Chapter One.

Begins the Story with a Peculiar Meeting.

Necessity is the mother of invention. This is undoubtedly true, but it is equally true that invention is not the only member of necessity’s large family. Change of scene and circumstance are also among her children. It was necessity that gave birth to the resolve to travel to the end of the earth—of English earth at all events—in search of fortune, which swelled the bosom of yonder tall, well-favoured youth, who, seated uncomfortably on the top of that clumsy public conveyance, drives up Market-Jew Street in the ancient town of Penzance. Yes, necessity—stern necessity, as she is sometimes called—drove that youth into Cornwall, and thus was the originating cause of that wonderful series of events which ultimately led to his attaining—but hold! Let us begin at the beginning.

It was a beautiful morning in June, in that period of the world’s history which is ambiguously styled “Once-upon-a-time,” when the “Kittereen”—the clumsy vehicle above referred to—rumbled up to the Star Inn and stopped there. The tall, well-favoured youth leapt at once to the ground, and entered the inn with the air of a man who owned at least the half of the county, although his much-worn grey shooting costume and single unpretentious portmanteau did not indicate either unusual wealth or exalted station.

In an off-hand hearty way, he announced to landlord, waiters, chambermaids, and hangers-on, to all, indeed, who might choose to listen, that the weather was glorious, that coaches of all kinds, especially Kittereens, were detestable machines of torture, and that he meant to perform the remainder of his journey on foot.

He inquired the way to the town of St. Just, ordered his luggage to be forwarded by coach or cart, and, with nothing but a stout oaken cudgel to encumber him, set out on his walk of about seven miles, with the determination of compensating himself for previous hours of forced inaction and constraint by ignoring roads and crossing the country like an Irish fox-hunter.

Acting on the presumptuous belief that he could find his way to any part of the world with the smallest amount of direction, he naturally missed the right road at the outset, and instead of taking the road to St. Just, pursued that which leads to the Land’s End.

The youth, as we have observed, was well-favoured. Tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and athletic, with an active step, erect gait, and clear laughing eye, he was one whom a recruiting-sergeant in the Guards would have looked upon with a covetous sigh. Smooth fair cheeks and chin told that boyhood was scarce out of sight behind, and an undeniable some thing on the upper lip declared that manhood was not far in advance.

Like most people in what may be termed an uncertain stage of existence, our hero exhibited a variety of apparent contradictions. His great size and muscular strength and deep bass voice were those of a man, while the smooth skin, the soft curling hair, and the rollicking gladsome look were all indicative of the boy. His countenance, too, might have perplexed a fortune-teller. Sometimes it was grave almost to sternness, at other times it sparkled with delight, exhibiting now an expression that would have befitted a sage on whose decisions hung the fate of kingdoms, and anon displaying a dash of mischief worthy of the wildest boy in a village school.

Some of the youth’s varied, not to say extravagant, actions and expressions, were perhaps due to the exhilarating brilliancy of the morning, or to the appearance of those splendid castles which his mind was actively engaged in building in the air.

The country through which he travelled was at first varied with trees and bushes clothed in rich foliage; but soon its aspect changed, and ere long he pursued a path which led over a wide extent of wild moorland covered with purple heath and gorse in golden-yellow bloom. The ground, too, became so rough that the youth was fain to confine himself to the highroad; but being of an explorative disposition, he quickly diverged into the lanes, which in that part of Cornwall were, and still are, sufficiently serpentine and intricate to mislead a more experienced traveller. It soon began to dawn upon the youth’s mind that he was wandering in a wrong direction, and when he suddenly discovered a solitary cottage on the right hand, which he had previously observed on the left, he made up his mind to sacrifice his independence and condescend to ask for guidance.

Lightly leaping a wall with this intent, he crossed two fields, and stooped as he looked in at the low doorway of the cottage, from the interior of which there issued the loud cries of a child either in great pain or passion.

A sturdy little boy seated on a stool, and roaring like a young bull, while an elderly woman tried to comfort him, was the sight which met his gaze.

“Can you show me the road to St. Just?” inquired our adventurer.

“St. Just, sur?” said the woman, stepping out in front of the door, “why, you’re on the way to St. Buryan, sure. Ef you do keep on the right of the hill over theere, you’ll see the St. Just road.”

A yell of unparalleled ferocity issued at this moment from the cottage, and it was found that the noisy urchin within, overcome by curiosity, had risen to ascertain who the stranger outside could be, and had been arrested by a pang of agony.

“Aw dear, aw dear, my poor booy,” exclaimed the woman, endeavouring gently to press the boy down again on the stool, amid furious roaring.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked our traveller, entering the apartment.

“He’s tumbled off the wall, dear booy, an’ semen to me he’s scat un shoulder very bad.”

“Let me have a look at him,” said the youth, sitting down on the edge of a bed which stood at one end of the room, and drawing the child between his knees. “Come, little man, don’t shout so loud; I’ll put it all right for you. Let me feel your shoulder.”

To judge from the immediate result, the young man seemed to put it all wrong instead of “all right,” for his somewhat rough manipulation of the boy’s shoulder produced such a torrent of screams that the pitying woman had much ado to restrain herself from rushing to the rescue.

“Ah!” exclaimed the youth in grey, releasing his victim; “I thought so; he has broken his collar-bone, my good woman; not a serious matter, by any means, but it will worry him for some time to come. Have you got anything to make a bandage of?”

“Sur?” said the woman.

“Have you a bit of rag—an old shirt or apron?—anything will do.”

The woman promptly produced a cotton shirt, which the youth tore up into long strips. Making a pad of one of these, he placed it under the boy’s arm-pit despite of sobs and resistance. This pad acted as a fulcrum on which the arm rested as a lever. Pressing the elbow close to the boy’s side he thus forced the shoulder outwards, and, with his left hand, set the bone with its two broken ends together. To secure it in this position he bound the arm pretty firmly to the boy’s body, so that he could not move a muscle of the left arm or shoulder.

“There,” said the youth, assisting his patient to put on his shirt, “that will keep all straight. You must not on any account remove the bandage for some weeks.”

“How long, sur?” exclaimed the woman in surprise.

“For some weeks; but that will depend on how the little fellow gets on. He may go about and use his right arm as he pleases, but no more climbing on walls for some time to come. Do you hear, little man?”

The urchin, whose pain was somewhat relieved, and who had moderated down to an occasional deep sob, said “Iss.”

“You’re a doctor, sur, I think?” said the woman.

“Yes, I am; and I’ll come to see you again, so be careful to attend to my directions. Good-morning.”

“Good mornin’, sur, an’ thank ’ee!” exclaimed the grateful dame as the youth left the house, and, leaping the low enclosure in front of it, sped over the moor in the direction which had been pointed out to him.

His resolution to ignore roads cost our traveller more trouble than he had anticipated, for the moor was very rugged, the brambles vexatious, and the spines of the gorse uncommonly sharp. Impediments of every kind were more numerous than he had been accustomed to meet with even on the heath-clad hills of Scotland, with which—although “the land of the mountain and the flood” was not that of his birth—he had from childhood been familiar.

After a good deal of vigorous leaping and resolute scrambling, he reached one of those peculiar Cornish lanes which are so deeply sunk in the ground, and edged with such high solid walls, that the wayfarer cannot in many places see the nature of the country through which he is passing. The point at which he reached the lane was so overgrown with gorse and brambles that it was necessary to search for a passage through them. This not being readily found, he gave way to the impetuosity of his disposition, stepped back a few paces, cleared the obstacles with a light bound, and alighted on the edge of the bank, which gave way under his weight, and he descended into the lane in a shower of stones and dust, landing on his feet more by chance than by dexterity.

A shout of indignation greeted the traveller, and, turning abruptly round, he beheld a stout old gentleman stamping with rage, covered from head to foot with dust, and sputtering out epithets of opprobrium on the hapless wight who had thus unintentionally bespattered him.

“Ugh! hah! you young jackanapes—you blind dumbledory—ugh! What mean you by galloping over the country thus like a wild ass—eh?”

A fit of coughing here interrupted the choleric old gentleman, in the midst of which our hero, with much humility of demeanour, many apologies, and protestations of innocence of intention to injure, picked up the old gentleman’s hat, assisted him to brush his clothes with a bunch of ferns, and in various other ways sought to pacify him.

The old man grumbled a good deal at first, but was finally so far mollified as to say less testily, while he put on his hat, “I warrant me, young man, you are come on some wild-goose chase to this out-o’-the-way region of the land in search of the picturesque—eh?—a dauber on canvas?”

“No, sir,” replied the youth, “I profess not to wield the pencil or brush, although I admit to having made feeble efforts as an amateur. The scalpel is more to my taste, and my object in coming here is to visit a relative. I am on my way to St. Just; but, having wandered somewhat out of my road, have been obliged to strike into bypaths, as you see.”

“As I see, young man!—yes, and as I feel,” replied the old gentleman, with some remains of asperity.

“I have already expressed regret for the mischance that has befallen you,” said the youth in grey somewhat sternly, for his impulsive spirit fired a little at the continued ill-humour of the old gentleman. “Perhaps you will return good for evil by pointing out the way to St. Just. May I venture to ask this favour of you?”

“You may venture, and you have ventured; and it is my belief, young man, that you’ll venture many a thing before this world has done with you; however, as you are a stranger in these parts, and have expressed due penitence for your misdeed, though I more than half doubt your sincerity, I can do no less than point out the road to St. Just, whither I will accompany you at least part of the way; and, young sir, as you have taken pretty free liberty with me this morning, may I take the liberty of asking you the name of your relative in St. Just? I am well acquainted with most of the inhabitants of that town.”

“Certainly,” replied the youth. “The gentleman whom I am going to visit is my uncle. His name is Donnithorne.”

“What! Tom Donnithorne?” exclaimed the old gentleman, in a tone of surprise, as he darted a keen glance from under his bushy eyebrows at his companion. “Hah! then from that fact I gather that you are Oliver Trembath, the young doctor whom he has been expecting the last day or two. H’m—so old Tom Donnithorne is your uncle, is he?”

The youth in grey did not relish the free and easy, not to say patronising, tone of his companion, and felt inclined to give a sharp answer, but he restrained his feelings and replied,—“He is, and you are correct in your supposition regarding myself. Do you happen to know my uncle personally?”

“Know him personally!” cried the old gentleman with a sardonic laugh; “Oh yes, I know him intimately—intimately; some people say he’s a very good fellow.”

“I am glad to hear that, for to say truth—”

He paused abruptly.

“Ha! I suppose you were going to say that you have heard a different account of him—eh?”

“Well, I was going to observe,” replied Oliver, with a laugh, “that my uncle is rather a wild man for his years—addicted to smuggling, I am told, and somewhat given to the bottle; but it is well known that tattlers give false reports, and I am delighted to hear that the old boy is not such a bad fellow after all.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the other. “Then you have never seen him, I suppose?”

“No, never; although I am a Cornishman I have seen little of my native county, having left it when a little boy—before my uncle came to live in this part of the country.”

“H’m—well, young man, I would advise you to beware of that same uncle of yours.”

“How!” exclaimed the youth in surprise; “did you not tell me just now that he is a very good fellow?”

“No, sir, I did not. I told you that some people say he is a very good fellow, but for myself I think him an uncommonly bad man, a man who has done me great injury in his day—”

“It grieves me to hear you say so,” interrupted Oliver, whose ire was again roused by the tone and manner of his companion.

“A decidedly bad man,” continued the old gentleman, not noticing the interruption, “a thorough rascal, a smuggler, and a drunkard, and—”

“Hold, sir!” cried the youth sternly, as he stopped and faced the old gentleman, “remember that you speak of my relative. Had you been a younger man, sir—”

Again the youth paused abruptly.

“Go on, sir,” said the old gentleman ironically, “you would have pommelled me to a jelly with your cudgel, I suppose; is that it?—acting somewhat in the spirit of your kinsman, that same smuggling and tippling old scoundrel, who—”

“Enough, sir,” interrupted the young man angrily; “we part company here.”

So saying, he vaulted over the wall that separated the road from the moor, and hurried away.

“Take the first turn to the left, and keep straight on, else you’ll lose yourself aga-a-a-in,” roared the old gentleman, “and my compliments to the rascally old smugg–le–e–r–r!”

“The old scoundrel!” muttered the youth as he hurried away.

“The young puppy!” growled the old gentleman as he jogged along. “Given to smuggling and the bottle indeed—humph! the excitable jackanapes! But I’ve given him a turn in the wrong direction that will cool his blood somewhat, and give me leisure to cool mine too, before we meet again.”

Here the old gentleman’s red countenance relaxed into a broad grin, and he chuckled a good deal, in the midst of a running commentary on the conduct and appearance of his late companion, from the disjointed sentences of which it might have been gathered that although his introduction to the young doctor had been unfortunate, and the succeeding intercourse stormy, his opinion of him was not altogether unfavourable.

Chapter Two.

Shows what Astonishing Results may follow from taking the Wrong Road.

Before Oliver Trembath had advanced half a mile on his path, he had cooled sufficiently to experience some regret at having been so quick to take offence at one who, being evidently an eccentric character, should not, he thought, have been broken with so summarily. Regrets, however, had come too late, so he endeavoured to shake off the disagreeable feelings that depressed him, and, the more effectually to accomplish this, burst forth into a bravura song with so much emphasis as utterly to drown, and no doubt to confound, two larks, which, up to that time, had been pouring their melodious souls out of their little bodies in the bright blue sky above.

Presently he came to a part of the moor where two roads diverged—one to the right and the other to the left. Recalling the shout of advice which the old gentleman had given him in parting, he took that which led to the left, and was gratified, on gaining an eminence a short distance in advance, to see in the far distance a square turret, which he concluded was that of the church of St. Just.

Keeping this turret in view, the youth stepped out so vigorously that he soon reached the small town that clustered round the church, and going up to the first man he met, said, “This is the town of St. Just, I suppose, is it not?”

“No, et is’n; thee’s come the wrang road, sur,” replied the rustic. “This es Sennen church-town. St. Just es up over th’ hill theere.”

Oliver Trembath’s first feeling was one of surprise; this was followed by annoyance, which quickly degenerated into anger as it flashed into his mind that the old gentleman might possibly have led him wrong on purpose.

“How far is it to St. Just?” he inquired.

“’Bout six miles, sur.”

“Then I suppose I am not far from the Land’s End?” said Oliver after a pause.

“No, not fur,” replied the man. “Et do lie straight before ’ee.”

Thanking the man, Oliver started off at a smart pace, resolving, before proceeding to St. Just, to visit this extreme western point of England—a visit to which he had often looked forward with pleasant anticipation.

During the last hour of his walk the sun had been obscured by clouds, but, just as he approached the cliffs, the clouds separated, and a golden flood rushed over the broad Atlantic, which now lay spread out before him in all its wide majesty as far as the eye could see.

