting. He was startled by a cry of surprise from the cook.
"Come on, Sam," he said eagerly; "he's going in for a swim."
His friend moved to the edge of the cliff and looked over. A little heap of clothing lay just below him, and Dick was striding over the sands to the sea.
"Come on," repeated the cook impatiently; "we've got the start."
"I should laugh if somebody was to steal his clothes," said Sam vindictively as he gazed at the garments.
"Be all right for us if they did," said the cook; "we'd have plenty o' time to look around this 'ere Piggott's Bay then." He glanced at Sam as he spoke, and read his horrible purpose in his eyes. "No, no!" he said hastily.
"Not steal 'em, cookie," said Sam seductively, "only bury 'em under the shingle. I'll toss you who does it."
For sixty seconds the cook struggled gamely with the tempter.
"It's just a bit of a joke, cook," said Sam jovially. "Dick 'ud be the first to laugh at it hisself if it was somebody else's clothes." He spun a penny in the air, and covering it deftly, held it out to the cook.
"Heads!" said the latter softly.
"Tails!" said Sam cheerfully; "hurry up, cook."
The cook descended without a word, and hastily interring the clothes, not without an uneasy glance seaward, scrambled up the cliff again and rejoined his exultant accomplice. They set off in silence, keeping at some distance from the edge of the cliff.
"Business is business," said the cook after a time, "and he wouldn't join the syndikit."
"He was greedy, and wanted it all," said Sam with severity.
"P'raps it'll be a lesson to 'im," said the cook unctuously. "I took the bearings of the place in case 'e don't find 'em. Some people wouldn't ha' done that."
They kept on steadily for another hour, until at last they came quite suddenly upon a little fishing village situated on a tiny bay. Two or three small craft were anchored inside the stone pier, along which two or three small children, in all the restriction of Sunday clothes, were soberly pacing up and down.
"This must be it," said Sam. "Keep your eyes open, cook."
"What's the name o' this place, mate?" said Sam expectantly to an old salt who was passing.
"Stone-pen Quay," said the old man.
Sam's face fell. "How far is it to Piggott's Bay, then?" he inquired.
"To where?" said the old man, taking his pipe out of his mouth and staring hard.
"Piggott's Bay," said Sam.
"You don't tell me you're looking for Piggott's Bay," said the old man.
"Why not?" said Sam shortly.
Instead of replying the old man slapped his leg, and with his pipe cocked at one side of his mouth, laughed a thin senile laugh with the other.
"When you've done laughin'," said the cook with dignity.
"But I ain't," said the old man, removing his pipe and laughing with greater freedom. "They're looking for Piggott's Bay, Joe," he said, turning to a couple of fishermen who had just come up.
"What a lark!" said Joe, beaming with pleasure. "Come far?" he inquired.
"Cocklemouth," said Sam with a blank look. "When you've done laughin', what's the joke?"
"Why, there ain't no such place," said the man. "It's just a saying in these parts, that's all."
"Just a wot?" said the bewildered Sam faintly.
"It's just a saying like," said the other, exchanging glances with his friends.
"I don't take you," said the cook. "How can a place be a sayin'?"
"Well, it come through a chap about here named Captain Piggott," said the fisherman, speaking slowly. "He was a wonderful queer old chap, and he got out of his reckoning once, and made—ah, South Amerikey, warn't it, Dan?"
"I believe so," said the old man.
"He thought he'd found a new island," continued the fisherman, "an' he went ashore an' hoisted the Union Jack, and named it arter hisself, Piggott's Bay. Leastways that's the tale his chaps gave out when they come 'ome. Now when anybody's a bit out o' their reckoning we say they're looking for Piggott's Bay. It's just a joke about here."
He began to laugh again, and Sam, noting with regret that he was a big fellow and strong, turned away and followed in the footsteps of the cook, who had already commenced the ascent of the cliff. They paused at the top and looked back; Stone-pen Quay was still laughing.
Moved by a common idea of their personal safety, they struck inland, preferring an additional mile or two to encountering Dick. Conversation was at a discount, and they plodded on sulkily along the dusty road, their lips parched and their legs aching.
They got back to the Seamew at seven o'clock, and greeting Henry, who was in sole charge, with fair words and soothing compliments, persuaded him to make them some tea.
"Where's Dick?" inquired Sam casually as he sat drinking it.
"Ain't seen 'im since dinner," said the boy. "I thought he was with you p'raps."
