CHAPTER IX
To the skipper's surprise and disapproval Annis kept her word. To be sure she could not prevent him meeting her in the road when the schooner was at Northfleet, his attitude when she tried to, being one of wilful and deliberate defiance. She met this disobedience adeptly by taking a pupil home with her, and when even this was not sufficient added to the number. The day on which she appeared in the road with four small damsels was the last day the skipper accompanied her. He could only walk in front or behind; the conversation was severely technical, and the expression on the small girls' faces precocious in the extreme.
The search went on all the summer, the crew of the Seamew causing much comment at the various ports by walking about as though they had lost something. They all got to wear a bereaved appearance after a time, which, in the case of the cook—who had risked some capital in the affair—was gradually converted to one of resignation.
At the beginning of September they found themselves at Ironbridge, a small town on the East Coast, situated on the river Lebben. As usual, the skipper's inquiries revealed nothing. Ironbridge was a small place, with absolutely nothing to conceal; but it was a fine day, and Henry, who disliked extremely the task of assisting to work out the cargo, obtained permission to go ashore to purchase a few small things for the cook and look round.
He strolled along blithely, casting a glance over his shoulders at the dusty cloud which hung over the Seamew as he went. It was virgin soil to him, and he thirsted for adventure.
The town contained but few objects of interest. Before the advent of railways it had been a thriving port with a considerable trade; now its streets were sleepy and its wharves deserted. Besides the Seamew the only other craft in the river was a tiny sloop, the cargo of which two men were unloading by means of a basket and pulley and a hand truck.
The quietude told upon Henry, who, after a modest half-pint, lit his pipe and sauntered along the narrow High Street with his hands in his pockets. A short walk brought him to the white hurdles of the desolate market-place. Here the town as a town ended and gave place to a few large houses standing in their own grounds.
"Well, give me London," said Henry to himself as he paused at a high brick wall and looked at the fruit trees beyond. "Why, the place seems dead!"
He scrambled up on to the wall, and, perched on the top, whistled softly. The grown-up flavor of half-pints had not entirely eradicated a youthful partiality for apples. He was hidden from the house by the trees, and almost involuntarily he dropped down on the other side of the wall and began to fill his pockets with the fruit.
Things were so quiet that he became venturesome, and, imitating the stealthy movement of the Red Indian, whom he loved, so far as six or seven pounds of apples would allow him, made his way to a large summer-house and peeped in. It was empty, except for a table and a couple of rough benches, and after another careful look round, he entered, and seating himself on the bench, tried an apple.
He was roused to a sense of the danger of his position by footsteps on the path outside, which, coming nearer and nearer, were evidently aimed at the summer-house. With a silence and celerity of which any brave would have been proud, he got under the table.
"There you are, you naughty little girl," said a woman's voice. "You will not come out until you know your rivers perfectly."
Somebody was pushed into the summer-house, the door slammed behind, and a key turned in the lock. The footsteps retreated again, and the embarrassed brave realized that he was in a cruelly false position, his very life, so to speak, depending on the strength a small girl's scream.
"I don't care!" said a dogged voice. "Bother your rivers! bother your rivers! bother your rivers!"
The owner of the voice sat on the table and hummed fiercely. In the stress of mental anguish caused by his position, Henry made a miscalculation, and in turning bumped the table heavily with his head.
"Ough!" said the small girl breathlessly.
"Don't be frightened," said Henry, popping up humbly; "I won't hurt you."
"Hoo!" said the small girl in a flutter; "a boy!"
Henry rose and seated himself respectfully, coughing confusedly, as he saw the small girl's gaze riveted on his pockets.
"What have you got in your pockets?" she asked.
"Apples," said Henry softly. "I bought 'em in the town."
The small girl extended her hand, and accepting a couple, inspected them carefully.
"You're a bad, wicked boy!" she said seriously as she bit into one. "You'll get it when Miss Dimchurch comes!"
"Who's Miss Dimchurch?" inquired Henry with pardonable curiosity.
"Schoolmistress," said the small girl.
"Is this a school?" said Henry.
The small girl, her mouth full of apple, nodded.
"Any men here?" inquired Henry with an assumed carelessness.
The small girl shook her head.
"You're the only boy I've ever seen here," she said gleefully. "You'll get it when Miss Dimchurch comes!"
His mind relieved of a great fear, Henry leaned back and smiled confidently.
"I'm not afraid of the old girl," he said quietly, as he pulled out his pipe and filled it.
The small girl's eyes glistened with admiration.
"I wish I was a boy," she said plaintively, "then I shouldn't mind her. Are you a sailor-boy?"