“A good omen!” cried the youth with a shout, as he hurried towards the shore, intending to fling off his garments and bathe in the mighty ocean, which, from the place where he first beheld it, appeared to be smooth and still as a mill-pond. But Oliver was compelled to restrain his ardour, for on nearing the sea he found that he stood on the summit of high cliffs, beyond which the Land’s End stretched in a succession of broken masses of granite, so chafed and shattered by the action of the sea, and so curiously split, as to resemble basaltic columns. To reach the outermost of those weather-worn sentinels of Old England, required some caution on the part of our traveller, even although well used to scaling the rocky heights of Scottish mountains, and when he did at last plant his foot on the veritable Land’s End, he found that it was a precipice apparently sixty feet high, which descended perpendicularly into deep water. His meditated bathe was therefore an impossibility, for those glassy undulations, which appeared so harmless at a distance, gathered slow and gradual height as they approached the land, and at last, assuming the form of majestic waves, flung themselves with a grand roar on the stern cliffs which they have battered so long in vain, and round which—always repulsed but never conquered—they seethed in milky foam.

With glistening eye, and heaving breast, and mantling colour, the young doctor stood long and motionless on this extreme point of land—absorbed in admiration of the glorious scene before him. Often had he beheld the sea in the firths and estuaries of the North, but never till now had he conceived the grandeur of the great Atlantic. It seemed to him as if the waves of those inland seas, when tossed by wild storms, were but rough miniature copies of the huge billows which arose before him, without apparent cause, and, advancing without rush or agitation, fell successively with solemn roar at his feet, awakening irresistibly within him deep and new thoughts of the Almighty Creator of earth and sea.

For many minutes he stood entranced, his mind wandering in a species of calm delight over the grand scene, but incapable of fixing itself definitely on any special feature—now sweeping out to where the Scilly Isles could be seen resting on the liquid horizon, anon following the flight of circling seagulls, or busy counting the innumerable ships and boats that rested on the sea, but ever and anon recurring, as if under the influence of fascination, to that rich turmoil of foam which boiled, leaped, and churned, around, beneath, and above the mighty breakers.

Awaking at last from his trance, Oliver tore himself from the spot, and hastened away to seek the nearest strip of sand where he might throw off his clothes and plunge into the boiling surf.

He proceeded in a southerly direction, impatiently expecting at every step to discover some spot suitable for his purpose, but he had taken a long and rapid walk before he found a break in those wild cliffs which afforded him the opportunity of descending to the water’s edge. Here, on a narrow strip of sand, he undressed and leaped into the waves.

Well was it for Oliver that day that he had been trained in all manly exercises, that his “wind” was good, that his muscles were hard, his nerves well strung, and, above all, that in earliest youth he had learned to swim.

Misjudging, in his ignorance, the tremendous power of the surf into which he sprang, and daring to recklessness in the conscious possession of unusual strength and courage, he did not pause to look or consider, but at once struck out to sea. He was soon beyond the influence of the breaking waves, and for some time sported in the full enjoyment of the briny Atlantic waters. Then turning towards the shore he swam in and was speedily tossing among the breakers. As he neared the sandy beach and felt the full power of the water on his partially exhausted frame, he experienced a slight feeling of anxiety, for the thunder of each wave as it fell and rushed up before him in seething foam, seemed to indicate a degree of force which he had not realised in his first vigorous plunge into the sea. A moment more and a wave caught him in its curling crest, and swept him onwards. For the first time in his life, Oliver Trembath’s massive strength was of no avail to him. He felt like a helpless infant. In another instant the breaker fell and swept him with irresistible violence up the beach amid a turmoil of hissing foam. No sooner did he touch the ground than he sprang to his feet, and staggered forward a few paces but the returning rush of water swept sand and stones from beneath his feet, carried his legs from under him, and hurled him back into the hollow of the succeeding wave, which again rolled him on the sand.

Although somewhat stunned, Oliver did not lose consciousness or self-possession. He now fully realised the extreme danger of his position, and the thought flashed through his brain that, at the farthest, his fate must be decided in two or three minutes. Acting on a brave spirit, this thought nerved him to desperate effort. The instant he could plant his feet firmly he bounded forwards, and then, before the backward rush of water had gathered strength, fell on his knees, and dug his fingers and toes deep into the sand. Had the grasp been on something firm he could easily have held on, but the treacherous sand crumbled out of his grasp, and a second time he was carried back into the sea.

The next time he was cast on the beach he felt that his strength was failing; he staggered forward as soon as he touched bottom, with all the energy of one who avails himself of his last chance, but the angry water was too strong for him. Feeling that he was being overpowered, he cast his arms up in the air, and gave utterance to a loud cry. It was not like a cry of despair, but sounded more like what one might suppose would be the shout of a brave soldier when compelled to give way—fighting—before the might of overwhelming force. At that moment a hand caught the young man’s wrist, and held it for a few seconds in a powerful grasp. The wave retreated, a staggering effort followed, and the next moment Oliver stood panting on the beach grasping the rough hand of his deliverer.

“Semen to me you was pretty nigh gone, sur,” said the man, who had come thus opportunely to the rescue, as he wrung the sea-water from his garments.

He was a man of middle height, but of extremely powerful frame, and was habited in the garb of a fisherman.

“Truly I had been gone altogether but for your timely assistance; may God reward you for it!” said Oliver earnestly.

“Well, I don’t think you would be so ready to thank me if you did knaw I had half made up my mind to lev ’ee go.”

Oliver looked at the man in some surprise, for he spoke gruffly, almost angrily, and was evidently in earnest.

“You are jesting,” said he incredulously.

“Jestin’; no I ain’t, maister. Do ’ee see the boat out over?” he said, pointing to a small craft full of men which was being rowed swiftly round a point not more than half a mile distant; “the villains are after me. They might as well have tried to kitch a cunger by the tail as nab Jim Cuttance in one of his dens, if he hadn’t bin forced by the softness of his ’art to pull a young fool out o’ the say. You’ll have to help me to fight, lad, as I’ve saved your life. Come, follow me to the cave.”

“But—my clothes—” said Oliver, glancing round him in search of his garments.

“They’re all safe up here; come along, sur, an’ look sharp.”

At any other time, and in other circumstances, Oliver Trembath’s fiery spirit would have resented the tone and manner of this man’s address, but the feeling that he owed his life to him, and that in some way he appeared to be the innocent cause of bringing misfortune on him, induced him to restrain his feelings and obey without question the mandate of his rescuer. Jim Cuttance led the way to a cave in the rugged cliffs, the low entrance to which was concealed by a huge mass of granite. The moment they entered several voices burst forth in abuse of the fisherman for his folly in exposing himself; but the latter only replied with a sarcastic laugh, and advised his comrades to get ready for action, for he had been seen by the enemy, who would be down on them directly. At the same time he pointed to Oliver’s clothes, which lay in a recess in the side of the cavern.

The youth dressed himself rapidly, and, while thus engaged, observed that there were five men in the cavern, besides his guide, with whom they retired into the farthest recess of the place, and entered into animated and apparently angry, though low-toned, conversation. At length their leader, for such he evidently was, swung away from them, exclaiming, with a laugh, “Well, well, he’s a good recruit, and if he should peach on we—us can—”

He concluded the sentence with a significant grunt.

“Now, sur,” he said, advancing with his comrade towards Oliver, who was completing his toilet, “they’ll be here in ten minutes, an’ it is expected that you will lend we a hand. Here’s a weapon for you.”

So saying, he handed a large pistol to Oliver, who received it with some hesitation.

“I trust that your cause is a good one,” he said. “You cannot expect me to fight for you, even though I am indebted to you for my life, without knowing against whom I fight, and why.”

At this a tall thick-set man suddenly cocked his pistol, and uttering a fierce oath swore that if the stranger would not fight, he’d shoot him through the head.

“Silence, Joe Tonkin!” cried Jim Cuttance, in a tone that at once subdued the man.

Oliver, whose eyes had flashed like those of a tiger, drew himself up, and said— “Look at me, lads; I have no desire to boast of what I can or will do, but I assure you it would be as easy to turn back the rising tide as to force me to fight against my will—except, indeed, with yourselves. As I have said, I owe my life to your leader, and apparently have been the innocent means of drawing his enemies upon him. Gratitude tells me to help him if I can, and help him will if the cause be not a bad one.”

“Well spoken, sur,” said the leader, with an approving nod; “see to the weapons, Maggot, and I’ll explain it all to the gentleman.”

So saying, he too Oliver aside, told him hurriedly that the men who ere expected to attack them were fishermen belonging to a neighbouring cove, whose mackerel nets had been accidentally cut by his boat some weeks ago, and who were bent on revenge, not believing that the thing had been done by accident.

“But surely you don’t mean to use fire-arms against them in such a quarrel?” said Oliver.

A sort of humorous smile crossed the swarthy countenance of the man as he replied—

“They will use pistols against we.”

“Be that as it may,” said Oliver; “I will never consent to risk taking the life of a countryman in such a cause.”

“But you can’t fight without a weapon,” said the man; “and sure, if ’ee don’t shut them they’ll shut you.”

“No matter, I’ll take my chance,” said Oliver; “my good cudgel would have served me well enough, but it seems to have been swept away by the sea. Here, however, is a weapon that will suit me admirably,” he added, picking up a heavy piece of driftwood that lay at his feet.

“Well, if you scat their heads with that, they won’t want powder and lead,” observed the other with a grin, as he rose and returned to the entrance of the cave, where he warned his comrades to keep as quiet as mice.

The boat which had caused so much angry discussion among the men of the cave had by this time neared the beach, and one of the crew stood up in the bow to guide her into the narrow cove, which formed but a slight protection, even in calm weather, against the violence of that surf which never ceases to grind at the hard rocks of West Cornwall. At length they effected a landing, and the crew, consisting of nine men armed with pistols and cutlasses, hurried up to the cliffs and searched for the entrance to the cavern.

While the events which have been related were taking place, the shades of evening had been gradually creeping over land and sea, and the light was at that time scarcely sufficient to permit of things being distinguished clearly beyond a few yards. The men in the cavern hid themselves in the dark recesses on each side of the entrance, ready for the approaching struggle.

Oliver crouched beside his rescuer with the piece of driftwood by his side. Turning suddenly to his companion, he said, in an almost inaudible whisper—

“Friend, it did not occur to me before, but the men we are about to fight with will recognise me again if we should ever chance to meet; could I not manage to disguise myself in some way?”

“If you get shut,” replied his companion in the same low tone, “it won’t matter much; but see here—shut your eyes.”

Without further remark the man took a handful of wet earth and smeared it over Oliver’s face, then, clapping his own “sou’-wester” on his head, he said, with a soft chuckle, “There, your own mother wouldn’t knaw ’ee!”

Just then footsteps were heard approaching, and the shadow of a man was seen to rest for a moment on the gravel without. The mouth of the cave was so well hidden, however, that he failed to observe it, and passed on, followed by several of his comrades. Suddenly one of them stopped and said—

“Hold on, lads, it can’t be far off, I’m sartin’ sure; I seed ’em disappear hereabouts.”

“You’re right,” cried Jim Cuttance, with a fierce roar, as he rushed from the cavern and fired full at the man who had spoken. The others followed, and a volley of shots succeeded, while shouts of defiance and anger burst forth on all sides. Oliver sprang out at the same moment with the leader, and rushed on one of the boat’s crew with such violence that his foot slipped on a piece of seaweed and precipitated him to the ground at the man’s feet; the other, having sprung forward to meet him was unable to check himself, tripped over his shoulders, and fell on the top of him. The man named Maggot, having been in full career close behind Oliver, tumbled over both, followed by another man named John Cock. The others, observing them down, rushed with a shout to the rescue, just as Oliver, making a superhuman effort, flung the two men off his back and leaped to his feet. Maggot and the boatman also sprang up, and the latter turned and made for the boat at full speed, seeing that his comrades, overcome by the suddenness of the onset, were in retreat, fighting as they went.

All of them succeeded in getting into the boat unharmed, and were in the act of pushing off, when Jim Cuttance, burning with indignation, leaped into the water, grasped the bow of the boat, and was about to plunge his cutlass into the back of the man nearest him, when he was seized by a strong hand from behind and held back. Next moment the boat was beyond his reach.

Turning round fiercely, the man saw that it was Oliver Trembath who had interfered. He uttered a terrible oath, and sprang on him like a tiger; Oliver stood firm, parried with the piece of driftwood the savage cut which was made at his head, and with his clenched left hand hit his opponent such a blow on the chest as laid him flat on the sand. The man sprang up in an instant, but instead of renewing the attack, to Oliver’s surprise he came forward and held out his hand, which the youth was not unwilling to grasp.

“Thank ’ee, sur,” he said, somewhat sternly, “you’ve done me a sarvice; you’ve prevented me committin’ two murders, an’ taught me a lesson I never knaw’d afore—that Jim Cuttance an’t invulnerable. I don’t mind the blow, sur—not I. It wor gov’n in feer fight, an’ I was wrang.”

“I’m glad to find that you view the matter in that light,” said Oliver with a smile, “and, truly, the blow was given in self-defence by one who will never forget that he owes you his life.”

A groan here turned the attention of the party to one of their number who had seated himself on a rock during the foregoing dialogue.

“What! not hurt, are ’ee, Dan?” said his leader, going towards him.

To this Dan replied with another groan, and placed his hand on his hip.

His comrades crowded round him, and, finding that he was wounded and suffering great pain, raised him in their arms and bore him into the cavern, where they laid him on the ground, and, lighting a candle, proceeded to examine him.

“You had better let me look at him, lads,” said Oliver, pushing the men gently aside, “I am a surgeon.”

They gave place at once, and Oliver soon found that the man had received a pistol-ball in his thigh. Fortunately it had been turned aside in its course, and lay only a little way beneath the skin, so that it was easily extracted by means of a penknife.

“Now, friends,” said Oliver, after completing the dressing of the wound, “before I met with you I had missed my way while travelling to St. Just. Will one of you direct me to the right road, and I shall bid you good-night, as I think you have no further need of my services.”

The men looked at their leader, whom they evidently expected to be their spokesman.

“Well, sur, you have rendered we some help this hevenin’, both in the way o’ pickin’ out the ball an’ helpin’ to break skulls as well as preventin’ worse, so we can do no less than show ’ee the road; but hark ’ee, sur,” here the man became very impressive, “ef you do chance to come across any of us in your travels, you had better not knaw us, ’xcept in an or’nary way, d’ye understand? an’ us will do the same by thee.”

“Of course I will act as you wish,” said Oliver with a smile, “although I do not see why we should be ashamed of this affair, seeing that we were the party attacked. There is only one person to whom I would wish to explain the reason of my not appearing sooner, because he will probably know of the arrival in Penzance this morning of the conveyance that brought me to Cornwall.”

“And who may that be?” demanded Jim Cuttance.

“My uncle, Thomas Donnithorne of St. Just,” said Oliver.

“Whew!” whistled the fisherman in surprise, while all the others burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“Why do you laugh?” asked Oliver.

“Oh, never mind, sur, it’s all right,” said the man with a chuckle. “Iss, you may tell Thomas Donnithorne; there won’t be no harm in tellin’ he—oh, dear no!”

Again the men laughed loud and long, and Oliver felt his powers of forbearance giving way, when Cuttance said to him: “An’ you may tell all his friends too, for they’re the right sort. Come now, Maggot here will show ’ee the way up to St. Just.”