Sam shook his head, and finishing his tea went on deck with the cook, and gave himself up to all the delights of a quiet sprawl. Fatigued with their exertions, neither of them moved until nine o'clock, and then, with a farewell glance in the direction in which Dick might be expected to come, went below and turned in.
They left the lamp burning, to the great satisfaction of Henry, who was reading, and, as ten o'clock struck somewhere in the town, exchanged anxious glances across the foc'sle concerning Dick's safety. Safe and warm in their bunks, it struck both of them that they had been perhaps a little bit selfish. Half an hour later Henry looked up suddenly as something soft leaped on to the deck above and came pattering towards the foc'sle. The next moment his surprise gave way to indignation, and he raised his voice in tones of expostulation which Mrs. Grundy herself would have envied.
"Dick!" he cried shrilly. "Dick!"
"Shut up!" said Dick fiercely as he flung himself panting on a locker. "O my Lord, I have had a time!"
"I'm surprised at you," said Henry severely, as he dragged some blankets from the bunks and threw them over the exhausted seaman. "Where's your modesty, Dick?"
"If you say another word I'll knock yer ugly little head off!" said Dick wrathfully. "If I hadn't been modest I should have come home by daylight. Oh, I have had a time! I have had a time!"
"Where's your clothes?" inquired Henry.
"How the devil should I know?" snapped the other. "I left 'em on the beach while I went for a swim, and when I comeback they'd gone. I've been sittin' on that damned cold shingle since three o'clock this arternoon, and not a soul come near me! It's the first time I've been lookin' for Cap'n Gething, and it'll be the last."
"Oh, you've been at it, 'ave yer!" said Henry. "I told you you chaps would get in a mess over that."
"You know a damned sight too much for your age!" growled Dick. "There's no call to say anything to Sam and the cook about it, mind."
"Why not?" said Henry.
"Cos I say you're not to," said Dick ferociously. "That's why."
"P'raps they know," said Henry quietly. "Seems to me Sam's listenin' in his sleep."
Dick got up, and going to their bunks inspected the sleep of both his comrades cautiously. Then with a repetition of his caution, strengthened by fearful penalties for disobedience, went to his own bunk and forgot his troubles in sleep. He kept his secret all next day, but his bewilderment when he awoke on Tuesday morning and found the clothes in an untidy brown paper parcel lying on the deck led to its divulgence. He told both Sam and the cook about it, and his opinion of both men went up when he found that they did not treat the matter in the light of a joke, as he had feared. Neither of them even smiled, neither did they extend much sympathy; they listened apathetically, and so soon as he had finished, went straight off to sleep where they sat—a performance which they repeated at every opportunity throughout the whole of the day.
CHAPTER VIII
The Seamew lay at Cocklemouth another three days, in which time Dick, after a twelve-mile walk, learnt all there was to learn about Piggott's Bay. The second outrage was likely to have seriously injured his constitution, but the silver lining of the cloud caught his eye just as he was closing it in sleep, and the tension was removed.
"I've been thinkin', Sam," he said next morning, "that I've been rather selfish over that syndikit business. I ought to 'ave joined it."
"You can please yourself," said Sam.
"But it's better late than never," said Dick, turning to the cook who had joined them. "I'm goin' to put you in the way of findin' Cap'n Gething."
The cook portrayed gratified surprise.
"I know for certain that he's livin' at a place called Piggott's Bay, a little place just up the coast here," continued Dick. "If you two chaps like to walk out this evening and find him you can have two quid apiece and just give me one for myself."
"Oh!" said Sam, and stood thunderstruck at his hardihood.
"But it wouldn't be fair to you, Dick," urged the cook. "We won't take no advantage of you. The five pounds is yours."
"I don't want it," said Dick earnestly. "I want to punish myself for being greedy. If you two 'll just go there and find him I'll take it as a favor."
"Oh, well, we'll go then," said the cook with deceitful joy.
"Dick's 'art's in the right place, cook," observed Sam. "We'd better get away directly arter tea."
"I'd like to shake you by the 'and, Dick," said the cook warmly.
"Me too," said Sam, taking it as the cook relinquished it. "You're a fair brick, Dick, an' no error."
"True blue," said the complimentary cook.
"We'll start directly arter tea, if you'll get us the flag, Dick," said Sam.
"Flag?" said Dick—"flag?"
"Why, yes, the Union Jack," said Sam, looking at him in simple surprise. "It's no use going to Piggott's Bay without a Union Jack? Didn't you know that, Dick? Arter goin' there last night too!"
