Short Cruises

He thrust his strong, thick-set figure between them, and with a hand on each coat-collar propelled them in the direction of home. The mate muttered something about going back to his ship, but Mr. Smith refused to listen, and stopping at the door of a neat cottage, turned the handle and thrust his dripping charges over the threshold of a comfortable sitting-room.

A pleasant-faced woman of middle age and pretty girl of twenty rose at their entrance, and a faint scream fell pleasantly upon the ears of Mr. Heard.

“Here he is,” bawled Mr. Smith; “just saved at the last moment.”

“What, two of them?” exclaimed Miss Smith, with a faint note of gratification in her voice. Her gaze fell on the mate, and she smiled approvingly.

“No; this one jumped in and saved ‘im,” said her father.

“Oh, Arthur!” said Miss Smith. “How could you be so wicked! I never dreamt you’d go and do such a thing—never! I didn’t think you’d got it in you.”

Mr. Heard grinned sheepishly. “I told you I would,” he muttered.

“Don’t stand talking here,” said Mrs. Smith, gazing at the puddle which was growing in the centre of the carpet; “they’ll catch cold. Take ‘em upstairs and give ‘em some dry clothes. And I’ll bring some hot whisky and water up to ‘em.”

“Rum is best,” said Mr. Smith, herding his charges and driving them up the small staircase. “Send young Joe for some. Send up three glasses.”

They disappeared upstairs, and Joe appearing at that moment from the kitchen, was hastily sent off to the “Blue Jay” for the rum. A couple of curious neighbors helped him to carry it back, and, standing modestly just inside the door, ventured on a few skilled directions as to its preparation. After which, with an eye on Miss Smith, they stood and conversed, mostly in head-shakes.

Stimulated by the rum and the energetic Mr. Smith, the men were not long in changing. Preceded by their host, they came down to the sitting-room again; Mr. Heard with as desperate and unrepentant an air as he could assume, and Mr. Dix trying to conceal his uneasiness by taking great interest in a suit of clothes three sizes too large for him.

“They was both as near drownded as could be,” said Mr. Smith, looking round; “he ses Arthur fought like a madman to prevent ‘imself from being saved.”

“It was nothing, really,” said the mate, in an almost inaudible voice, as he met Miss Smith’s admiring gaze.

“Listen to ‘im,” said the delighted Mr. Smith; “all brave men are like that. That’s wot’s made us Englishmen wot we are.”

“I don’t suppose he knew who it was he was saving,” said a voice from the door.

“I didn’t want to be saved,” said Mr. Heard defiantly.

“Well, you can easy do it again, Arthur,” said the same voice; “the dock won’t run away.”

Mr. Heard started and eyed the speaker with same malevolence.

“Tell us all about it,” said Miss Smith, gazing at the mate, with her hands clasped. “Did you see him jump in?”

Mr. Dix shook his head and looked at Mr. Heard for guidance. “N—not exactly,” he stammered; “I was just taking a stroll round the harbor before turning in, when all of a sudden I heard a cry for help—”

“No you didn’t,” broke in Mr. Heard, fiercely.

“Well, it sounded like it,” said the mate, somewhat taken aback.

“I don’t care what it sounded like,” said the other. “I didn’t say it. It was the last thing I should ‘ave called out. I didn’t want to be saved.”

“P’r’aps he cried ‘Emma,’” said the voice from the door.

“Might ha’ been that,” admitted the mate. “Well, when I heard it I ran to the edge and looked down at the water, and at first I couldn’t see anything. Then I saw what I took to be a dog, but, knowing that dogs can’t cry ‘help!’—”

“Emma,” corrected Mr. Heard.

“Emma,” said the mate, “I just put my hands up and dived in. When I came to the surface I struck out for him and tried to seize him from behind, but before I could do so he put his arms round my neck like—like—”

“Like as if it was Emma’s,” suggested the voice by the door.