So saying, the stout fisherman conducted the young surgeon to the mouth of the cavern, and shaking hands with him left him to the guidance of the man named Maggot, who led him through several lanes, until he reached the highroad between Sennen church-town and St. Just. Here he paused; told his companion to proceed straight on for about four miles or so, when he would reach the town, and bade him good-night.

“And mind ’ee, don’t go off the road, sur,” shouted Maggot, a few seconds after the young man had left him, “if ’ee don’t want to fall down a shaft and scat your skull.”

Oliver, not having any desire to scat his skull, whatever that might be, assured the man that he would keep to the road carefully.

The moon shone clear in a cloudless sky, covering the wide moor and the broad Atlantic with a flood of silver light, and rendering the road quite distinct, so that our traveller experienced no further difficulty in pursuing his way. He hurried forward at a rapid pace, yet could not resist the temptation to pause frequently and gaze in admiration on the scene of desolate grandeur around him. On such occasions he found it difficult to believe that the stirring events of the last few hours were real. Indeed, if it had not been that there were certain uneasy portions of his frame—the result of his recent encounter on the beach—which afforded constant and convincing evidence that he was awake, he would have been tempted to believe that the adventures of that day were nothing more than a vivid dream.

Chapter Three.

Introduces a few more Characters and Homely Incidents.

It was late when our hero entered the little town of St. Just, and inquired for the residence of his uncle, Thomas Donnithorne. He was directed to one of the most respectable of the group of old houses that stood close to the venerable parish church from which St. Just derives its title of “Church-town.”

He tapped at the door, which was opened by an elderly female.

“Does Mr Thomas Donnithorne live here?” asked Oliver.

“Iss, sur, he do,” answered the woman; “walk in, sur.”

She ushered him into a small parlour, in which was seated a pretty, little, dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked girl, still in, or only just out of, her teens. Oliver was so taken aback by the unexpected sight that he stood gazing for a moment or two in rather stupid silence.

“Your name is Oliver Trembath, I presume,” said the girl, rising and laying down the piece of needlework with which she was occupied.

“It is,” replied Oliver, in some surprise, as he blundered out an apology for his rudeness.

“Pray sit down, sir,” said the girl; “we have been expecting you for some time, and my uncle told me to act the part of hostess till his return.”

“Your uncle!” exclaimed Oliver, whose self-possession, not to say impudence, returned immediately; “if Thomas Donnithorne be indeed your uncle, then, fair maid, you and I must needs be cousins, the which, I confess, fills me with satisfaction and also with somewhat of surprise, for up to this hour I have been ignorant of my good fortune in being related to so—so—”

“I made a mistake, sir,” said the girl, interrupting a speech which was evidently verging towards impropriety, “in calling Mr Donnithorne uncle to you, who are not aware, it seems, that I am only an adopted niece.”

“Not aware of it! Of course not,” said Oliver, throwing himself into a large armchair, while his fair companion busied herself in spreading the board for a substantial meal. “I could not be aware of much that has occurred in this distant part of the kingdom, seeing that my worthy uncle has vouchsafed to write me only two letters in the course of my life; once, many years ago, to condole with me—in about ten lines, address and signature included—on the death of my dear mother; and once again to tell me he had procured an appointment for me as assistant-surgeon in the mining district of St. Just. He must have been equally uncommunicative to my mother, for she never mentioned your existence. However, since I have now made the agreeable discovery, I trust that you will dispense with ceremony, and allow me at once to call you cousin. By the way, you have not yet told me your name.”

The maiden, who was charmingly unsophisticated, replied that her name was Rose Ellis, and that she had no objection whatever to being called cousin without delay.

“Well, cousin Rose,” said Oliver, “if it be not prying into secrets, I should like to know how long it is since my uncle adopted you.”

“About nineteen years ago,” replied Rose.

“Oh!” said Oliver remonstratively, “before you were born? impossible!”

Rose laughed—a short, clear, little laugh which she nipped in the bud abruptly, and replied—

“Well, it was only a short time after I was born. I was wrecked on this coast”—the expressive face here became very grave—“and all on board our ship perished except myself.”

Oliver saw at once that he had touched on a tender subject, and hastened to change it by asking a number of questions about his uncle, from which he gradually diverged to the recent events in his own history, which he began to relate with much animation. His companion was greatly interested and amused. She laughed often and heartily in a melodious undertone, and Oliver liked her laugh, for it was peculiar, and had the effect of displaying a double row of pretty little teeth, and of almost entirely shutting up her eyes. She seemed to enjoy a laugh so much that he exerted all his powers to tickle her risible faculties, and dwelt long and graphically on his meeting with the irascible old gentleman in the lane. He was still busy with this part of the discourse when a heavy step was heard outside.

“There’s my uncle,” exclaimed Rose, springing up.

A moment after the door opened, and in walked the identical irascible old gentleman himself!

If a petrified impersonation of astonishment had been a possibility, Oliver Trembath would, on that occasion, have presented the phenomenon. He sat, or rather lay, extended for at least half a minute with his eyes wide and his mouth partly open, bereft alike of the powers of speech and motion.

“Heyday, young man!” exclaimed the old gentleman, planting his sturdy frame in the middle of the floor as if he meant then and there to demand and exact an ample apology, or to inflict condign and terrible chastisement, for past misdeeds; “you appear to be making yourself quite at home—eh?”

“My dear sir!” exclaimed Oliver, leaping up with a look of dismay; “how can I express my—my—but is it, can it be possible that you are Mr Donnithorne—m–my—uncle?”

Oliver’s expression, and the look of amazement on the countenance of Rose Ellis, who could not account for such a strange reception of her newly-found cousin, proved almost too much for the old gentleman, whose eyes had already begun to twinkle.

“Ay, young man, I am Tom Donnithorne, your uncle, the vile, old, smuggling, brandy-loving rascal, who met his respectful nephew on the road to St. Just”—at this point Rose suddenly pressed her hand over her mouth, darted to her own apartment in a distant corner of the house, and there, seated on her little bed, went into what is not inaptly styled fits of laughter—“and who now,” continued the old gentleman, relaxing into a genial smile, and grasping his nephew’s hand, “welcomes Oliver Trembath to his house, with all his heart and soul; there, who will say after that, that old Donnithorne does not know how to return good for evil?”

“But, my dear uncle,” began Oliver, “allow me to explain—”

“Now, now, look at that—kept me hours too late for supper already, and he’s going to take up more time with explanations,” cried the old gentleman, flinging himself on the chair from which Oliver had risen, and wiping his bald pate with a red silk handkerchief. What can you explain, boy, except that you met an angry old fellow in a lane who called your uncle such hard names that you couldn’t help giving him a bit of your mind—there, there, sit down, sit down.—Hallo!” he shouted, starting up impulsively and thrusting his head into the passage, “Rose, Rose, I say, where are you?—hallo!”

“Coming, uncle—I’m here.”

The words came back like an echo, and in another minute Rose appeared with a much-flushed countenance.

“Come along, lass, let’s have supper without delay. Where is aunty? Rout her out, and tell that jade of a cook that if she don’t dish up in five minutes I’ll—I’ll—. Well, Oliver, talking of explanations, how comes it that you are so late?”

“Because I took the wrong road after leaving you in the lane,” replied the youth, with a significant glance at his uncle, whose eyes were at the moment fixed gravely on the ground.

“The wrong road—eh?” said Mr Donnithorne, looking up with a sly glance, and then laughing. “Well, well, it was only quid pro quo, boy; you put a good deal of unnecessary earth and stones over my head, so I thought it was but fair that I should put a good deal more of the same under your feet, besides giving you the advantage of seeing the Land’s End, which, of course, every youth of intelligence must take a deep interest in beholding. But, sure, a walk thither, and thence to St. Just, could not have detained you so long?”

“Truly no,” replied Oliver; “I had a rencontre—a sort of adventure with fishermen, which—”

“Fishermen!” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne in surprise; “are ye sure they were not smugglers—eh?”

“They said they were fishermen, and they looked like such,” replied Oliver; “but my adventure with them, whatever they were, was the cause of my detention, and I can only express my grief that the circumstance has incommoded your household, but, you see, it took some time to beat off the boat’s crew, and then I had to examine a wound and extract—”

“What say you, boy!” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, frowning, “beat off a boat’s crew—examine a wound! Why, Rose, Molly, come hither. Here we have a young gallant who hath begun life in the far west in good style; but hold, here comes my excellent friend Captain Dan, who is no friend to the smugglers; he is to sup with us to-night; so we will repress our curiosity till after supper. Let me introduce you, Oliver to my wife, your Aunt Molly, or, if you choose to be respectful, Aunt Mary.”

As he spoke, a fat, fair, motherly-looking lady of about five-and-forty entered the room, greeting her husband with a rebuke, and her nephew with a smile.

“Never mind him, Oliver,” said the good lady; “he is a vile old creature. I have heard all about your meeting with him this forenoon, and only wish I had been there to see it.”

“Listen to that now, Captain Dan,” cried Mr Donnithorne, as the individual addressed entered the room; “my wife calls me—me, a staid, sober man of fifty-five—calls me a vile old creature. Is it not too bad? really one gets no credit nowadays for devoting oneself entirely to one’s better half; but I forget: allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Oliver Trembath, just come from one of the Northern Universities to fight the smugglers of St. Just—of which more anon. Oliver, Captain Hoskin of Botallack, better known as Captain Dan. Now, sit down and let’s have a bit of supper.”

With hospitable urgency Mr Donnithorne and his good dame pressed their guests to do justice to the fare set before them, and, during the course of the meal, the former kept up a running fire of question, comment, and reply on every conceivable subject, so that his auditors required to do little more than eat and listen. After supper, however, and when tumblers and glasses were being put down, he gave the others an opportunity of leading the conversation.

“Now, Oliver,” he said, “fill your glass and let us hear your adventures. What will you have—brandy, gin, or rum? My friend, Captain Dan here, is one of those remarkable men who don’t drink anything stronger than ginger-beer. Of course you won’t join him.”

“Thank you,” said Oliver. “If you will allow me, I will join your good lady in a glass of wine. Permit me, Aunt Mary, to fill—”

“No, I thank you, Oliver,” said Mrs Donnithorne good-humouredly but firmly, “I side with Captain Dan; but I’ll be glad to see you fill your own.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, “Molly’s sure to side with the opponent of her lawful lord, no matter who or what he be. Fill your own glass, boy, with what you like—cold water, an it please you—and let us drink the good old Cornish toast, ‘Fish, tin, and copper,’ our three staples, Oliver—the bone, muscle, and fat of the county.”

“Fish, tin, and copper,” echoed Captain Dan.

“In good sooth,” continued Mr Donnithorne, “I have often thought of turning teetotaller myself, but feared to do so lest my wife should take to drinking, just out of opposition. However, let that pass—and now, Oliver, open thy mouth, lad, and relate those surprising adventures of which you have given me a hint.”

“Indeed, uncle, I do not say they are very surprising, although, doubtless, somewhat new to one who has been bred, if not born, in comparatively quiet regions of the earth.”

Here Oliver related circumstantially to his wondering auditors the events which befell him after the time when he left his uncle in the lane—being interrupted only with an occasional exclamation—until he reached the part when he knocked down the man who had rescued him from the waves, when Mr Donnithorne interrupted him with an uncontrollable burst.

“Ha!” shouted the old gentleman; “what! knocked down the man who saved your life, nephew? Fie, fie! But you have not told us his name yet. What was it?”

“His comrades called him Jim, as I have said; and I think that he once referred to himself as Jim Cuttance, or something like that.”

“What say you, boy?” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, pushing back his chair and gazing at his nephew in amazement. “Hast fought side by side with Jim Cuttance, and then knocked him down?”

“Indeed I have,” said Oliver, not quite sure whether his uncle regarded him as a hero or a fool.

The roar of laughter which his answer drew from Captain Dan and his uncle did not tend to enlighten him much.

“Oh! Oliver, Oliver,” said the old gentleman, on recovering some degree of composure, “you should have lived in the days of good King Arthur, and been one of the Knights of the Round Table. Knocked down Jim Cuttance! What think’ee, Captain Dan?”

“I think,” said the captain, still chuckling quietly, “that the less our friend says about the matter the better for himself.”

“Why so?” inquired Oliver quickly.

“Because,” replied his uncle, with some return of gravity, “you have assisted one of the most notorious smugglers that ever lived, to fight his Majesty’s coastguard—that’s all. What say you, Molly—shall we convict Oliver on his own confession?”

The good lady thus appealed to admitted that it was a serious matter, but urged that as Oliver did the thing in ignorance and out of gratitude, he ought to be forgiven.

“I think he ought to be forgiven for having knocked down Jim Cuttance,” said Captain Dan.

“Is he then so notorious?” asked Oliver.

“Why, he is the most daring smuggler on the coast,” replied Captain Dan, “and has given the preventive men more trouble than all the others put together. In fact, he is a man who deserves to be hanged, and will probably come to his proper end ere long, if not shot in a brawl beforehand.”

“I fear he stands some chance of it now,” said Mr Donnithorne, with a sigh, “for he has been talking of erecting a battery near his den at Prussia Cove, and openly defying the Government men.”

“You seem to differ from Captain Dan, uncle, in reference to this man,” said Oliver, with a smile.

“Truly, I do, for although I condemn smuggling,—ahem!” (the old gentleman cast a peculiar glance at the captain), “I don’t like to see a sturdy man hanged or shot—and Jim Cuttance is a stout fellow. I question much whether you could find his match, Captain Dan, amongst all your men?”

“That I could, easily,” said the captain with a quiet smile.

“Pardon me, captain,” said Oliver, “my uncle has not yet informed me on the point. May I ask what corps you belong to?”

“To a sturdy corps of tough lads,” answered the captain, with another of his quiet smiles—“men who have smelt powder, most of ’em, since they were little boys—live on the battlefield, I may say, almost night and day—spring more mines in a year than all the soldiers in the world put together—and shorten their lives by the stern labour they undergo; but they burn powder to raise, not to waste, metal. Their uniform is red, too, though not quite so red, nor yet so elegant, as that of the men in his Majesty’s service. I am one of the underground captains, sir, of Botallack mine.”

Captain Dan’s colour heightened a very little, and the tones of his voice became a little more powerful as he concluded this reply; but there was no other indication that the enthusiastic soul of one of the “captains” of the most celebrated mine in Cornwall was moved. Oliver felt, however, the contact with a kindred spirit, and, expressing much interest in the mines, proceeded to ask many questions of the captain, who, nothing loath, answered all his queries, and explained to him that he was one of the “captains,” or “agents,” whose duty it was to superintend the men and the works below the surface—hence the title of “underground;” while those who super-intended the works above ground were styled “grass, or surface captains.” He also made an appointment to conduct the young doctor underground, and go over the mine with him at an early date.

While the party in old Mr Donnithorne’s dwelling were thus enjoying themselves, a great storm was gathering, and two events, very different from each other in character, were taking place—the one quiet, and apparently unimportant, the other tremendous and fatal—both bearing on and seriously influencing the subjects of our tale.

Chapter Four.

At Work under the Sea.