He stood in an easy attitude waiting for an answer and gazed in clumsy surprise at Dick, as that arch-deceiver stamped his way down below in a fury. He even went so far as to pretend that Dick had gone down for the flag in question, and gingerly putting his head down the scuttle, said that a pair of bathing drawers would do if it was not forthcoming—a piece of pleasantry which he would willingly have withdrawn when the time came for him to meet Dick at dinner.
By the time they reached Northfleet again all interest in the search had practically ceased. For one thing it was an unpleasant thing for grown men to be exposed to the gibes of Henry, and for another, looking at it in the cold clear light of reason, they could but see that there was very little prospect of success. In the cabin pessimism was also to the front with the mate as its mouthpiece.
"It's against all reason," he said, after arguing the matter a little. "You can't expect to find him. Now take my advice, you're doing better with a safe trade between here and Brittlesea—stick to that."
"I won't," said the other doggedly.
"It's hard on 'em," said the mate—"the old men I mean—chevying 'em and hunting 'em about just because they've got gray whiskers and are getting into years. Besides which, some of the crew 'll get into a mess sooner or later."
"Talk as much as you like you won't affect me," retorted the other, who was carrying on the conversation as he was down below washing.
"There you go again," said the mate, "making yourself look nice. What for? Another fellow's girl. Turn it and twist it as much as you please, that's what it comes to."
"When I want your advice," said the skipper, covering his confusion by a vigorous use of the towel, "I'll ask for it."
He finished dressing in silence and went ashore, and after looking about him in a perfunctory fashion, strolled off in the direction of Gravesend. The one gleam of light in his present condition was the regular habits of schools, and as he went along he blessed the strong sense of punctuality which possessed the teaching body at four o'clock.
To-day, however, his congratulations were somewhat premature, for long after the children had come and gone there was no sign of Annis Gething. He walked up and down the road wondering. Half-past four, five. He waited until six o'clock—an object of much interest to sundry ladies who were eyeing him stealthily from their front parlor windows—and was just going at a quarter-past when he saw her coming towards him.
"Back again," she said as she shook hands.
"Just back," said he.
"No news of my father, I suppose?" said Annis. "None, I'm sorry to say," said the skipper. "You're late to-night, aren't you?"
"Rather."
"You look tired," said the skipper with tenderness.
"Well, I'm not," said Annis. "I just stayed and had a cup of tea with Miss Grattan. Mother has gone out, so I didn't hurry."
"Out now?" inquired he.
Miss Gething nodded brightly, and having by this time reached the corner of a road, came to a stop.
"I'm not going in just yet," she said, glancing up the road towards her house. "I'm going for a walk."
"I hope it will be a pleasant one," said Wilson, after a pause, devoted to wondering whether he might venture to offer to accompany her. "Goodbye." He held out his hand.
"Good-bye," said Annis; "if you like to call in and wait to see mother she will be pleased to see you, I'm sure."
"Is there anybody to let me in?" inquired Wilson.
"Mr. Glover is there, I expect," said Annis, looking steadily across the road.
"I—I'll call another time," said the perplexed Wilson, "but I should have thought—"
"Thought what?" said she.
"Nothin'," said he. "I—Are you going for a long walk?"
"Not very far," said she. "Why?"
"I suppose you prefer going alone?"
"I don't mind it," said Annis Gothing; "but you can come if you like."
They turned down the road together, and for some time walked on in silence.
"What was that you were going to say just now?" said Annis, when the silence threatened to become awkward.
"When?" said Wilson.
"When I told you that Mr. Glover was at our house you said you should have thought—" She turned and regarded him with an expression in her eyes which he tried in vain to decipher.
"Well, I should have thought," he said desperately, "that you would have wanted to go there."
"I don't understand you," said Annis coldly. "I think you are rather rude."
"I beg your pardon," said Wilson humbly; "I'm very sorry, very."
There was another long silence, during which they left the road and entered a footpath. It was very narrow, and Annis walked in front.
"I would give anything to find your father," said Wilson earnestly.
"Oh, I wish you could, I wish you could," said Annis, looking at him over her shoulder.
"I suppose Mr. Glover is trying all he can?" said Wilson.
"I want my father!" said Annis with sudden passion—"I want him badly, but I would sooner anybody than Mr. Glover found him!"
"But you are to be married when he is found," said the puzzled Wilson.
"If Mr. Glover finds him," said Annis in a low voice.