Miss Smith rose with majestic dignity and confronted the speaker. “And who asked you in here, George Harris?” she inquired, coldly.

“I see the door open,” stammered Mr. Harris—“I see the door open and I thought—”

“If you look again you’ll see the handle,” said Miss Smith.

Mr. Harris looked, and, opening the door with extreme care, melted slowly from a gaze too terrible for human endurance.

“We went down like a stone,” continued the mate, as Miss Smith resumed her seat and smiled at him. “When we came up he tried to get away again. I think we went down again a few more times, but I ain’t sure. Then we crawled out; leastways I did, and pulled him after me.”

“He might have drowned you,” said Miss Smith, with a severe glance at her unfortunate admirer. “And it’s my belief that he tumbled in after all, and when you thought he was struggling to get away he was struggling to be saved. That’s more like him.”

“Well, they’re all right now,” said Mr. Smith, as Mr. Heard broke in with some vehemence. “And this chap’s going to ‘ave the Royal Society’s medal for it, or I’ll know the reason why.”

“No, no,” said the mate, hurriedly; “I wouldn’t take it, I couldn’t think of it.”

“Take it or leave it,” said Mr. Smith; “but I’m going to the police to try and get it for you. I know the inspector a bit.”

“I can’t take it,” said the horrified mate; “it—it—besides, don’t you see, if this isn’t kept quiet Mr. Heard will be locked up for trying to commit suicide.”

“So he would be,” said the other man from his post by the door; “he’s quite right.”

“And I’d sooner lose fifty medals,” said Mr. Dix. “What’s the good of me saving him for that?”

A murmur of admiration at the mate’s extraordinary nobility of character jarred harshly on the ears of Mr. Heard. Most persistent of all was the voice of Miss Smith, and hardly able to endure things quietly, he sat and watched the tender glances which passed between her and Mr. Dix. Miss Smith, conscious at last of his regards, turned and looked at him.

“You could say you tumbled in, Arthur, and then he would get the medal,” she said, softly.

“Say!” shouted the overwrought Mr. Heard. “Say I tum—”

Words failed him. He stood swaying and regarding the company for a moment, and then, flinging open the door, closed it behind him with a bang that made the house tremble.

The mate followed half an hour later, escorted to the ship by the entire Smith family. Fortified by the presence of Miss Smith, he pointed out the exact scene of the rescue without a tremor, and, when her father narrated the affair to the skipper, whom they found sitting on deck smoking a last pipe, listened undismayed to that astonished mariner’s comments.

News of the mate’s heroic conduct became general the next day, and work on the ketch was somewhat impeded in consequence. It became a point of honor with Mr. Heard’s fellow-townsmen to allude to the affair as an accident, but the romantic nature of the transaction was well understood, and full credit given to Mr. Dix for his self-denial in the matter of the medal. Small boys followed him in the street, and half Pebblesea knew when he paid a visit to the Smith’s, and discussed his chances. Two nights afterwards, when he and Miss Smith went for a walk in the loneliest spot they could find, conversation turned almost entirely upon the over-crowded condition of the British Isles.

The Starfish was away for three weeks, but the little town no longer looked dull to the mate as she entered the harbor one evening and glided slowly towards her old berth. Emma Smith was waiting to see the ship come in, and his taste for all other amusements had temporarily disappeared.

For two or three days the course of true love ran perfectly smooth; then, like a dark shadow, the figure of Arthur Heard was thrown across its path. It haunted the quay, hung about the house, and cropped up unexpectedly in the most distant solitudes. It came up behind the mate one evening just as he left the ship and walked beside him in silence.

“Halloa,” said the mate, at last.

“Halloa,” said Mr. Heard. “Going to see Emma?”

“I’m going to see Miss Smith,” said the mate.

Mr. Heard laughed; a forced, mirthless laugh.

“And we don’t want you following us about,” said Mr. Dix, sharply. “If it’ll ease your mind, and do you any good to know, you never had a chance She told me so.”