Chip, chip, chip—down in the dusky mine! Oh, but the rock at which the miner chipped was hard, and the bit of rock on which he sat was hard, and the muscles with which he toiled were hard from prolonged labour; and the lot of the man seemed hard, as he sat there in the hot, heavy atmosphere, hour after hour, from morn till eve, with the sweat pouring down his brow and over his naked shoulders, toiling and moiling with hammer and chisel.

But stout David Trevarrow did not think his lot peculiarly hard. His workshop was a low narrow tunnel deep down under the surface of the earth—ay, and deep under the bottom of the sea! His daily sun was a tallow candle, which rose regularly at seven in the morning and set at three in the afternoon. His atmosphere was sadly deficient in life-giving oxygen, and much vitiated by gunpowder smoke. His working costume consisted only of a pair of linen trousers; his colour from top to toe was red as brick-dust, owing to the iron ore around him; his food was a slice of bread, with, perchance, when he was unusually luxurious, the addition of a Cornish pasty; and his drink was water. To an inexperienced eye the man’s work would have appeared not only hard but hopeless, for although his hammer was heavy, his arm strong, and his chisel sharp and tempered well, each blow produced an apparently insignificant effect on the flinty rock. Frequently a spark of fire was all that resulted from a blow, and seldom did more than a series of little chips fly off, although the man was of herculean mould, and worked “with a will,” as was evident from the kind of gasp or stern expulsion of the breath with which each blow was accompanied. Unaided human strength he knew could not achieve much in such a process, so he directed his energies chiefly to the boring of blast-holes, and left it to the mighty power of gunpowder to do the hard work of rending the rich ore from the bowels of the unwilling earth. Yes, the work was very hard, probably the hardest that human muscles are ever called on to perform in this toiling world; but again we say that David Trevarrow did not think so, for he had been born to the work and bred to it, and was blissfully ignorant of work of a lighter kind, so that, although his brows frowned at the obstinate rock, his compressed lips smiled, for his thoughts were pleasant and far away. The unfettered mind was above ground roaming in fields of light, basking in sunshine, and holding converse with the birds, as he sat there chip, chip, chipping, down in the dusky mine.

Stopping at last, the miner wiped his brow, and, rising, stood for a few moments silently regarding the result of his day’s work.

“Now, David,” said he to himself, “the question is, what shall us do—shall us keep on, or shall us knack?”

He paused, as if unable to answer the question. After a time he muttered, “Keep on; it don’t look promisin’, sure ’nuff, an’ it’s poor pay; but it won’t do to give in yet.”

Poor pay it was indeed, for the man’s earnings during the past month had been barely ten shillings. But David Trevarrow had neither wife, child, nor mother to support, so he could afford to toil for poor pay, and, being of a remarkably hopeful and cheery disposition, he returned home that afternoon resolved to persevere in his unproductive toil, in the hope that at last he should discover a good “bunch of copper,” or a “keenly lode of tin.”

David was what his friends and the world styled unfortunate. In early manhood he had been a somewhat wild and reckless fellow—a noted wrestler, and an adept in all manly sports and games. But a disappointment in love had taught him very bitterly that life is not all sunshine; and this, coupled with a physical injury which was the result of his own folly, crushed his spirit so much that his comrades believed him to be a “lost man.”

The injury referred to was the bursting of a blood-vessel in the lungs. It was, and still is, the custom of the youthful miners of Cornwall to test their strength by racing up the almost interminable ladders by which the mines are reached. This tremendous exertion after a day of severe toil affected them of course very severely, and in some cases seriously. Many an able-bodied man has by this means brought himself to a premature end. Among others, David Trevarrow excelled and suffered. No one could beat him in running up the ladders; but one day, on reaching the surface, blood issued from his mouth, and thenceforth his racing and wrestling days were ended, and his spirit was broken. A long illness succeeded. Then he began to mend. Slowly and by degrees his strength returned, but not his joyous spirit. Still it was some comfort to feel able for work again, and he “went underground” with some degree of his old vigour, though not with the light heart or light step of former days; but bad fortune seemed to follow him everywhere. When others among his comrades were fortunate in finding copper or tin, David was most unaccountably unsuccessful. Accidents, too, from falls and explosions, laid him up more than once, and he not only acquired the character of an unlucky man from his friends, but despite a naturally sanguine temperament, he began himself to believe that he was one of the unluckiest fellows in the world.

About this time the followers of that noble Christian, John Wesley, began to make an impression on Cornwall, and to exert an influence which created a mighty change in the hearts and manners of the people, and the blessed effects of which are abundantly evident at the present day—to the rejoicing of every Christian soul. One of those ministers of our Lord happened to meet with David Trevarrow, and was the means of opening his eyes to many great and previously unknown truths. Among others, he convinced him that “God’s ways are not as man’s ways;” that He often, though not always, leads His people by thorny paths that they know not of, but does it in love and with His own glory in their happiness as the end in view; that the Lord Jesus Christ must be to a man “the chiefest among ten thousand, and altogether lovely,” else He is to him nothing at all, and that he could be convinced of all these truths only by the Holy Spirit.

It were vain to attempt to tell all that this good man said to the unhappy miner, but certain it is that from that time forth David became himself again—and yet not himself. The desire to wrestle and fight and race returned in a new form. He began to wrestle with principalities and powers, to fight the good fight of faith, and to run the race set before him in the gospel. The old hearty smile and laugh and cheery disposition also returned, and the hopeful spirit, and so much of the old robust health and strength, that it seemed as if none of the evil effects of the ruptured blood-vessel remained. So David Trevarrow went, as of old, daily to the mine. It is true that riches did not flow in upon him any faster than before, but he did not mind that much, for he had discovered another mine, in which he toiled at nights after the day’s toil was over, and whence he extracted treasure of greater value than copper or tin, or even gold—treasure which he scattered in a Sabbath school with liberal hand, and found himself all the richer for his prodigality.

Occasionally, after prolonged labour in confined and bad air, a faint trace of the old complaint showed itself when he reached the top of the ladders, but he was not now depressed by that circumstance as he used to be. He was past his prime at the period of which we write, and a confirmed bachelor.

To return from this digression: David Trevarrow made up his mind, as we have said, to “go on,” and, being a man of resolute purpose, he went on; seized his hammer and chisel, and continued perseveringly to smite the flinty rock, surrounded by thick darkness, which was not dispelled but only rendered visible by the feeble light of the tallow candle that flared at his side.

Over his head rolled the billows of the Atlantic; the whistling wind howled among the wild cliffs of the Cornish coast, but they did not break the deep silence of the miner’s place of midnight toil. Heaven’s artillery was rending the sky, and causing the hearts of men to beat slow with awe. The great boulders ground the pebbles into sand as they crashed to and fro above him, but he heard them not—or if he did, the sound reached him as a deep-toned mysterious murmur, for, being in one of the low levels, with many fathoms of solid rock between him and the bottom of the superincumbent sea, he was beyond the reach of such disturbing influences, tremendous though they were.

The miner was making a final effort at his unproductive piece of rock, and had prolonged his toil far into the night.

Hour after hour he wrought almost without a moment’s respite, save for the purpose, now and then, of trimming his candle. When his right arm grew tired, he passed the hammer swiftly to his left hand, and, turning the borer with his right, continued to work with renewed vigour.

At last he paused, and looking over his shoulder called out— “Zackey, booy.”

The sound died away in a hollow echo through the retiring galleries of the mine, but there was no reply.

“Zackey, booy, are ’ee slaipin’?” he repeated.

A small reddish-coloured bundle, which lay in a recess close at hand, uncoiled itself like a hedgehog, and, yawning vociferously, sat up, revealing the fact that the bundle was a boy.

“Ded ’ee call, uncle?” asked the boy in a sleepy tone.

“Iss did I,” said the man; “fetch me the powder an’ fuse, my son.”

The lad rose, and, fetching out of a dark corner the articles required, assisted in charging the hole which his uncle had just finished boring. This was the last hole which the man intended to blast that night. For weeks past he had laboured day after day—sometimes, as on the present occasion, at night—and had removed many tons of rock, without procuring either tin or copper sufficient to repay him for his toil, so that he resolved to give it up and remove to a more hopeful part of the mine, or betake himself to another mine altogether. He had now bored his last hole, and was about to blast it. Applying his candle to the end of the fuse, he hastened along the level to a sufficient distance to afford security, warning his nephew as he passed.

Zackey leaped up, and, scrambling over the débris with which the bottom of the level was covered, made good his retreat. About a minute they waited in expectancy. Suddenly there was a bright blinding flash, which lit up the rugged sides of the mine, and revealed its cavernous ramifications and black depths. This was accompanied by a dull smothered report and a crash of falling rock, together with a shower of débris. Instantly the whole place was in profound darkness.

“Aw, booy,” exclaimed the miner; “we was too near. It have knacked us in the dark.”

“So’t have, uncle; I’ll go an’ search for the box.”

“Do, my son,” said David.

In those days lucifer matches had not been invented, and light had to be struck by means of flint, steel, and tinder. The process was tedious compared with the rapid action of congreves and vestas in the present day. The man chipped away for full three minutes before he succeeded in relighting his candle. This done, the rock was examined.

“Bad still, Uncle David?” inquired the boy.

“Iss, Zackey Maggot, so we’ll knack’n, and try the higher mine to-morrow.” Having come to this conclusion Uncle David threw down the mass of rock which he held in his brawny hands, and, picking up his implements, said, “Get the tools, booy, and lev us go to grass.”

Zackey, who had been in the mine all day, and was tired, tied his tools at each end of a rope, so that they might be slung over his shoulder and leave his hands free. Trevarrow treated his in the same way, and, removing his candle from the wall, fixed it on the front of his hat by the simple process of sticking thereto the lump of clay to which it was attached. Zackey having fixed his candle in the same manner, both of them put on their red-stained flannel shirts and linen coats, and traversed the level until they reached the bottom of the ladder-shaft. Here they paused for a few moments before commencing the long wearisome ascent of almost perpendicular ladders by which the miners descended to their work or returned “to grass,” as they termed the act of returning to the surface.

It cost them more than half an hour of steady climbing before they reached the upper part of the shaft and became aware that a storm was raging in the regions above. On emerging from the mouth of the shaft or “ladder road,” man and boy were in a profuse perspiration, and the sharp gale warned them to hasten to the moor-house at full speed.

Moor-houses were little buildings in which miners were wont to change their wet underground garments for dry clothes. Some of these used to be at a considerable distance from the shafts, and the men were often injured while going to them from the mine, by being exposed in an overheated state to cutting winds. Many a stout able-bodied miner has had a chill given him in this way which has resulted in premature death. Moor-houses have now been replaced by large drying-houses, near the mouths of shafts, where every convenience is provided for the men drying their wet garments and washing their persons on coming to the surface.

Having changed their clothes, uncle and nephew hastened to St. Just, where they dwelt in the cottage of Maggot, the blacksmith. This man, who has already been introduced to the reader, was brother-in-law to David, and father to Zackey.

When David Trevarrow entered his brother-in-law’s cottage, and told him of his bad fortune, and of his resolution to try his luck next day in the higher mine, little did he imagine that his change of purpose was to be the first step in a succession of causes which were destined to result, at no very distant period, in great changes of fortune to some of his friends in St. Just, as well as to many others in the county.

Chapter Five.

Describes a Wreck and some of its Consequences.

While the miner had been pursuing his toilsome work in the solitude and silence of the level under the sea, as already described, a noble ship was leaping over the Atlantic waves—homeward bound—to Old England.

She was an East-Indiaman, under close-reefed sails, and although she bent low before the gale so that the waves almost curled over her lee bulwarks, she rose buoyantly like a seagull, for she was a good ship, stout of plank and sound of timber, with sails and cordage to match.

Naturally, in such a storm, those on board were anxious, for they knew that they were drawing near to land, and that “dear Old England” had an ugly seaboard in these parts—a coast not to be too closely hugged in what the captain styled “dirty weather, with a whole gale from the west’ard,” so a good lookout was kept. Sharp eyes were in the foretop looking out for the guiding rays of the Long-ships lighthouse, which illumine that part of our rocky shores to warn the mariner of danger and direct him to a safe harbour. The captain stood on the “foge’s’l” with stern gaze and compressed lip. The chart had been consulted, the bearings correctly noted, calculations made, and leeway allowed for. Everything in fact that could be done by a commander who knew his duty had been done for the safety of the ship—so would the captain have said probably, had he lived to be questioned as to the management of his vessel. But everything had not been done. The lead, strange to say, had not been hove. It was ready to heave, but the order was delayed. Unaccountable fatality! The only safe guide that remained to the good ship on that wild night was held in abeyance. It was deemed unnecessary to heave it yet, or it was troublesome, and they would wait till nearer the land. No one now can tell the reasons that influenced the captain, but the lead was not used. Owing to similar delay or neglect, hundreds upon hundreds of ships have been lost, and thousands of human lives have been sacrificed!

The ship passed like a dark phantom over the very head of the miner who was at work many fathoms below the bottom of the sea.

“Land, ho!” came suddenly in a fierce, quick shout from the mast-head.

“Starboard! starboard—hard!” cried the captain, as the roar of breakers ahead rose above the yelling of the storm.

Before the order was obeyed or another word spoken the ship struck, and a shriek of human terror followed, as the foremast went by the board with a fearful crash. The waves burst over the stern, sweeping the decks fore and aft. Wave after wave lifted the great ship as though it had been a child’s toy, and dashed her down upon the rocks. Her bottom was stove in, her planks and timbers were riven like matchwood. Far down below man was destroying the flinty rock, while overhead the rock was destroying the handiwork of man! But the destruction in the one case was slow, in the other swift. A desperate but futile effort was made by the crew to get out the boats, and the passengers, many of whom were women and children, rushed frantically from the cabin to the deck, and clung to anything they could lay hold of, until strength failed, and the waves tore them away.

One man there was in the midst of all the terror-stricken crew who retained his self-possession in that dread hour. He was a tall, stern old man with silver locks—an Indian merchant, one who had spent his youth and manhood in the wealthy land collecting gold—“making a fortune,” he was wont to say—and who was returning to his fatherland to spend it. He was a thinking and calculating man, and in the anticipation of some such catastrophe as had actually overtaken him, he had secured some of his most costly jewels in a linen belt. This belt, while others were rushing to the boats, the old man secured round his waist, and then sprang on deck, to be swept, with a dozen of his fellow-passengers, into the sea by the next wave that struck the doomed vessel. There was no one on that rugged coast to lend a helping hand. Lifeboats did not then, as now, nestle in little nooks on every part of our dangerous coasts. No eye was there to see nor ear to hear, when, twenty minutes after she struck, the East-Indiaman went to pieces, and those of her crew and passengers who had retained their hold of her uttered their last despairing cry, and their souls returned to God who gave them.