"Do you mean to say," said the skipper (in his excitement he caught her by the arm, and she did not release it)—"do you mean to say that you are not going to marry this Glover unless he finds your father?"
"Yes," said Annis, "that is the arrangement. Mother fretted so, and I thought nothing mattered much if we could only find my father. So I promised."
"And I suppose if anybody else finds him?" faltered Wilson, as with a ruthless disregard of growing crops he walked beside her.
"In that case," said Annis, looking at him pleasantly, "I sha'n't marry. Is that what you mean?"
"I didn't mean quite that," said Wilson. "I was going to say—"
"There!" said Annis, stopping suddenly and pointing, "isn't there a fine view of the river from here?"
"Splendid!" said Wilson.
"It is my favorite walk," said Annis.
Wilson made a mental note of it. "Especially when Mr. Glover is at your house," he said foolishly.
"Mr. Glover has been very kind," said Annis gravely. "He has been very good to my mother, and he has gone to a great deal of trouble in his search for my father."
"Well, I hope he doesn't find him," said Wilson. Annis turned and regarded him fixedly. "That is very kind of you," she said with severity.
"I want to find him myself," said Wilson, closely watching the river; "and you know why."
"I must get back," said Annis, without contesting the statement.
Wilson felt his courage oozing, and tried to hint at what he dared not say. "I should like you to treat me the same as you do Mr. Glover," he said nervously.
"I'll do that with pleasure," said Annis promptly. In spite of herself her lips quivered and her eyes danced.
"I've loved you ever since the first time I saw you!" said Wilson with sudden vehemence.
Utterly unprepared for this direct attack, Miss Gething had no weapon to meet it. The tables were turned, and reddening with confusion, she looked away and made no reply.
"I've spent days walking up and down the road the school is in because you were there," continued Wilson. "I've wondered sometimes that the school children didn't notice it."
Miss Gething turned to him a cheek which was of the richest carmine, "If it's any pleasure to you to know it, they did," she said viciously. "I taught one small infant the blessing of silence by keeping her in three afternoons."
"I can't help it," said Wilson. "You'll have to keep the whole school in before I get over my fondness for that road. What did she say?"
"Suppose we get back," said Annis coldly, and turning, walked silently beside him. Neither spoke until they reached the lane again, and then Wilson stopped and met her gaze full and fair. Miss Gething, after a brave trial, abandoned the contest and lowered her eyes.
"Will you serve us both alike?" said Wilson in a low voice.
"No," said Annis. She looked up at him shyly and smiled. A light broke in upon him, and seizing her hand he drew her towards him.
"No," said Annis, drawing back sharply; "it wouldn't be right."
Afraid he had gone too far, Wilson's cowardice got the better hand again. "What wouldn't?" he asked, with an awkward attempt at innocence. A tiny but ominous sparkle in Miss Gething's eye showed her opinion of this unfairness.
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly.
"What for?" asked Miss Gething innocently in her turn.
Soon tired of devious paths, in which he lost himself, Wilson tried a direct one again. "For trying to kiss you and then pretending I didn't know what you meant when you refused," he said bluntly.
"Captain Wilson!" said Miss Gething breathlessly, "I—I don't know what you mean."
"Yes you do," said Wilson calmly.
The sparkle came in Miss Gething's eye again, then she bit her lip and turned her head away miserably realizing her inability to treat this transgressor with the severity that he deserved.
"This is the first time you have ever said things of this sort to a girl, I should think," she said at last.
"Yes," said Wilson simply.
"You want practice," said Miss Gething scornfully.
"That's just what I do want," said Wilson eagerly.
He was moving towards her again, but she checked him with a look.
"But not with a girl who is half engaged to another man," she said, regarding him with soft eyes; "it isn't right."
"Does he know how it is?" inquired Wilson, referring, of course, to the absent Glover.
Miss Gething nodded.
"I think it's quite right and proper, then," said Wilson.
"I don't," said Annis, holding out her hand. "I'll say good-bye," she said steadily. "I won't see you again until my father is found. If Mr. Glover finds him I won't see you at all. Good-bye."
The skipper took her hand, and marvelling at his pluck, drew her, resisting slightly, towards him again. Then he bent his head, and, with the assistance of Miss Gething, kissed the brim of her hat. Then she broke from him and ran lightly up the lane, pausing at the end to stop and wave her hand ere she disappeared. The skipper waved his in return, and glancing boldly at a horse which had witnessed all the proceedings from over the hedge, walked back to Northfleet to urge his dispirited crew to still further efforts.