"Sailor," corrected Henry; "yes."
"I like sailors," said the small girl amicably. "You may have a bite of my apple if you like."
"Never mind, thanks," said Henry hastily; "I've got a clean one here."
The small girl drew herself up and eyed him haughtily, but finding that he was not looking at her resumed her apple.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"'Enery Hatkins," replied the youth, as he remembered sundry cautions about the letter h he had received at school. "What's yours?"
"Gertrude Ursula Florence Harcourt," said the small girl, sitting up straighter to say it. "I don't like the name of Atkins."
"Don't you?" said Henry, trying not to show resentment. "I don't like Gertrude, or Ursula, or Florence, and Harcourt's the worst of all."
Miss Harcourt drew off three or four inches and drummed with the tips of her fingers on the table. "I don't care what you like," she said humming.
"I like Gerty," said Henry with the air of a connoisseur, as he looked at the small flushed face. "I think Gerty's very pretty."
"That's what they always call me," said Miss Harcourt carelessly. "Does your ship go right out to sea?"
"Yes," said the boy. They had been blown out to sea once, and he salved his conscience with that.
"And how many times," said Gertrude Ursula Florence Harcourt, getting nearer to him again, "have you had fights with pirates?"
She left absolutely no loophole. If she had asked him whether he had ever fought pirates he would have said "No," though that would have been hard with her little excitable face turned towards his and the dark blue eyes dancing with interest.
"I forget whether it was six or seven," said Henry Atkins. "I think it was only six."
"Tell us all about them," said Miss Harcourt, shifting with excitement.
Henry took a bite of his apple and started, thankful that a taste for reading of a thrilling description had furnished him with material. He fought ships in a way which even admirals had never thought of, and certainly not the pirates, who were invariably discomfited by the ingenious means by which he enabled virtue to triumph over sin. Miss Harcourt held her breath with pleasurable terror, and tightened or relaxed the grip of her small and not too clean fingers on his arm as the narrative proceeded.
"But you never killed a man yourself," said she, when he had finished. There was an inflection, just a slight inflection, of voice, which Henry thought undeserved after the trouble he had taken.
"I can't exactly say," he replied shortly. "You see in the heat"—he got it right that time—"in the heat of an engagement you can't be sure."
"Of course you can't," said Miss Harcourt, repenting of her unreasonableness. "You are brave!" Henry blushed.
"Are you an officer?" inquired Miss Harcourt.
"Not quite," said Henry, wishing somehow that he was.
"If you make haste and become an officer I'll marry you when I grow up," said Miss Harcourt, smiling on him kindly. "That is if you like, of course."
"I should like it very much," said Henry wistfully, "I didn't mean it when I said I didn't like your names just now."
"You shouldn't have told stories, then," said Miss Harcourt severely, but not unkindly; "I can't bear storytellers."
The conscience-stricken Henry groaned inwardly, but, reflecting there was plenty of time to confess before the marriage, brightened up again. The "Rivers of Europe" had fallen beneath the table, and were entirely forgotten until the sounds of many feet and many voices in the garden recalled them to a sense of their position.
"Play-time," said the small girl, picking up her book and skipping to the farthest seat possible from Henry. "Thames, Seine, Danube, Rhine."
A strong, firm step stopped outside the door, and a key turned in the lock. The door was thrown open, and Miss Dimchurch peeping in, drew back with a cry of surprise. Behind her some thirty small girls, who saw her surprise, but not the reason for it, waited eagerly for light.
"Miss Harcourt!" said the principal in an awful voice.
"Yes, ma'am," said Miss Harcourt looking up, with her finger in the book to keep the place.
"How dare you stay in here with this person?" demanded the principal.
"It wasn't my fault," said Miss Harcourt, working up a whimper. "You locked me in. He was here when I came."
"Why didn't you call after me?" demanded Miss Dimchurch.
"I didn't know he was here; he was under the table," said Miss Harcourt.
Miss Dimchurch turned and bestowed a terrible glance upon Henry, who, with his forgotten pipe in his hand, looked uneasily up to see whether he could push past her. Miss Harcourt, holding her breath, gazed at the destroyer of pirates, and waited confidently for something extraordinary to happen.
"He's been stealing my apples!" said Miss Dimchurch tragically. "Where's the gymnasium mistress?"
The gymnasium mistress, a tall pretty girl, was just behind her.
"Remove that horrid boy, Miss O'Brien," said the principal.
"Don't worry," said Henry, trying to speak calmly; "I'll go. Stand away here. I don't want to be hard on wimmin."
"Take him out," commanded the mistress.