It is a solemn thought that man may with such awful suddenness, and so unexpectedly, be summoned into the presence of his Maker. Thrice happy they who, when their hearts grow chill and their grasps relax as the last plank is rending, can say, “Neither death, nor life, nor any other creature, is able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

The scene we have described was soon over, and the rich cargo of the East-Indiaman was cast upon the sea and strewn upon the shore, affording much work for many days to the coastguard, and greatly exciting the people of the district—most of whom appeared to entertain an earnest belief in the doctrine that everything cast by storms upon their coast ought to be considered public property. Portions of the wreck had the name “Trident” painted on them, and letters found in several chests which were washed ashore proved that the ship had sailed from Calcutta, and was bound for the port of London. One little boy alone escaped the waves. He was found in a crevice of the cliffs the following day, with just enough vitality left to give a few details of the wreck. Although all possible care was bestowed on him, he died before night.

Thus sudden and complete was the end of as fine a ship as ever spread her canvas to the breeze. At night she had been full of life—full of wealth; in the morning she was gone—only a few bales and casks and broken spars to represent the wealth, and stiffened corpses to tell of the life departed. So she came and went, and in a short time all remnants of her were carried away.

One morning, a few weeks after the night of the storm, Maggot the smith turned himself in his bed at an early hour, and, feeling disinclined to slumber, got up to look at the state of the weather. The sun was just rising, and there was an inviting look about the morning which induced the man to dress hastily and go out.

Maggot was a powerfully-built man, rough in his outer aspect as well as in his inner man, but by no means what is usually termed a bad man, although, morally speaking, he could not claim to be considered a good one. In fact, he was a hearty, jolly, reckless fisherman, with warm feelings, enthusiastic temperament, and no principle; a man who, though very ready to do a kind act, had no particular objection to do one that was decidedly objectionable when it suited his purpose or served his present interest. He was regarded by his comrades as one of the greatest madcaps in the district. Old Maggot was, as we have said, a blacksmith to trade, but he had also been bred a miner, and was something of a fisherman as well, besides being (like most of his companions) an inveterate smuggler. He could turn his hand to almost anything, and was “everything by turns, but nothing long.”

Sauntering down to Priests Cove, on the south of Cape Cornwall, with his hands in his pockets and his sou’-wester stuck carelessly on his shaggy head, he fell in with a comrade, whom he hailed by the name of John Cock. This man was also a fisherman, et cetera, and the bosom friend and admirer of Maggot.

“Where bound to this mornin’, Jack?” inquired Maggot.

“To fish,” replied John.

“I go with ’ee, booy,” said Maggot.

This was the extent of the conversation at that time. They were not communicative, but walked side by side in silence to the beach, where they launched their little boat and rowed out to sea.

Presently John Cock looked over his shoulder and exclaimed— “Maggot, I see summat.”

“Do ’ee?”

“Iss do I.”

“What do un look like?”

“Like a dead corp.”

“Aw, my dear,” said Maggot, “lev us keep away. It can do no good to we.”

Acting on this opinion the men rowed past the object that was floating on the sea, and soon after began to fish; but they had not fished long when the dead body, drifted probably by some cross-current, appeared close to them again. Seeing this they changed their position, but ere long the body again appeared.

“P’raps,” observed Maggot, “there’s somethin’ in its pockets.”

As the same idea had occurred to John Cock, the men resolved to examine the body, so they rowed up to it and found it to be that of an elderly man, much decomposed, and nearly naked. A very short examination sufficed to show that the pockets of such garments as were still upon it were empty, and the men were about to let it go again, when Maggot exclaimed—

“Hold fast, Jack, I see somethin’ tied round the waist of he; a sort o’ belt it do seem.”

The belt was quickly removed and the body released, when it sank with a heavy plunge, but ere long reappeared on the surface. The fishermen rowed a considerable distance away from it, and then shipped their oars and examined the belt, which was made of linen. Maggot sliced it up as he would have ripped up a fish, and laid bare, to the astonished gaze of himself and his friend, a number of glittering gems of various colours, neatly and firmly embedded in cotton, besides a variety of rings and small brooches set with precious stones.

“Now, I tell ’ee,” said Maggot, “’tis like as this here will make our fortin’, or else git we into trouble.”

“Why, whatever shud we git into trouble ’bout it for?” said John Cock. “’Tis like as not they ain’t real—only painted glass, scarce wuth the trouble o’ car’in’ ashore.”

“Hould thy tongue, thee g’eat chucklehead,” replied Maggot; “a man wouldn’t go for to tie such stuff round his waist to drown hisself with, I do know, if they worn’t real. Lev us car’ ’em to Maister Donnithorne.”

John Cock replied with a nod, and the two men, packing up the jewels, pulled in-shore as fast as possible. Hauling their boat beyond the reach of the surf, they hastened to St. Just, and requested a private audience of Mr Donnithorne. (See note 1.)

That excellent gentleman was not unaccustomed to give private audiences to fishermen, and, as has been already hinted at the beginning of this tale, was reported to have private dealings with them also—of a very questionable nature. He received the two men, however, with the hearty air of a man who knows that the suspicions entertained of him by the calumnious world are false.

“Well, Maggot,” said Mr Donnithorne, “what is your business with me? You are not wont to be astir so early, if all be true that is reported of ’ee.”

“Plaise, sur,” said Maggot, with a glance at Rose Ellis, who sat sewing near the window, “I’m come to talk ’bout private matters—if—”

“Leave us, Rose dear, for a little,” said the old gentleman.

As soon as she was out of the room Maggot locked the door, a proceeding which surprised Mr Donnithorne not a little, but his surprise was much greater when the man drew a small parcel from the breast of his rough coat, and, unrolling it, displayed the glittering jewels of which he had so unexpectedly become possessed.

“Where got you these?” inquired Mr Donnithorne, turning them over carefully.

“Got ’em in the say—catched ’em, sure ’nough,” said Maggot.

“Not with a baited hook, I warrant,” said the old gentleman. “Come, my son, let’s hear all about it.”

Maggot explained how he had obtained the jewels, and then asked what they were worth.

“I can’t tell that,” said Mr Donnithorne, shaking his head gravely. “Some of them are undoubtedly of value; the others, for all I know, may not be worth much.”

“Come now, sur,” said Maggot, with a confidential leer, “it’s not the fust time we have done a bit o’ business. I ’spose I cud claim salvage on ’em?”

“I don’t know that,” said the old gentleman; “you cannot tell whom they belonged to, and I suspect Government would claim them, if— But, by the way, I suppose you found no letters—nothing in the shape of writing on the body?”

“Nothin’ whatsomever.”

“Well, then, I fear that—”

“Come now, sur,” said Maggot boldly; “’spose you gives John and me ten pounds apaice an’ kape ’em to yourself to make what ’ee can of ’em?”

Mr Donnithorne shook his head and hesitated. Often before had he defrauded the revenue by knowingly purchasing smuggled brandy and tobacco, and by providing the funds to enable others to smuggle them; but then the morality of that day in regard to smuggling was very lax, and there were men who, although in all other matters truly honest and upright, could not be convinced of the sinfulness of smuggling, and smiled when they were charged with the practice, but who, nevertheless, would have scorned to steal or tell a downright lie. This, however, was a very different matter from smuggling. The old gentleman shrank from it at first, and could not meet the gaze of the smuggler with his usual bold frank look. But the temptation was great. The jewels he suspected were of immense value, and his heart readily replied to the objections raised by his conscience, that after all there was no one left to claim them, and he had a much better right to them, in equity if not in law, than Government; and as to the fellows who found them—why, the sum they asked would be a great and rich windfall to them, besides freeing them from all further trouble, as well as transferring any risk that might accrue from their shoulders to his own.

While the old gentleman was reasoning thus with himself, Maggot stood anxiously watching his countenance and twisting the cloth that had enclosed the jewellery into a tight rope, as he shifted his position uneasily. At length old Mr Donnithorne said—

“Leave the jewels with me, and call again in an hour from this time. You shall then have my answer.”

Maggot and his friend consented to this delay, and left the room.

No sooner were they gone than the old gentleman called his wife, who naturally exclaimed in great surprise on beholding the table covered with such costly trinkets—

“Where ever did you get these, Tom?”

Mr Donnithorne explained, and then asked what she thought of Maggot’s proposal.

“Refuse it,” said she firmly.

“But, my dear—”

“Don’t ‘but’ about it, Tom. Whenever a man begins to ‘but’ with sin, it is sure to butt him over on his back. Have nothing to do with it, I say.”

“But, my dear, it is not dishonest—”

“I don’t know that,” interrupted Mrs Donnithorne vigorously; “you think that smuggling is not dishonest, but I do, and so does the minister.”

“What care I for the minister?” cried the old gentleman, losing his temper; “who made him a judge of my doings?”

“He is an expounder of God’s Word,” said Mrs Donnithorne firmly, “and holds that ‘Thou shalt not steal’ is one of the Ten Commandments.”

“Well, well, he and I don’t agree, that’s all; besides, has he never expounded to you that obedience to your husband is a virtue? a commandment, I may say, which you are—”

“Mr Donnithorne,” said the lady with dignity, “I am here at your request, and am now complying with your wishes in giving my opinion.”

“There, there, Molly,” said the subdued husband, giving his better half a kiss, “don’t be so sharp. You ought to have been a lawyer with your powerful reasoning capacity. However, let me tell you that you don’t understand these matters—”

“Then why ask my advice, Tom?”

“Why, woman, because an inexplicable fatality leads me to consult you, although I know well enough what the upshot will be. But I’m resolved to close with Maggot.”

“I knew you would,” said Mrs Donnithorne quietly.

The last remark was the turning-point. Had the good lady condescended to be earnest in her entreaties that the bargain should not be concluded, it is highly probable her husband would have given in; but her last observation nettled him so much that he immediately hoisted a flag of defiance, nailed it to the mast, and went out in great indignation to search for Maggot. That individual was not far off. The bargain was completed, the jewels were locked up in one of the old gentleman’s secret repositories, and the fishermen, with ten pounds apiece in their pockets, returned home.

Chapter Six.

Treats of the Miner’s Cottage, Work, and Costume.

Maggot’s home was a disordered one when he reached it, for his youngest baby, a fat little boy, had been seized with convulsions, and his wife and little daughter Grace, and son Zackey, and brother-in-law David Trevarrow, besides his next neighbour Mrs Penrose, with her sixteen children, were all in the room, doing their best by means of useless or hurtful applications, equally useless advice, and intolerable noise and confusion, to cure, if not to kill, the baby.

Maggot’s cottage was a poor one, his furniture was mean, and there was not much of it; nevertheless its inmates were proud of it, for they lived in comparative comfort there. Mrs Maggot was a kind-hearted, active woman, and her husband—despite his smuggling propensities—was an affectionate father. Usually the cottage was kept in a most orderly condition; but on the present occasion it was, as we have said, in a state of great confusion.

“Fetch me a bit of rag, Grace,” cried Mrs Maggot, just as her husband entered.

“Here’s a bit, old ’ooman,” said Maggot, handing her the linen cloth in which the jewels had been wrapped up, and which he had unconsciously retained in his hands on quitting Mr Donnithorne— “Run, my dear man,” he added, turning to John Cock, “an’ fetch the noo doctor.”

John darted away, and in a quarter of an hour returned with Oliver Trembath, who found that the baby had weathered the storm by the force of its own constitution, despite the adverse influences that were around it. He therefore contented himself with clearing the place of intruders, and prescribing some simple medicine.

“Are you going to work?” inquired Oliver of David Trevarrow, observing that the man was about to quit the cottage.

“Iss, sur—to Botallack.”

“Then I will accompany you. Captain Dan is going to show me over part of the mine to-day. Good-morning, Mrs Maggot, and remember my directions if this should happen to the little fellow again.”

Leaving the cottage the two proceeded through the town to the north end of it, accompanied by Maggot, who said he was going to the forge to do a bit of work, and who parted from them at the outskirts of the town.

“Times are bad with you at the mines just now, I find,” said Oliver as they walked along.

“Iss sur, they are,” replied Trevarrow, in the quiet tone that was peculiar to him; “but, thank God, we do manage to live, though there are some of us with a lot o’ child’n as finds it hard work. The Bal (The mine) ain’t so good as she once was.”

“I suppose that you have frequent changes of fortune?” said Oliver.

The miner admitted that this was the case, for that sometimes a man worked underground for several weeks without getting enough to keep his family, while at other times he might come on a bunch of copper or tin which would enable him to clear 50 pounds or more in a month.

“If report says truly,” observed Oliver, “you have hit upon a ‘keenly lode,’ as you call it, not many days ago.”

“A do look very well now, sur,” replied the miner, “but wan can never tell. I did work for weeks in the level under the say without success, so I guv it up an went to Wheal Hazard, and on the back o’ the fifty-fathom level I did strike ’pon a small lode of tin ’bout so thick as my finger. It may get better, or it may take the bit in its teeth and disappear; we cannot tell.”

“Well, I wish you good luck,” said Oliver; “and here comes Captain Dan, so I’ll bid you good-morning.”

“Good-morning, sur,” said the stout-limbed and stout-hearted man, with a smile and a nod, as he turned off towards the moor-house to put on his mining garments.

Towards this house a number of men had been converging while Oliver and his companion approached it, and the former observed, that whatever colour the men might be on entering it, they invariably came out light red, like lobsters emerging from a boiling pot.

In Botallack mine a large quantity of iron is mingled with the tin ore. This colours everything in and around the mine, including men’s clothes, hands, and faces, with a light rusty-red. The streams, of course, are also coloured with it, and the various pits and ponds for collecting the fluid mud of tin ore seem as if filled with that nauseous compound known by the name of “Gregory’s Mixture.”

In the moor-house there were rows of pegs with red garments hung thereon to dry, and there were numerous broad-shouldered men dressing and undressing—in every stage of the process; while in a corner two or three were washing their bodies in a tank of water. These last were men who had been at work all night, and were cleansing themselves before putting on what we may term their home-going clothes.

The mining dress is a very simple, and often a very ragged affair. It consists of a flannel shirt, a pair of linen trousers, a short coat of the same, and a hat in the form of a stiff wide-awake, but made so thick as to serve the purpose of a helmet to guard the head from the rocks, etcetera. Clumsy ankle-boots complete the costume. As each man issued from the house, he went to a group of wooden chests which lay scattered about outside, and, opening his own, took from it a bag of powder, some blasting fuse, several iron tools, which he tied to a rope so as to be slung over his shoulder, a small wooden canteen of water, and a bunch of tallow candles. These last he fastened to a button on his breast, having previously affixed one of them to the front of his hat.

Thus accoutred, they proceeded to a small platform close at hand, with a square hole in it, out of which protruded the head of a ladder. This was the “ladder road.” Through the hole these red men descended one by one, chatting and laughing as they went, and disappeared, leaving the moor-house and all around it a place of solitude.

Captain Dan now prepared to descend this ladder road with Oliver Trembath.

Chapter Seven.

Tells of the Great Mine and of a Royal Dive under the Sea.