“I sha’n’t follow you,” said Mr. Heard; “it’s your last evening, so you’d better make the most of it.”

He turned on his heel, and the mate, pondering on his last words, went thoughtfully on to the house.

Amid the distraction of pleasant society and a long walk, the matter passed from his mind, and he only remembered it at nine o’clock that evening as a knock sounded on the door and the sallow face of Mr. Heard was thrust into the room.

“Good-evening all,” said the intruder.

“Evening, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, affably.

Mr. Heard with a melancholy countenance entered the room and closed the door gently behind him. Then he coughed slightly and shook his head.

“Anything the matter, Arthur?” inquired Mr. Smith, somewhat disturbed by these, manifestations.

“I’ve got something on my mind,” said Mr. Heard, with a diabolical glance at the mate—“something wot’s been worrying me for a long time. I’ve been deceiving you.”

“That was always your failing, Arthur—deceit-fulness,” said Mrs. Smith. “I remember—”

“We’ve both been deceiving you,” interrupted Mr. Heard, loudly. “I didn’t jump into the harbor the other night, and I didn’t tumble in, and Mr. Fred Dix didn’t jump in after me; we just went to the end of the harbor and walked in and wetted ourselves.”

There was a moment’s intense silence and all eyes turned on the mate. The latter met them boldly.

“It’s a habit o’ mine to walk into the water and spoil my clothes for the sake of people I’ve never met before,” he said, with a laugh.

“For shame, Arthur!” said Mr. Smith, with a huge sigh of relief.

“‘Ow can you?” said Mrs. Smith.

“Arthur’s been asleep since then,” said the mate, still smiling. “All the same, the next time he jumps in he can get out by himself.”

Mr. Heard, raising his voice, entered into a minute description of the affair, but in vain. Mr. Smith, rising to his feet, denounced his ingratitude in language which was seldom allowed to pass unchallenged in the presence of his wife, while that lady contributed examples of deceitfulness in the past of Mr. Heard, which he strove in vain to refute, Meanwhile, her daughter patted the mate’s hand.

“It’s a bit too thin, Arthur,” said the latter, with a mocking smile; “try something better next time.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Heard, in quieter tones; “I dare you to come along to the harbor and jump in, just as you are, where you said you jumped in after me. They’ll soon see who’s telling the truth.”

“He’ll do that,” said Mr. Smith, with conviction.

For a fraction of a second Mr. Dix hesitated, then, with a steady glance at Miss Smith, he sprang to his feet and accepted the challenge. Mrs. Smith besought him not to be foolish, and, with a vague idea of dissuading him, told him a slanderous anecdote concerning Mr. Heard’s aunt. Her daughter gazed at the mate with proud confidence, and, taking his arm, bade her mother to get some dry clothes ready and led the way to the harbor.

The night was fine but dark, and a chill breeze blew up from the sea. Twice the hapless mate thought of backing out, but a glance at Miss Smith’s profile and the tender pressure of her arm deterred him. The tide was running out and he had a faint hope that he might keep afloat long enough to be washed ashore alive. He talked rapidly, and his laugh rang across the water. Arrived at the spot they stopped, and Miss Smith looking down into the darkness was unable to repress a shiver.

“Be careful, Fred,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm.

The mate looked at her oddly. “All right,” he said, gayly, “I’ll be out almost before I’m in. You run back to the house and help your mother get the dry clothes ready for me.”

His tones were so confident, and his laugh so buoyant, that Mr. Heard, who had been fully expecting him to withdraw from the affair, began to feel that he had under-rated his swimming powers. “Just jumping in and swimming out again is not quite the same as saving a drownding man,” he said, with a sneer.

In a flash the mate saw a chance of escape.

“Why, there’s no satisfying you,” he said, slowly. “If I do go in I can see that you won’t own up that you’ve been lying.”

“He’ll ‘ave to,” said Mr. Smith, who, having made up his mind for a little excitement, was in no mind to lose it.