Miss O'Brien, pleased at this opportunity of displaying her powers, entered, and squaring her shoulders, stood over the intruder in much the same way that Henry had seen barmen stand over Sam.
"Look here, now," he said, turning pale; "you drop it. I don't want to hurt you."
He placed his pipe in his pocket, and rose to his feet as the gymnasium mistress caught him in her strong slender arms and raised him from the ground. Her grip was like steel, and a babel of admiring young voices broke upon his horrified ears as his captor marched easily with him down the garden, their progress marked by apples, which rolled out of his pockets and bounded along the ground.
"I shall kick you," whispered Henry fiercely—ignoring the fact that both legs were jammed together—as he caught sight of the pale, bewildered little face of Gertrude U. F. Harcourt.
"Kick away," said Miss O'Brien sweetly, and using him as a dumb-bell, threw in a gratuitous gymnastic display for the edification of her pupils.
"If you come here again, you naughty little boy," said Miss Dimchurch, who was heading the procession behind, "I shall give you to a policeman. Open the gate, girls!"
The gate was open, and Henry, half dead with shame, was thrust into the road in full view of the cook, who had been sent out in search of him.
"Wot, 'Enery?" said the cook in unbelieving accents as he staggered back, aghast at the spectacle—"wotever 'ave you been a-doin' of?"
"He's been stealing my apples!" said Miss Dimchurch sternly. "If I catch him here again I shall cane him!"
"Quite right, ma'am! I hope he hasn't hurt anybody," said the cook, unable to realize fully the discomfiture of the youth.
Miss Dimchurch slammed the gate and left the couple standing in the road. The cook turned and led the way down to the town again, accompanied by the crestfallen Henry.
"'Ave a apple, cook?" said the latter, proffering one; "I saved a beauty a-purpose for you."
"No, thanks," said the cook.
"It won't bite you," said Henry shortly.
"No, and I won't bite it either," replied the cook.
They continued their way in silence, until at the market-place Henry paused in front of the "Farmer's Arms."
"Come in and 'ave a pint, old chap," he said cordially.
"No, thankee," said the cook again. "It's no use, Enery, you don't git over me in that way."
"Wot d'ye mean?" blustered the youth.
"You know," said the other darkly.
"No, I don't," said Henry.
"Well, I wouldn't miss tellin' the other chaps, no, not for six pints," said the cook cheerfully. "You're a deep un, 'Enery, but so am I."
"Glad you told me," said the out-generalled youth "Nobody'd think so to look at your silly, fat face."
The cook smiled indulgently, and, going aboard, left his youthful charge to give the best explanation he could of his absence to the skipper—an explanation which was marred for him by the childish behavior of the cook at the other end of the ship, who taking the part of Miss O'Brien for himself, gave that of Henry to a cork fender, which, when it became obstreperous—as it frequently did on the slightest provocation—he slapped vigorously, giving sundry falsetto howls, which he fondly imagined were in good imitation of Henry. After three encores the skipper stepped forward for enlightenment, returning to the mate with a grin so aggravating that the sensitive Henry was near to receiving a thrashing for insubordination of the most impertinent nature.
CHAPTER X
From Ironbridge, two days later, they sailed with a general cargo for Stourwich, the Seamew picking her way carefully down the river by moonlight, followed at an ever-increasing distance by a cork fender of abandoned aspect.
A great change had come over Henry, and an attitude of proud reserve had taken the place of the careless banter with which he usually regaled the crew. He married Miss O'Brien in imagination to a strong man of villainous temper and despotic ideas, while the explanations he made to Miss Harcourt were too ingenious and involved to be confined in the space of a single chapter. To these daydreams, idle though he knew they were, he turned as a welcome relief from the coarse vulgarity of the crew.
Sympathy had widened his ideas, and he now felt a tender but mournful interest in the skipper's affairs. He read aloud to himself at every opportunity, and aspirated his h's until he made his throat ache. His aspirations also extended to his conversation, until at last the mate told him plainly "that if he blew in his face again he'd get his ears boxed."
They passed the breakwater and dropped anchor in the harbor of Stourwich just as the rising sun was glowing red on the steeple of the town church. The narrow, fishy little streets leading from the quay were deserted, except for one lane, down which sleepy passengers were coming in twos and threes to catch the boat, which was chafing and grinding against the timbers of the jetty and pouring from its twin-funnels dense volumes of smoke to take the sting out of the morning air.
Little by little as the Seamew who was not quite certain as to her berth, rode at anchor, the town came to life again. Men of marine appearance, in baggy trousers and tight jerseys, came slowly on to the quay and stared meditatively at the water or shouted vehemently at other men, who had got into small boats to bale them out with rusty cans. From some of these loungers, after much shouting and contradictory information, the Seamew, discovered her destination and was soon fast alongside.