Botallack, to the dark depths of which we are now about to descend, is the most celebrated mine in the great mining county of Cornwall. It stands on the sea coast, a little more than a mile to the north of St. Just. The region around it is somewhat bleak and almost destitute of trees. In approaching it, the eyes of the traveller are presented with a view of engine-houses, and piles of stones and rubbish, in the midst of which stand a number of uncouth yet picturesque objects, composed of boards and timber, wheels, ropes, pulleys, chains, and suchlike gear. These last are the winding erections of the shafts which lead to the various mines, for the whole region is undermined, and Botallack is only one of several in St. Just parish. Wherever the eye turns, there, in the midst of green fields, where rocks and rocky fences abound, may be seen, rising prominently, the labouring arms, or “bobs,” of the pump and skip engines, and the other machinery required in mining operations; while the ear is assailed by the perpetual clatter of the “stamps,” or ore-crushing machines, which never cease their din, day or night, except on Sundays.

Botallack, like all the other mines, has several “shafts” or entrances to the works below, such as Boscawen Shaft, Wheal Button, Wheal Hazard, Chicornish Shaft, Davis Shaft, Wheal Cock, etcetera, the most interesting of which are situated among the steep rugged cliffs that front and bid defiance to the utmost fury of the Atlantic Ocean.

From whatever point viewed, the aspect of Botallack mine is grand in the extreme. On the rocky point that stretches out into the sea, engines with all their fantastic machinery and buildings have been erected. On the very summit of the cliff is seen a complication of timbers, wheels, and chains sharply defined against the sky, with apparently scarce any hold of the cliff, while down below, on rocky ledges and in black chasms, are other engines and beams and rods and wheels and chains, fastened and perched in fantastic forms in dangerous-looking places.

Here, amid the most savage gorges of the sea and riven rocks—half clinging to the land, half suspended over the water—is perched the machinery of, and entrance to, the most singular shaft of the mine, named the “Boscawen Diagonal Shaft.” This shaft descends under the sea at a steep incline. It is traversed, on rails, by an iron carriage called the “gig,” which is lowered and drawn up by steam power. Starting as it does from an elevated position in the rocks that are close to the edge of the sea, and slanting down through the cape, outward or seaward, this vehicle descends only a few fathoms when it is under the ocean’s bed, and then its further course is far out and deep down—about two-thirds of a mile out, and full 245 fathoms down! The gig conveys the men to and from their work—the ore being drawn up by another iron carriage. There is (or rather there was, before the self-acting brake was added) danger attending the descent of this shaft, for the rope, although good and strong, is not immaculate, as was proved terribly in the year 1864—when it broke, and the gig flew down to the bottom like lightning, dashing itself to pieces, and instantly killing the nine unfortunate men who were descending at the time.

Nevertheless, the Prince and Princess of Wales did not shrink from descending this deep burrow under the sea in the year 1865.

It was a great day for St. Just and Botallack that 24th of July on which the royal visit was paid. Great were the expectation and preparation on all hands to give a hearty welcome to the royal pair. The ladies arrayed themselves in their best to do fitting honour to the Princess; the balmaidens donned their holiday-attire, and Johnny Fortnight (See note 2.) took care, by supplying the poor mine-girls with the latest fashions, that their appearance should be, if we may be allowed the word, splendiferous! The volunteers, too, turned out in force, and no one, looking at their trim, soldierly aspect, could have believed them to be the same miners who were wont to emerge each evening through a hole in the earth, red as lobsters, wet, ragged, and befouled—in a word, surrounded by a halo of dishevelment, indicative of their rugged toils in the regions below.

Everywhere the people turned out to line the roads, and worthily receive the expected visitors, and great was the cheering when they arrived, accompanied by the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland, the Earl of Mount Edgecumbe, Lady de Grey, Lord and Lady Vivian, General Knollys, and others, but louder still was the cheer when the Princess rode down the steep descent to the cliffs in a donkey-carriage.

The Botallack cliffs themselves, however, were the central point, not only of the interest, but of the grandeur of the scene, for here were presented such a view and combination as are not often witnessed—nature in one of her wildest aspects, combined with innumerable multitudes of human beings swayed by one feeling of enthusiastic loyalty. Above, on every attainable point, projection, and eminence, men and women clustered like gay flies on the giant cliffs, leaving immense gaps here and there, where no foot might venture save that of a bird. Midway, on the face of the precipice, clung the great beams and supports of the Boscawen Diagonal Shaft, with the little gig perched on them and the royal party seated therein, facing the entrance to the black abyss—the Princess arrayed in a white flannel cloak trimmed with blue, and a straw hat with a blue ribbon round it, and the Prince clad in miner’s costume. Underneath, a dizzy depth to gaze down, lay the rugged boulders of the shore, with the spray of the Atlantic springing over them.

Deafening was the cheer when the gig at last entered the shaft and disappeared, and intense the anxiety of the vast multitude as they watched the descent—in imagination, of course, for nothing could be seen but the tight wire-rope uncoiling its endless length, and disappearing like a thin snake down the jaws of some awful sea-monster that had climbed so far up the cliffs to meet and devour it! Now they are at the shore; now passing under the sea; fairly under it by this time; a few minutes more and they have reached the spot where yonder seagull is now wheeling above the waves, wondering what new species of bird has taken possession of its native cliffs. Five minutes are passed—yet still descending rapidly! They must be half a mile out from the land now—half of a mile out on the first part of a submarine tunnel to America! “Old England is on the lee,” but they are very much the reverse of afloat; solid rock is above, on either side and below—so close to them that the elbows must not be allowed to protrude over the edge of their car, nor the head be held too high. Here even royalty must stoop—not that we would be understood to imply that royalty cannot stoop elsewhere. Those who dwell in Highland cottages could contradict us if we did! Presently the rope “slows”—the lower depths are reached, and now for some time there is patient waiting, for it is understood that they are examining the “levels,” where the stout men of Cornwall tear out the solid rock in quest of copper and tin.

After a time the thin snake begins to ascend; they are coming up now, but not so fast as they went down. It is about ten minutes before the gig emerges from that black hole and bears the Prince and Princess once more into the light of day.

Yes, it was a great day for Botallack, and it will dwell long in the memories of those who witnessed it—especially of that fortunate captain of the mine who had the honour of conducting the Princess on the occasion, and of whose enthusiasm in recalling the event, and in commenting on her intelligence and condescension, we can speak from personal observation.

But, reader, you will say, What has all this to do with our story?

Nothing—we admit it frankly—nothing whatever in a direct way; nevertheless, indirectly, the narrative may possibly arouse in you greater interest in the mine down which we are about to conduct you—not by the same route as that taken by the Prince and Princess (for the Boscawen Shaft did not exist at the period of our tale), but by one much more difficult and dangerous, as you shall see.

Before we go, however, permit us to add to the offence of digression, by wandering still further out of our direct road. There are a few facts regarding Botallack and mining operations, without a knowledge of which you will be apt at times to misunderstand your position.

Let us suppose that a mine has been already opened; that a “lode”—that is, a vein of quartz with metal in it—has been discovered cropping out of the earth, and that it has been dug down upon from above, and dug in upon from the sea-cliffs. A shaft has been sunk—in other words, a hole excavated—let us say, two or three hundred yards inland, to a depth of some forty or fifty fathoms,—near the sea-level. This shaft is perhaps nine feet by six wide. The lode, being a layer of quartz, sometimes slopes one way, sometimes another, and is occasionally perpendicular. It also varies in its run or direction a little here and there, like a wildish horse, being sometimes met by other lodes, which, like bad companions, divert it from the straight course. Unlike bad companions, however, they increase its value at the point of meeting by thickening it. Whatever course the lode takes, the miner conscientiously follows suit. His shaft slopes much, little, or not at all, according to the “lie of the lode.”

It is an ancient truism that water must find its level. Owing to this law, much water accumulates in the shaft, obliging the miner to erect an engine-house and provide a powerful pumping-engine with all its gear, at immense cost, to keep the works dry as he proceeds. He then goes to the shore, and there, in the face of the perpendicular cliff, a little above the sea-level, he cuts a horizontal tunnel about six feet high by three broad, and continues to chisel and blast away the solid rock until he “drives” his tunnel a quarter of a mile inland, which he will do at a rate varying from two to six feet per week, according to the hardness of the rock, until he reaches the shaft and thus provides an easy and inexpensive passage for the water without pumping. This tunnel or level he calls the “Adit level.” But his pumping-engine is by no means rendered useless, for it has much to do in hauling ore to the surface, etcetera. In process of time, the miner works away all the lode down to the sea-level, and must sink the shaft deeper—perhaps ten or twenty fathoms—where new levels are driven horizontally “on the lode,” and water accumulates which must be pumped up to the Adit level, whence it escapes to the sea.

Thus down, down, he goes, sinking his shaft and driving his levels on—that is, always following the lode ad infinitum. Of course he must stop before reaching the other side of the world! At the present time Botallack has progressed in that direction to a depth of 245 fathoms. To those who find a difficulty in realising what depth that really is, we would observe that it is equal to more than three and a half times the height of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, nearly four times the height of St. Rollox chimney in Glasgow, and considerably more than twice the height, from the plain, of Arthur’s Seat, near Edinburgh.

When the levels have been driven a considerable distance from the shaft, the air naturally becomes bad from want of circulation. To remedy this evil, holes, or short shafts, called “winzes,” are sunk at intervals from the upper to the lower levels. These winzes are dangerous traps for the unwary or careless, extending frequently to a depth of ten or fifteen fathoms, and being bridged across by one or two loose planks. Ladders are fixed in many of them to facilitate progress through the mine. When a miner drives the end of his level so far that the air will not circulate, a new winze is usually sunk down to him from the level above. The circulation is thus extended, and the levels progress further and further right and left until they occupy miles of ground. The levels and shafts of Botallack, if put together, would extend to not less than forty miles, and the superficial space of ground, on and beneath which the mine lies, is above 260 acres.

When the lode is rich, and extends upwards or downwards, it is cut away from between levels, in a regular systematic manner, strong beams being placed to support temporary platforms, on which the miners may stand and work as they ascend. When they have cut all the lode away up to the level above them, a false timber bottom is made to replace the rocky bottom of the level which is being removed. Thus, in traversing the old workings of a mine one suddenly comes to great caverns, very narrow, but of such immense height above and depth below that the rays of your candle cannot penetrate the darkness. In such places the thick short beams that were used by the old miners are seen extending from side to side of the empty space, disappearing in dim perspective. Woe betide the man who stumbles off his narrow plank, or sets his foot on an insecure beam in such places! Where such workings are in progress, the positions of the miners appear singularly wild and insecure. The men stand in the narrow chasm between the granite walls above each others’ heads, slight temporary platforms alone preserving them from certain death, and the candles of those highest above you twinkling like stars in a black sky.

In these underground regions of Botallack, above three hundred men and boys are employed, some of whom work occasionally by night as well as by day. On the surface about two hundred men, women, and boys are employed “dressing” the ore, etcetera.

Other mines there are in the great mining centres of Cornwall—Redruth, St. Just, St. Austell, and Helston, which are well worthy of note—some of them a little deeper, and some richer than Botallack. But we profess not to treat of all the Cornish mines; our object is to describe one as a type of many, if not all, and as this one runs farthest out beneath the sea, is deeper than most of the others, and richer than many, besides having interesting associations, and being of venerable antiquity, we hold it to be the one most worthy of selection.

With a few briefly stated facts we shall take final leave of statistics.

As we have said, the Boscawen shaft measures 245 fathoms. The ladder-way by which the men ascend and descend daily extends to 205 fathoms. It takes a man half an hour to reach the bottom, and fully an hour to climb to the surface. There are three pumping and seven winding engines at work—the largest being of 70 horse-power. The tin raised is from 33 to 35 tons a month. The price of tin has varied from 55 pounds to 90 pounds per ton. In time past, when Botallack was more of a copper than a tin-mine, a fathom has been known to yield 100 pounds worth of ore, and a miner has sometimes broken out as much as 300 pounds worth in one month.

The mine has been worked from time immemorial. It is known to have been wrought a hundred years before it was taken by the present company, who have had it between thirty and forty years, and, under the able direction of the present manager and purser, Mr Stephen Harvey James, it has paid the shareholders more than 100,000 pounds. The profit in the year 1844 was 24,000 pounds. At the termination of one period of working it left a profit of 300,000 pounds. It has experienced many vicissitudes of fortune. Formerly it was worked for tin, and at one period (1841) was doing so badly that it was about to be abandoned, when an unlooked for discovery of copper was made, and a period of great prosperity again set in, during which many shareholders and miners made their fortunes out of Botallack.

Thus much, with a humble apology, we present to the reader, and now resume the thread of our narrative.

Chapter Eight.

Down, Down, Down.

Before descending the mine Captain Dan led Oliver to the counting-house, where he bade him undress and put on miner’s clothing.

“I’ll need a biggish suit,” observed Oliver.

“True,” said Captain Dan; “we are obliged usually to give visitors our smallest suits. You are an exception to the rule. Indeed, I’m not sure that I have a pair of trousers big enough for—ah yes, by the way, here is a pair belonging to one of our captains who is unusually stout and tall; I dare say you’ll be able to squeeze into ’em.”

“All right,” said Oliver, laughing, as he pulled on the red garments; “they are wide enough round the waist, at all events. Now for a hat.”

“There,” said the captain, handing him a white cotton skull-cap, “put that on.”

“Why, what’s this for?” said Oliver.

“To keep that from dirtying your head,” replied the other, as he handed his companion a thick felt hat, which was extremely dirty, on the front especially, where the candle was wont to be fixed with wet clay. “Now, then, attach these two candles to that button in your breast, and you are complete.—Not a bad miner to look at,” said Captain Dan with a smile of approval.

The captain was already equipped in underground costume, and the dirty disreputable appearance he presented was, thought Oliver, a wonderful contrast to his sober and gentlemanly aspect on the evening of their first meeting at his uncle’s table.

“I’ll strike a light after we get down a bit—so come along,” said Captain Dan, leaving the office and leading the way.

On reaching the entrance to the shaft, Oliver Trembath looked down and observed a small speck of bright light in the black depths.

“A man coming up—wait a bit,” said the captain in explanation.

Presently a faint sound of slow footsteps was heard; they grew gradually more distinct, and ere long the head and shoulders of a man emerged from the hole. Perspiration was trickling down his face, and painting him, streakily, with iron rust and mud. All his garments were soaking. He sighed heavily on reaching the surface, and appeared to inhale the fresh air with great satisfaction.

“Any more coming?”

“No, Captain Dan,” replied the man, glancing with some curiosity at the tall stranger.

“Now, sir, we shall descend,” said the captain, entering the shaft.

Oliver followed, and at once plunged out of bright sunshine into subdued light. A descent of a few fathoms brought them to the bottom of the first ladder. It was a short one; most of the others, the captain told him, were long ones. The width of the shaft was about six feet by nine. It was nearly perpendicular, and the slope of the ladders corresponded with its width—the head of each resting against one side of it, and the foot against the other, thus forming a zigzag of ladders all the way down.

At the foot of the first ladder the light was that of deep twilight. Here was a wooden platform, and a hole cut through it, out of which protruded the head of the second ladder. The Captain struck a light, and, applying it to one of the candles, affixed the same to the front of Oliver’s hat. Arranging his own hat in a similar way, he continued the descent, and, in a few minutes, both were beyond the region of daylight. When they had got a short way down, probably the distance of an ordinary church-steeple’s height below the surface, Oliver looked up and saw the little opening far above him, shining brightly like a star. A few steps more and it vanished from view; he felt that he had for the first time in his life reached the regions of eternal night.