“I don’t believe he would,” said the mate. “Look here!” he said, suddenly, as he laid an affectionate arm on the old man’s shoulder. “I know what we’ll do.”

“Well?” said Mr. Smith.

“I’ll save you,” said the mate, with a smile of great relief.

“Save me?” said the puzzled Mr. Smith, as his daughter uttered a faint cry. “How?”

“Just as I saved him,” said the other, nodding. “You jump in, and after you’ve sunk twice—same as he did—I’ll dive in and save you. At any rate I’ll do my best; I promise you I won’t come ashore without you.”

Mr. Smith hastily flung off the encircling arm and retired a few paces inland. “‘Ave you—ever been—in a lunatic asylum at any time?” he inquired, as soon as he could speak.

“No,” said the mate, gravely.

“Neither ‘ave I,” said Mr. Smith; “and, what’s more, I’m not going.”

He took a deep breath and stood simmering. Miss Smith came forward and, with a smothered giggle, took the mate’s arm and squeezed it.

“It’ll have to be Arthur again, then,” said the latter, in a resigned voice.

“Me?” cried Mr. Heard, with a start.

“Yes, you!” said the mate, in a decided voice. “After what you said just now I’m not going in without saving somebody. It would be no good. Come on, in you go.”

“He couldn’t speak fairer than that, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, dispassionately, as he came forward again.

“But I tell you he can’t swim,” protested Mr.. Heard, “not properly. He didn’t swim last time; I told you so.”

“Never mind; we know what you said,” retorted the mate. “All you’ve got to do is to jump in and I’ll follow and save you—same as I did the other night.”

“Go on, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, encouragingly. “It ain’t cold.”

“I tell you he can’t swim,” repeated Mr. Heard, passionately. “I should be drownded before your eyes.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr. Smith. “Why, I believe you’re afraid.”

“I should be drownded, I tell you,” said Mr. Heard. “He wouldn’t come in after me.”

“Yes, he would,” said Mr. Smith, passing a muscular arm round the mate’s waist; “‘cos the moment you’re overboard I’ll drop ‘im in. Are you ready?”

He stood embracing the mate and waiting, but Mr. Heard, with an infuriated exclamation, walked away. A parting glance showed him that the old man had released the mate, and that the latter was now embracing Miss Smith.

IN THE FAMILY

THE oldest inhabitant of Claybury sat beneath the sign of the “Cauliflower” and gazed with affectionate, but dim, old eyes in the direction of the village street.

“No; Claybury men ain’t never been much of ones for emigrating,” he said, turning to the youthful traveller who was resting in the shade with a mug of ale and a cigarette. “They know they’d ‘ave to go a long way afore they’d find a place as ‘ud come up to this.”

He finished the tablespoonful of beer in his mug and sat for so long with his head back and the inverted vessel on his face that the traveller, who at first thought it was the beginning of a conjuring trick, colored furiously, and asked permission to refill it.

Now and then a Claybury man has gone to foreign parts, said the old man, drinking from the replenished mug, and placing it where the traveller could mark progress without undue strain; but they’ve, gen’rally speaking, come back and wished as they’d never gone.

The on’y man as I ever heard of that made his fortune by emigrating was Henery Walker’s great-uncle, Josiah Walker by name, and he wasn’t a Claybury man at all. He made his fortune out o’ sheep in Australey, and he was so rich and well-to-do that he could never find time to answer the letters that Henery Walker used to send him when he was hard up.

Henery Walker used to hear of ‘im through a relation of his up in London, and tell us all about ‘im and his money up at this here “Cauliflower” public-house. And he used to sit and drink his beer and wonder who would ‘ave the old man’s money arter he was dead.

When the relation in London died Henery Walker left off hearing about his uncle, and he got so worried over thinking that the old man might die and leave his money to strangers that he got quite thin. He talked of emigrating to Australey ‘imself, and then, acting on the advice of Bill Chambers—who said it was a cheaper thing to do—he wrote to his uncle instead, and, arter reminding ‘im that ‘e was an old man living in a strange country, ‘e asked ‘im to come to Claybury and make his ‘ome with ‘is loving grand-nephew.