The cargo—a very small one—was out by three o'clock that afternoon, and the crew, having replaced the hatches and cleaned up, went ashore together, after extending an invitation to Henry—which was coldly declined—to go with them.
The skipper was already ashore, and the boy, after enduring for some time the witticisms of the mate, on the subject of apples, went too.
For some time he wandered aimlessly about the town, with his hands in his pockets. The season was drawing to an end, but a few holiday-makers were lounging about on the parade, or venturing carefully along the dreary breakwater to get the full benefit of the sea air. Idly watching these and other objects of interest on the sea-shore, the boy drifted on until he found himself at the adjoining watering-place of Overcourt.
The parade ended in two flights of steps, one of which led to the sands and the other to the road and the cliffs above. For people who cared for neither, thoughtful local authorities had placed a long seat, and on this Henry placed himself and sat for some time, regarding with the lenity of age the erratic sports of the children below. He had sat there for some time when he became idly interested in the movements of an old man walking along the sands to the steps. Arrived at the foot he disappeared from sight, then a huge hand gripped the handrail, and a peaked cloth cap was revealed to the suddenly interested Henry, for the face of the old man was the face of the well-thumbed photograph in the foc'sle.
Unconscious of the wild excitement in the breast of the small boy on the seat, the old man paused to take breath for the next flight.
"Have you—got such a thing as a—as a match—about you?" said Henry, trying to speak calmly, but failing.
"You're over-young to smoke," said the old man, turning round and regarding him.
At any other time, with any other person, Henry's retort to this would have been rude, but the momentous events which depended on his civility restrained him.
"I find it soothing," he said with much gravity, "if I get overworked or worried."
The old man regarded him with unfeigned astonishment, a grim smile lurking at the corners of his well-hidden mouth.
"If you were my boy," he said shortly, as he put his forefinger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket and extracted a time-stained lucifer, "do you know what I'd do to you?"
"Stop me smoking?" hazarded Henry cheerfully.
"I would that," said the other, turning to go.
"How old were you when you started smoking?" asked the boy.
"About your age, I expect," said the old man slowly; "but I was a much bigger chap than you are. A stunted little chap like you ought not to smoke."
Henry smiled wanly, and began to think that the five pounds would be well earned.
"Will you have a pipe?" he said, proffering a gaudy pouch.
"Confound you!" said the old man, flashing into sudden weak anger. "When I want your tobacco I'll ask you for it."
"No offence," said the boy hastily, "no offence. It's some I bought cheap, and our chaps said I'd been 'ad. I only wanted to see what you thought of it."
The old man hesitated a moment, and then taking the seat beside him, accepted the proffered pouch and smelt the contents critically. Then he drew a small black clay from his pocket and slowly filled it.
"Smokes all right," he said after a few puffs. He leaned back, and half closing his eyes, smoked with the enjoyment of an old smoker to whom a pipe is a somewhat rare luxury, while Henry regarded his shabby clothes and much-patched boots with great interest.
"Stranger here?" inquired the old man amiably.
"Schooner Seamew down in the harbor," said Henry, indicating the distant town of Stourwich with a wave of his hand.
"Ay, ay," said the old man, and smoked in silence.
"Got to stay here for a few days," said Henry, watching him out of the tail of his eye; "then back."
"London?" suggested the other.
"Northfleet," said Henry carelessly, "that's where we came from."
The old man's face twitched ever so slightly, and he blew out a cloud of smoke.
"Do you live there?" he inquired.
"Wapping," said Henry; "but I know Northfleet very well—Gravesend too. Ever been there?"
"Never," said the old man emphatically; "never."
"Rather a nice place, I think," said Henry; "I like it better than Wapping. We've sailed from there a year now. Our skipper is fond of it too. He's rather sweet on a girl who's teacher in a school there."
"What school?" asked the old man.
The boy gave a slight laugh. "Well, it's no good telling you if you don't know the place," he said easily; "it's a girls' school."
"I used to know a man that lived there," said the other, speaking slowly and carefully. "What's her name?"
"I forget," said the boy, yawning.
Conversation flagged, and the two sat idly watching the last of the children as they toiled slowly towards home from the sands. The sun had set and the air was getting chilly.
"I'll be getting home," said the old man. "Goodnight, my lad."
"Good-night to you," said the well-mannered Henry.