The shaft varied in width here and there; in most places it was very narrow—about six feet wide—but, what with cross-beams to support the sides, and prevent soft parts from falling in, and other obstructions, the space available for descent was often not more than enough to permit of a man squeezing past.

A damp smell pervaded the air, and there was a strange sense of contraction and confinement, so to speak, which had at first an unpleasant effect on Oliver. The silence, when both men paused at a ladder-foot to trim candles or to rest a minute, was most profound, and there came over the young doctor a sensation of being buried alive, and of having bid a final farewell to the upper earth, the free air, and the sunshine, as they went down, down, down to the depths below.

At last they reached a “level” or gallery, by which the ladder-shaft communicated with the pump-shaft.

Here Captain Dan paused and trimmed Oliver’s candle, which he had thrust inadvertently against a beam, and broken in two.

“You have to mind your head here, sir,” said the captain, with a quiet smile; “’tis a good place to learn humility.”

Oliver could scarce help laughing aloud as he gazed at his guide, for, standing as he did with the candle close to his face, his cheeks, nose, chin, forehead, and part of the brim of his hat and shoulders were brought into brilliant light, while the rest of him was lost in the profound darkness of the level behind, and the flame of his candle rested above his head like the diadem of some aristocratic gnome.

“How far down have we come?” inquired Oliver.

“About eighty fathoms,” said the captain; “we shall now go along this level and get into the pump-shaft, by which we can descend to the bottom. Take care of your feet and head as you go, for you’ll be apt to run against the rocks that hang down, and the winzes are dangerous.”

“And pray what are winzes?” asked Oliver as he stumbled along in the footsteps of his guide, over uneven ground covered with débris.—“Ah! hallo! stop!”

“What’s wrong?” said the captain, looking back, and holding up his candle to Oliver’s face.

“Candle gone again, captain; I’ve run my head on that rock. Lucky for me that your mining hats are so thick and hard, for I gave it a butt that might have done credit to an ox.”

“I told you to mind your head,” said Captain Dan, relighting the candle; “you had better carry it in your hand in the levels, it will light your path better. Look out now—here is a winze.”

The captain pointed to a black yawning hole, about six or seven feet in diameter, which was bridged across by a single plank.

“How deep does it go?” asked the youth, holding up his candle and peering in; “I can’t see the bottom.”

“I dare say not,” said the captain, “for the bottom is ten fathoms down, at the next level.”

“And are all the winzes bridged with a single plank in this way?”

“Why, no, some of ’em have two or three planks, but they’re quite safe if you go steady.”

“And, pray, how many such winzes are there in the mine?” asked Oliver.

“Couldn’t say exactly, without thinkin’ a bit,” replied the captain; “but there are a great number of ’em—little short of a hundred, I should say—for we have a good many miles of levels in Botallack, which possesses an underground geography as carefully measured and mapped out as that of the surface.”

“And what would happen,” asked Oliver, with an expression of half-simulated anxiety, “if you were to fall down a winze and break your neck, and my candle were to get knocked or blown out, leaving me to find my way out of a labyrinth of levels pierced with holes sixty feet deep?”

“Well, it’s hard to say,” replied Captain Dan with much simplicity.

“Go on,” said Oliver, pursing his lips with a grim smile, as he followed his leader across the narrow bridge.

Captain Dan continued his progress until he reached the pump-shaft, the proximity of which was audibly announced by the slow ascent and descent of a great wooden beam, which was styled the “pump-rod.” Alongside, and almost touching it, for space was valuable there, and had to be economised, was the iron pipe—nearly a foot in diameter—which conveyed the water from the mine to the “Adit level.”

The slow-heaving plunge, of about ten feet in extent, and the sough or sigh of the great beam, with the accompanying gurgle of water in the huge pipe, were sounds that seemed horribly appropriate to the subterranean scene. One could have imagined the mine to be a living giant in the last throes of death by drowning. But these were only one half of the peculiarities of the place. On the other side of the shaft an arrangement of beams and partially broken boards formed the traversing “ways” or tube, up which were drawn the kibbles—these last being large iron buckets used for lifting ore to the surface.

In the present day, machinery being more perfect, the ancient kibble has been to some extent supplanted by skips, or small trucks with wheels (in some cases iron boxes with guiding-rods), which are drawn up smoothly, and without much tear and wear; but in the rough times of which we write, the sturdy kibble used to go rattling up the shaft with deafening noise, dinting its thick sides, and travelling with a jovial free-and-easy swing that must have added considerably to the debit side of the account of working expenses. Between the pump-rod and the kibble-way there was just room for the ladders upon which Captain Dan, followed by Oliver, now stepped. This shaft was very wet, water dropped and spirted about in fine spray everywhere, and the rounds of the ladders were wet and greasy with much-squeezed slime.

It would seem as though the kibbles had known that a stranger was about to descend and had waited for him, for no sooner did Oliver get on the ladder than they began to move—the one to ascend full, and the other to descend empty.

“What’s that?” exclaimed Oliver.

“It’s only the kibbles,” replied Captain Dan.

Before the captain could explain what kibbles were, these reckless buckets met, with a bang, close to Oliver’s cheek, and rebounded on the beams that protected him from their fury. Naturally the young man shrank a little from a noise so loud and so near. He was at once scraped down on the other side by the pump-rod! Drawing himself together as much as possible, and feeling for once the disadvantage of being a large man, he followed his leader down, down, ever down, into the profounder depths below.

All this time they had not met with a miner, or with any sign of human life—unless the pump and kibbles could be regarded as such—for they had been hitherto traversing the old levels and workings of the mine, but at last, during one of their pauses, they heard the faint sound of chip, chip, chip, in the far distance.

“Miners?” inquired Oliver.

Captain Dan nodded, and said they would now leave the shaft and go to where the men were at work. He cautioned his companion again to have regard to his head, and to mind his feet. As they proceeded, he stopped ever and anon to point out some object of peculiar interest.

“There’s a considerable space above and below you here, sir,” said the captain, stopping suddenly in a level which was not more than three feet wide.

Oliver had been so intent on his feet, and mindful of the winzes, that he had failed to observe the immense black opening overhead. It extended so high above him, and so far forward and backward in the direction of the level, that its boundaries were lost in an immensity of profoundly dark space. The rocky path was also lost to view, both before and behind them, so that the glare of their lights on the metallic walls rendered the spot on which they stood a point of brilliancy in the midst of darkness. Only part of a great beam was visible here and there above them, as if suspended in the gloom to render its profundity more apparent.

This, Captain Dan explained, was the space that had once been occupied by a rich lode of ore, all of which had been removed years ago, to the great commercial advantage of a past generation.

Soon after passing this the captain paused at a deep cutting in the rock, and, looking sadly at it for a few minutes, said,—“It was here that poor Trevool lost his life. He was a good lad, but careless, and used to go rattling along the levels with his light in his hat and his thoughts among the stars, instead of carrying the light in his hand and looking to his feet. He fell down that winze and broke his back. When we got him up to grass he was alive, but he never spoke another word, and died the same night.”

“Poor fellow!” said Oliver; “I suppose your men have narrow escapes sometimes.”

“They have, sir, but it’s most always owin’ to carelessness. There was a cousin of that very lad Trevool who was buried with a comrade by the falling in of a shaft and came out alive. I was there at the time and helped to dig him out.”

Captain Dan here stopped, and, sticking his candle against the wet wall of the mine, sat down on a piece of rock, while our hero stood beside him. “You see,” said he, “we were sinking a shaft, or rather reopening an old one, at the time, and Harvey, that was the man’s name, was down working with a comrade. They came to a soft bit o’ ground, an’ as they cut through it they boarded it up with timbers across to prevent it slipping, but they did the work hastily. After they had cut down some fathoms below it, the boarding gave way, and down the whole thing went, boards, timbers, stones, and rubbish, on their heads. We made sure they were dead, but set to, nevertheless, to dig them out as fast as possible—turning as many hands to the work as could get at it. At last we came on them, and both were alive, and not very much hurt! The timbers and planks had fallen over them in such a way as to keep the stones and rubbish off. I had a talk with old Harvey the other day on this very subject. He told me that he was squeezed flat against the side of the shaft by the rubbish which buried him, and that he did not lose consciousness for a moment. A large stone had stuck right above his head, and this probably saved him. He heard us digging down to him, he said, and when we got close he sang out to hold on, as the shovel was touching him. Sure enough this was the case, for the next shovelful of rubbish that was lifted revealed the top of his head! We cleared the way to his mouth as carefully as we could, and then gave him a drop of brandy before going on with the work of excavation. His comrade was found in a stooping position, and was more severely bruised than old Harvey, but both of them lived to tell the tale of their burial, and to thank God for their deliverance. Yes,” continued the captain, detaching his candle from the wall and resuming his walk, “we have narrow escapes sometimes.—Look here, doctor, did you ever see a rock like that?”

Captain Dan pointed to a place in the side of the rocky wall which was grooved and cut as if with a huge gouge or chisel, and highly polished. “It was never cut by man in that fashion; we found it as you see it, and there’s many of ’em in the mine. We call ’em slinking slides.”

“The marks must have been caused when the rocks were in a state of partial fusion,” observed Oliver, examining the place with much curiosity.

“I don’t know as to that, sir,” said the captain, moving on, “but there they are, and some of ’em polished to that extent you could almost see your face in ’em.”

On turning the corner of a jutting rock a light suddenly appeared, revealing a pair of large eyes and a double row of teeth, as it were gleaming out of the darkness. On drawing nearer, this was discovered to be a miner, whose candle was at some little distance, and only shone on him partially.

“Well, Jack, what’s doing?” asked the captain.

The man cast a disconsolate look on a large mass of rock which lay in the middle of the path at his feet. He had been only too successful in his last blasting, and had detached a mass so large that he could not move it.

“It’s too hard for to break, Captain Dan.”

“Better get it into the truck,” said the captain.

“Can’t lift it, sur,” said the man, who grudged to go through the tedious process of boring it for a second blast.

“You must get it out o’ that, Jack, at all events. It won’t do to let it lie there,” said the captain, passing on, and leaving the miner to get out of his difficulty as best he might.

A few minutes more and they came on a “pare” of men (in other words, a band of two or more men working together) who were “stopeing-in the back of the level,” as they termed the process of cutting upwards into the roof.

“There’s a fellow in a curious place!” said Oliver, peering up through an irregular hole, in which a man was seen at work standing on a plank supported by a ladder. He was chiselling with great vigour at the rock over his head, and immediately beyond him another man stood on a plank supported by a beam of timber, and busily engaged in a similar occupation. Both men were stripped to the waist, and panted at their toil. The little chamber or cavern in which they worked was brilliantly illuminated by their two candles, and their athletic figures stood out, dark and picturesque, against the light glistering walls.

“A curious place, and a singular man!” observed the captain; “that fellow’s family is not a small one.—Hallo! James Martin.”

“Hallo! Captain Dan,” replied the miner, looking down.

“How many children have you had?”

“How many child’n say ’ee?”

“Ay, how many?”

“I’ve had nineteen, sur, an’ there’s eight of ’em alive. Seven of ’em came in three year an six months, sur—three doubles an’ a single, but them uns are all gone dead, sur.”

“How old are you, Jim?”

“Forty-seven, sur.”

“Your brother Tom is at work here, isn’t he?”

“Iss, in the south level, drivin’ the end.”

“How many children has Tom had, Jim?”

“Seventeen, sur, an’ seven of ’em’s alive; but Tom’s only thirty-eight years old, sur.” (See note 3.)

“Good-morning, Jim.”

“Good-morning, Captain Dan,” replied the sturdy miner, resuming his work.

“Good specimens of men these,” said the captain, with a quiet smile, to Oliver. “Of course I don’t mean to say that all the miners hereabouts are possessed of such large families—nevertheless there are, as I dare say you have observed, a good many children in and about St. Just!”

Proceeding onward they diverged into a branch level, where a number of men were working overhead; boring holes into the roof and burrowing upwards. They all drove onwards through flinty rock by the same slow and toilsome process that has already been described—namely, by chipping with the pick, driving holes with the borer, and blasting with gunpowder.

As the Captain and Oliver traversed this part of the mine they had occasionally to squeeze past small iron trucks which stood below holes in the sides of the level, down which ever and anon masses of ore and débris came from the workings above with a hard crashing noise. The ore was rich with tin, but the metal was invisible to any but trained eyes. To Oliver Trembath the whole stuff appeared like wet rubbish.

Suddenly a low muffled report echoed through the cavernous place. It was followed by five or six similar reports in succession.

“They are blasting,” said Captain Dan.

As he spoke, the thick muddy shoes and brick-dust legs of a man appeared coming down the hole that had previously discharged ore. The man himself followed his legs, and, alighting thereon, saluted Captain Dan with a free-and-easy “Good-morning.” Another man followed him; from a different part of the surrounding darkness a third made his appearance, and others came trooping in, until upwards of a dozen of them were collected in the narrow tunnel, each with his tallow candle in his hand or hat, so that the place was lighted brilliantly. They were all clad in loose, patched, and ragged clothes. All were of a uniform rusty-red colour, each with his broad bosom bared, and perspiration trickling down his besmeared countenance.

Here, however, the uniformity of their appearance ended, for they were of all sizes and characters. Some were robust and muscular; some were lean and wiry; some were just entering on manhood, with the ruddy hue of health shining through the slime on their smooth faces; some were in the prime of life, pale from long working underground, but strong, and almost as hard as the iron with which they chiselled the rocks. Others were growing old, and an occasional cough told that the “miners’ complaint” had begun its fatal undermining of the long-enduring, too-long-tried human body. There were one or two whose iron constitutions had resisted the evil influences of wet garments, bad air, and chills, and who, with much of the strength of manhood, and some of the colour of youth, were still plying their hammers in old age. But these were rare specimens of vigour and longevity; not many such are to be found in Botallack mine. The miner’s working life is a short one, and comparatively few of those who begin it live to a healthy old age. Little boys were there, too, diminutive but sturdy urchins, miniature copies of their seniors, though somewhat dirtier; proud as peacocks because of being permitted at so early an age to accompany their fathers or brothers underground, and their bosoms swelling with that stern Cornish spirit of determination to face and overcome great difficulties, which has doubtless much to do with the excessive development of chest and shoulder for which Cornish miners, especially those of St. Just, are celebrated. (See note 4.)

It turned out that the men had all arranged to fire their holes at the same hour, and assemble in a lower level to take lunch, or, as they term it, “kroust,” while the smoke should clear away. This rendered it impossible for the captain to take his young companion further into the workings at that part of the mine, so they contented themselves with a chat with the men. These sat down in a row, and, each man unrolling a parcel containing a pasty or a thick lump of cake with currants in it, commenced the demolition thereof with as much zeal as had previously been displayed in the demolition of the rock. This frugal fare was washed down with water drawn from little flat barrels or canteens, while they commented lightly, grumblingly, or laughingly, according to temperament, on the poor condition of the lode at which they wrought. We have already said that in mining, as in other things, fortune fluctuates, and it was “hard times” with the men of Botallack at that period.