It was a good letter, because more than one gave ‘im a hand with it, and there was little bits o’ Scripture in it to make it more solemn-like. It was wrote on pink paper with pie-crust edges and put in a green envelope, and Bill Chambers said a man must ‘ave a ‘art of stone if that didn’t touch it.

Four months arterwards Henery Walker got an answer to ‘is letter from ‘is great-uncle. It was a nice letter, and, arter thanking Henery Walker for all his kindness, ‘is uncle said that he was getting an old man, and p’r’aps he should come and lay ‘is bones in England arter all, and if he did ‘e should certainly come and see his grand-nephew, Henery Walker.

Most of us thought Henery Walker’s fortune was as good as made, but Bob Pretty, a nasty, low poaching chap that has done wot he could to give Claybury a bad name, turned up his nose at it.

“I’ll believe he’s coming ‘ome when I see him,” he ses. “It’s my belief he went to Australey to get out o’ your way, Henery.”

“As it ‘appened he went there afore I was born,” ses Henery Walker, firing up.

“He knew your father,” ses Bob Pretty, “and he didn’t want to take no risks.”

They ‘ad words then, and arter that every time Bob Pretty met ‘im he asked arter his great-uncle’s ‘ealth, and used to pretend to think ‘e was living with ‘im.

“You ought to get the old gentleman out a bit more, Henery,” he would say; “it can’t be good for ‘im to be shut up in the ‘ouse so much—especially your ‘ouse.”

Henery Walker used to get that riled he didn’t know wot to do with ‘imself, and as time went on, and he began to be afraid that ‘is uncle never would come back to England, he used to get quite nasty if anybody on’y so much as used the word “uncle” in ‘is company.

It was over six months since he ‘ad had the letter from ‘is uncle, and ‘e was up here at the “Cauliflower” with some more of us one night, when Dicky Weed, the tailor, turns to Bob Pretty and he ses, “Who’s the old gentleman that’s staying with you, Bob?”

Bob Pretty puts down ‘is beer very careful and turns round on ‘im.

“Old gentleman?” he ses, very slow. “Wot are you talking about?”

“I mean the little old gentleman with white whiskers and a squeaky voice,” ses Dicky Weed.

“You’ve been dreaming,” ses Bob, taking up ‘is beer ag’in.

“I see ‘im too, Bob,” ses Bill Chambers.

“Ho, you did, did you?” ses Bob Pretty, putting down ‘is mug with a bang. “And wot d’ye mean by coming spying round my place, eh? Wot d’ye mean by it?”

“Spying?” ses Bill Chambers, gaping at ‘im with ‘is mouth open; “I wasn’t spying. Anyone ‘ud think you ‘ad done something you was ashamed of.”

“You mind your business and I’ll mind mine,” ses Bob, very fierce.

“I was passing the ‘ouse,” ses Bill Chambers, looking round at us, “and I see an old man’s face at the bedroom winder, and while I was wondering who ‘e was a hand come and drawed ‘im away. I see ‘im as plain as ever I see anything in my life, and the hand, too. Big and dirty it was.”

“And he’s got a cough,” ses Dicky Weed—“a churchyard cough—I ‘eard it.”

“It ain’t much you don’t hear, Dicky,” ses Bob Pretty, turning on ‘im; “the on’y thing you never did ‘ear, and never will ‘ear, is any good of yourself.”

He kicked over a chair wot was in ‘is way and went off in such a temper as we’d never seen ‘im in afore, and, wot was more surprising still, but I know it’s true, ‘cos I drunk it up myself, he’d left over arf a pint o’ beer in ‘is mug.

“He’s up to something,” ses Sam Jones, starting arter him; “mark my words.”