He watched the old man's still strong figure as it passed slowly up the steps, and allowing him to get some little distance start, cautiously followed. He followed him up the steps and along the cliff, the figure in front never halting until it reached a small court at the back of a livery stable; then, heedless of the small shadow, now very close behind, it pushed open the door of a dirty little house and entered. The shadow crept up and paused irresolute, and then, after a careful survey of the place, stole silently and swiftly away.
The shadow, choosing the road because it was quicker, now danced back to Stourwich, and jumping lightly on to the schooner, came behind the cook and thumped him heavily on the back. Before the cook could seize him he had passed on to Sam, and embracing as much of that gentleman's waist as possible, vainly besought him to dance.
"'E's off 'is 'ead," said Sam, shaking himself free and regarding him unfavorably. "What's wrong, kiddy?"
"Nothing," said Henry jubilantly; "everything's right."
"More happles?" said the cook with a nasty sneer.
"No, it ain't apples," said Henry hotly; "you never get more than one idea at a time into that 'ead of yours. Where's the skipper? I've got something important to tell 'im—something that'll make 'im dance."
"Wot is it?" said the cook and Sam together turning pale.
"Now don't get excited," said Henry, holding up his hand warningly; "it's bad for you, Sam, because you're too fat, and it's bad for cookie because 'is 'ead's weak. You'll know all in good time."
He walked aft, leaving them to confer uneasily as to the cause of his jubilant condition, and hastily descending the companion ladder, burst noisily into the cabin and surveyed the skipper and mate with a smile, which he intended should be full of information. Both looked up in surprise, and the skipper, who was in a very bad temper, half rose from his seat.
"Where've you been, you young rascal?" he asked, eyeing him sternly.
"Looking around," said Henry, still smiling as he thought of the change in the skipper's manner when he should disclose his information.
"This is the second time you've taken yourself off," roared the other angrily. "I've half a mind to give you the soundest thrashing you ever had in your life."
"All right," said Henry, somewhat taken aback. "When—"
"Don't answer me, you idle young rascal!" said the skipper sternly; "get to bed."
"I want to–" began Henry, chilled by this order.
"Get to bed," repeated the skipper, rising.
"Bed?" said Henry, as his face hardened; "bed at seven o'clock?"
"I'll punish you somehow," said the skipper, looking from him to the cook who had just descended. "Cook!"
"Yes, sir," said the cook briskly.
"Put that boy to bed," said the other, "and see he goes now."
"A' right, sir," said the grinning cook. "Come along, 'Enery."
With a pale face and a haughty mien, which under other circumstances might have been extremely impressive, Henry, after an entreating glance at the skipper, followed him up the steps.
"'E's got to go to bed," said the cook to Sam and Dick, who were standing together. "'E's been naughty."
"Who said so?" asked Sam eagerly.
"Skipper," replied the cook. "'E told me we wos to put him to bed ourselves."
"You needn't trouble," said Henry stiffly; "I'll go all right."
"It's no trouble," said Sam oilily.
"It's a pleasure," said Dick truthfully.
Arrived at the scuttle, Henry halted, and with an assumption of ease he was far from feeling, yawned, and looked round at the night.
"Go to bed," said Sam reprovingly, and seizing him in his stout arms passed him below to the cook, feet first, as the cook discovered to his cost.
"'E ought to be bathed first," said Sam, assuming the direction of affairs; "and it's Monday night, and 'e ought to have a clean nightgown on."
"Is 'is little bed made?" inquired the cook anxiously.
"'Is little bed's just proper," said Dick, patting it.
"We won't bathe him to-night," said Sam, as he tied a towel apron-wise round his waist; "it 'ud be too long a job. Now, 'Enery, come on to my lap."
Aided by willing arms, he took the youth on to his knee, and despite his frantic struggles, began to prepare him for his slumbers. At the pressing request of the cook he removed the victim's boots first, and, as Dick said, it was surprising what a difference it made. Then having washed the boy's face with soap and flannel, he lifted him into his berth, grinning respectfully up at the face of the mate as it peered down from the scuttle with keen enjoyment of the scene.
"Is the boy asleep?" he inquired aggravatingly, as Henry's arms and legs shot out of the berth in mad attempts to reach his tormentors.
"Sleeping like a little hangel, sir!" said Sam respectfully. "Would you like to come down and see he's all right, sir?"
"Bless him!" said the grinning mate.
He went off, and Henry, making the best of a bad job, closed his eyes and refused to be drawn into replying to the jests of the men. Ever since he had been on the schooner he had been free from punishment of all kinds by the strict order of the skipper—a situation of which he had taken the fullest advantage. Now his power was shaken, and he lay grinding his teeth as he thought of the indignity to which he had been subjected.