We couldn’t make head nor tail out of it, but for some days arterward you’d ha’ thought that Bob Pretty’s ‘ouse was a peep-show. Everybody stared at the winders as they went by, and the children played in front of the ‘ouse and stared in all day long. Then the old gentleman was seen one day as bold as brass sitting at the winder, and we heard that it was a pore old tramp Bob Pretty ‘ad met on the road and given a home to, and he didn’t like ‘is good-’artedness to be known for fear he should be made fun of.

Nobody believed that, o’ course, and things got more puzzling than ever. Once or twice the old gentleman went out for a walk, but Bob Pretty or ‘is missis was always with ‘im, and if anybody tried to speak to him they always said ‘e was deaf and took ‘im off as fast as they could. Then one night up at the “Cauliflower” here Dicky Weed came rushing in with a bit o’ news that took everybody’s breath away.

“I’ve just come from the post-office,” he ses, “and there’s a letter for Bob Pretty’s old gentleman! Wot d’ye think o’ that?”

“If you could tell us wot’s inside it you might ‘ave something to brag about,” ses Henery Walker.

“I don’t want to see the inside,” ses Dicky Weed; “the name on the outside was good enough for me. I couldn’t hardly believe my own eyes, but there it was: ‘Mr. Josiah Walker,’ as plain as the nose on your face.”

O’ course, we see it all then, and wondered why we hadn’t thought of it afore; and we stood quiet listening to the things that Henery Walker said about a man that would go and steal another man’s great-uncle from ‘im. Three times Smith, the landlord, said, “Hush!” and the fourth time he put Henery Walker outside and told ‘im to stay there till he ‘ad lost his voice.

Henery Walker stayed outside five minutes, and then ‘e come back in ag’in to ask for advice. His idea seemed to be that, as the old gentleman was deaf, Bob Pretty was passing ‘isself off as Henery Walker, and the disgrace was a’most more than ‘e could bear. He began to get excited ag’in, and Smith ‘ad just said “Hush!” once more when we ‘eard somebody whistling outside, and in come Bob Pretty.

He ‘ad hardly got ‘is face in at the door afore Henery Walker started on ‘im, and Bob Pretty stood there, struck all of a heap, and staring at ‘im as though he couldn’t believe his ears.

“‘Ave you gone mad, Henery?” he ses, at last.

“Give me back my great-uncle,” ses Henery Walker, at the top of ‘is voice.

Bob Pretty shook his ‘ead at him. “I haven’t got your great-uncle, Henery,” he ses, very gentle. “I know the name is the same, but wot of it? There’s more than one Josiah Walker in the world. This one is no relation to you at all; he’s a very respectable old gentleman.”

“I’ll go and ask ‘im,” ses Henery Walker, getting up, “and I’ll tell ‘im wot sort o’ man you are, Bob Pretty.”

“He’s gone to bed now, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty.

“I’ll come in the fust thing to-morrow morning, then,” ses Henery Walker.

“Not in my ‘ouse, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty; “not arter the things you’ve been sayin’ about me. I’m a pore man, but I’ve got my pride. Besides, I tell you he ain’t your uncle. He’s a pore old man I’m giving a ‘ome to, and I won’t ‘ave ‘im worried.”

“‘Ow much does ‘e pay you a week, Bob?” ses Bill Chambers.

Bob Pretty pretended not to hear ‘im.

“Where did your wife get the money to buy that bonnet she ‘ad on on Sunday?” ses Bill Chambers. “My wife ses it’s the fust new bonnet she has ‘ad since she was married.”

“And where did the new winder curtains come from?” ses Peter Gubbins.

Bob Pretty drank up ‘is beer and stood looking at them very thoughtful; then he opened the door and went out without saying a word.

“He’s got your great-uncle a prisoner in his ‘ouse, Henery,” ses Bill Chambers; “it’s easy for to see that the pore old gentleman is getting past things, and I shouldn’t wonder if Bob Pretty don’t make ‘im leave all ‘is money to ‘im.”