Before they had proceeded far with their meal, one of the pale-faced men began to cough.

“Smoke’s a-coming down,” he said.

“We shall ’ave to move, then,” observed another.

The pouring in of gunpowder smoke here set two or three more a-coughing, and obliged them all to rise and seek for purer—perhaps it were better to say less impure—air in another part of the level, where the draught kept the smoke away. Here, squatting down on heaps of wet rubbish, and sticking their candles against the damp walls, they continued their meal, and here the captain and Oliver left them, retraced their steps to the foot of the shaft, and began the ascent to the surface, or, in mining parlance, began to “return to grass.”

Up, up, up—the process now was reversed, and the labour increased tenfold. Up they went on these nearly perpendicular and interminable ladders, slowly, for they had a long journey before them; cautiously, for Oliver had a tendency to butt his head against beams, and knock his candle out of shape; carefully, for the rounds of the ladders were wet and slimy and a slip of foot or hand might in a moment have precipitated them into the black gulf below; and pantingly, for strength of limb and lung could not altogether defy the influence of such a prolonged and upright climb.

If Oliver Trembath felt, while descending, as though he should never reach the bottom, he felt far more powerfully as if reaching the top were an event of the distant future—all the more that the muscles of his arms and legs, unused to the peculiar process, were beginning to feel rather stiff. This feeling, however, soon passed away, and when he began to grow warm to the work, his strength seemed to return and to increase with each step—a species of revival of vigour in the midst of hard toil with which probably all strong men are acquainted.

Up they went, ladder after ladder, squeezing through narrow places, rubbing against wet rocks and beams, scraping against the boarding of the kibble-shaft, and being scraped by the pump-rods until both of them were as wet and red and dirty as any miner below.

As he advanced, Oliver began to take note of the places he had passed on the way down, and so much had he seen and thought during his sojourn underground, that, when he reached the level where he first came upon the noisy kibbles, and made acquaintance with the labouring pump-rod, he almost hailed the spot as an old familiar landmark of other days!

A circumstance occurred just then which surprised him not a little, and tended to fix this locality still more deeply on his memory. While he was standing in the level, waiting until the captain should relight and trim his much and oft bruised candle, the kibbles began their noisy motion. This was nothing new now, but at the same time the shout of distant voices was heard, as if the gnomes held revelry in their dreary vaults. They drew gradually nearer, and Oliver could distinguish laughter mingled with the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

“Foolish lads!” ejaculated Captain Dan with a smile, and an expression that proved he took some interest in the folly, whatever it might be.

“What is it?” inquired Oliver.

“They are racing to the kibble. Look and you shall see,” replied the other.

Just then a man who had outrun his comrades appeared at the place where the level joined the shaft, just opposite. Almost at the same moment the kibble appeared flying upwards. The miner leaped upon it, caught and clung to the chain as it passed, and shouted a defiant adieu to his less fortunate comrades, who arrived just in time to witness him disappear upwards in this rapid manner “to grass.”

“That’s the way the young ones risk their lives,” said the captain, shaking his head remonstratively; “if that young fellow had missed the kibble he would have been dashed to pieces at the bottom of the shaft.”

Again Captain Dan said “Foolish lads,” and shook his head so gravely that Oliver could not help regarding him with the respect due to a sedate, fatherly sort of man; but Oliver was young and unsophisticated, and did not know at the time that the captain had himself been noted in his youth as an extremely reckless and daring fellow, and that a considerable spice of the daring remained in him still!

Diverging to the right at this point Captain Dan led Oliver to an old part of the mine, where there were a couple of men opening up and extending one of the old levels. Their progress here was very different from what it had been. Evidently the former miners had not thought it worth their while to open up a wide passage for themselves, and Oliver found it necessary to twist his broad shoulders into all sorts of positions to get them through.

The first level they came to in this part was not more than three feet high at the entrance.

“A man can’t hold his head very high here, sir,” said his guide.

“Truly no, it is scarce high enough for my legs to walk in without any body above them,” said Oliver. “However, lead the way, and I will follow.”

The captain stooped and made his way through a winding passage where the roof was so low in many places that they were obliged to bend quite double, and the back and neck of the young doctor began to feel the strain very severely. There were, however, a few spots where the roof rose a little, affording temporary relief. Presently they came to the place where the men were at work. The ground was very soft here; the men were cutting through soft granite!—a condition of the stone which Oliver confessed he had never expected to see. Here the lights burned very badly.

“What can be the matter with it?” said Oliver, stopping for the third time to trim the wick of his candle.

Captain Dan smiled as he said, “You asked me, last night, to take you into one of the levels where the air was bad—now here you are, with the air so bad that the candle will hardly burn. It will be worse before night.”

“But I feel no disagreeable sensation,” said Oliver. “Possibly not, because you are not quite so sensitive as the flame of a candle, but if you remain here a few hours it will tell upon you. Here are the men—you can ask them.”

The two men were resting when they approached. One was old, the other middle-aged. Both were hearty fellows, and communicative. The old one, especially, was ruddy in complexion and pretty strong.

“You look well for an old miner,” said Oliver; “what may be your age?”

“About sixty, sur.”

“Indeed! you are a notable exception to the rule. How comes it that you look so fresh?”

“Can’t say, sur,” replied the old man with a peculiar smile; “few miners live to my time of life, much less do they go underground. P’raps it’s because I neither drink nor smoke. Tom there, now,” he added, pointing to his comrade with his thumb, “he ain’t forty yit, but he’s so pale as a ghost; though he is strong ’nuff.”

“And do you neither drink nor smoke, Tom?” inquired Oliver.

“Well, sur, I both smokes and drinks, but I do take ’em in moderation,” said Tom.

“Are you married?” asked Oliver, turning again to the old man.

“Iss, got a wife at hum, an’ had six child’n.”

“Don’t you find this bad air tell on your health?” he continued.

“Iss, sur. After six or seven hours I do feel my head like to split, an’ my stummik as if it wor on fire; but what can us do? we must live, you knaw.”

Bidding these men goodbye, the captain and Oliver went down to another level, and then along a series of low galleries, in some of which they had to advance on their hands and knees, and in one of them, particularly, the accumulation of rubbish was so great, and the roof so low, that they could only force a passage through by wriggling along at full length like snakes. Beyond this they found a miner and a little boy at work; and here Captain Dan pointed out to his companion that the lodes of copper and tin were rich. Glittering particles on the walls and drops of water hanging from points and crevices, with the green, purple, and yellow colours around, combined to give the place a brilliant metallic aspect.

“You’d better break off a piece of ore here,” said Captain Dan.

Oliver took a chisel and hammer from the miner, and applying them to the rock, spent five minutes in belabouring it with scarcely any result.

“If it were not that I fear to miss the chisel and hit my knuckles,” he said, “I think I could work more effectively.”

As he spoke he struck with all his force, and brought down a large piece, a chip of which he carried away as a memorial of his underground ramble.

“The man is going to fire the hole,” said Captain Dan; “you’d better wait and see it.”

The hole was sunk nearly two feet deep diagonally behind a large mass of rock that projected from the side of the level. It was charged with gunpowder, and filled up with “tamping” or pounded granite, Then the miner lighted the fuse and hastened away, giving the usual signal, “Fire!” The others followed him to a safe distance, and awaited the result. In a few minutes there was a loud report, a bright blinding flash, and a concussion of the air which extinguished two of the candles. Immediately a crash followed, as the heavy mass of rock was torn from its bed and hurled to the ground.

“That’s the way we raise tin and copper,” said Captain Dan; “now, doctor, we had better return, if you would not be left in darkness, for our candles are getting low.”

“Did you ever travel underground in the dark?” inquired Oliver.

“Not often, but I have done it occasionally. Once, in particular, I went down the main shaft in the dark, and gave a miner an awful fright. I had to go down in haste at the time, and, not having a candle at hand, besides being well acquainted with the way, I hurried down in the dark. It so chanced that a man named Sampy had got his light put out when about to ascend the shaft, and, as he also was well acquainted with the way, he did not take the trouble to relight. There was a good deal of noise in consequence of the pump being at work. When I had got about half-way down I put my foot on something that felt soft. Instantly there was uttered a tremendous yell, and my legs at the same moment were seized by something from below. My heart almost jumped out of my mouth at this, but as the yell was repeated it flashed across me I must have trod on some one’s fingers, so I lifted my foot at once, and then a voice, which I knew to be that of Sampy, began to wail and lament miserably.

“‘Hope I haven’t hurt ’ee, Sampy?’ said I.

“‘Aw dear! aw dear! aw, my dear!’ was all that poor Sampy could reply.

“‘Let us go up, my son,’ said I, ‘and we’ll strike a light.’

“So up we went to the next level, where I got hold of the poor lad’s candle and lighted it.

“‘Aw, my dear!’ said Sampy, looking at his fingers with a rueful countenance; ‘thee have scat ’em all in jowds.’”

“Pray,” interrupted Oliver, “what may be the meaning of ‘scat ’em all in jowds’?

“Broke ’em all in pieces,” replied Captain Dan; “but he was wrong, for no bones were broken, and the fingers were all right again in the course of a few days. Sampy got a tremendous fright, however, and he was never known to travel underground without a light after that.”

Continuing to retrace their steps, Captain Dan and Oliver made for the main shaft. On the way they came to another of those immense empty spaces where a large lode had been worked away, and nothing left in the dark narrow void but the short beams which had supported the working stages of the men. Here Oliver, looking down through a hole at his feet, saw several men far below him. They were at work on the “end” in three successive tiers—above each other’s heads.

“You’ve seen two of these men before,” said Captain Dan.

“Have I?”

“Yes, they are local preachers. The last time you saw the upper one,” said Captain Dan with a smile, “you were seated in the Wesleyan chapel, and he was in the pulpit dressed like a gentleman, and preaching as eloquently as if he had been educated at college and trained for the ministry.”

“I should like very much to go down and visit them,” said Oliver.

“’Tis a difficult descent. There are no ladders. Will your head stand stepping from beam to beam, and can you lower yourself by a chain?”

“I’ll try,” said Oliver.

Without more words Captain Dan left the platform on which they had been walking, and, descending through a hole, led his companion by the most rugged way he had yet attempted. Sometimes they slid on their heels down places that Oliver would not have dreamed of attempting without a guide; at other times they stepped from beam to beam, with unknown depths below them.

“Have a care here, sir,” said the captain, pausing before a very steep place. “I will go first and wait for you.”

So saying, he seized a piece of old rusty chain that was fastened into the rock, and swung himself down. Then, looking up, he called to Oliver to follow.

The young doctor did so, and, having cautiously lowered himself a few yards, he reached a beam, where he found the captain holding up his candle, and regarding him with some anxiety. Captain Dan appeared as if suspended in mid-air. Opposite to him, in the distance, the two “local preachers” were hard at work with hammer and chisel, while far below, a miner could be seen coming along the next level, and pushing an iron truck full of ore before him.

A few more steps and slides, and then a short ascent, and Oliver stood beside the man who had preached the previous Sunday. He worked with another miner, and was red, ragged, and half-clad, like all the rest, and the perspiration was pouring over his face, which was streaked with slime. Very unlike was he at that time to the gentlemanly youth who had held forth from the pulpit. Oliver had a long chat with him, and found that he aspired to enter the ministry, and had already passed some severe examinations. He was self-taught, having procured the loan of books from his minister and some friends who were interested in him. His language and manners were those of a gentleman, yet he had had no advantages beyond his fellows.

“My friend there, sir, also hopes to enter the ministry,” said the miner, pointing, as he spoke, to a gap between the boards on which he stood.

Oliver looked down, and there beheld a stalwart young man, about a couple of yards under his feet, wielding a hammer with tremendous vigour. His light linen coat was open, displaying his bared and muscular bosom.

“What! is he a local preacher also?”

“He is, sir,” said the miner, with a smile.

Oliver immediately descended to the stage below, and had a chat with this man also, after which he left them at their work, wondering very much at the intelligence and learning displayed by them; for he remembered that in their sermons they had, without notes, without hesitation, and without a grammatical error, entered into the most subtle metaphysical reasoning (rather too much of it indeed!), and had preached with impassioned (perhaps too impassioned) eloquence, quoting poets and prose writers, ancient and modern, with the facility of good scholars—while they urged men and women to repent and flee to Christ, with all the fervour of men thoroughly in earnest. On the other hand, he knew that their opportunities for self-education were not great, and that they had to toil in the meantime for daily bread, at the rate of about 3 pounds a month!

Following Captain Dan, Oliver soon reached the ladder-way.

While slowly and in silence ascending the ladders; they heard a sound of music above them.

“Men coming down to work, singing,” said the captain, as they stood on a cross-beam to listen.

The sounds at first were very faint and inexpressibly sweet. By degrees they became more distinct, and Oliver could distinguish several voices singing in harmony, keeping time to the slow measured tread of their descending steps. There seemed a novelty, and yet a strange familiarity, in the strains as they were wafted softly down upon his ear, until they drew near, and the star-like candles of the miners became visible. Their manly voices then poured forth in full strength the glorious psalm-tune called “French,” which is usually sung in Scotland to the beautiful psalm beginning, “I to the hills will lift mine eyes.”

The men stopped abruptly on encountering their captain and the stranger. Exchanging a few words with the former, they stood aside on the beams to let them pass. A little boy came last. His small limbs were as active as those of his more stalwart comrades, and he exhibited no signs of fatigue. His treble voice, too, was heard high and tuneful among the others as they continued their descent and resumed the psalm. The sweet strains retired gradually, and faded in the depths below as they had first stolen on the senses from above; and the pleasant memory of them still remained with the young doctor when he emerged from the mine through the hole at the head of the shaft, and stood once more in the blessed sunshine!

Chapter Nine.

Treats of Difficulties to be Overcome.

One afternoon a council—we may appropriately say of war—was held in St. Just. The scene of the council was the shop of Maggot, the blacksmith, and the members of it were a number of miners, the president being the worthy smith himself, who, with a sledge-hammer under his arm in the position of a short crutch, occupied the chair, if we may be allowed so to designate the raised hearth of the forge.

The war with poverty had not been very successfully waged of late, and, at the time of which we write, the enemy had apparently given the miners a severe check, in the way of putting what appeared to be an insuperable obstacle in their path.

“Now, lads,” said Maggot, with a slap on the leathern apron that covered his knees, “this is the way on it, an’ do ’ee be quiet and hould yer tongues while I do spaik.”

The other men, of whom there were nearly a dozen, nodded and said, “Go on, booy; thee’s knaw tin, sure;” by which expression they affirmed their belief that the blacksmith was a very knowing fellow.

“You do tell me that you’ve come so close to water that you’re ’fraid to go on? Is that so?”

“Iss, iss,” responded the others.

“Well, I’ll hole into the house, ef you do agree to give un a good pitch,” said Maggot.

“Agreed, one and all,” cried the miners.

In order that the reader may understand the drift of this conversation, it is necessary to explain that the indefatigable miner, David Trevarrow, whom we have already introduced in his submarine workshop, had, according to his plan, changed his ground, and transferred his labour to a more hopeful part of the mine.

For some time previous the men had been at work on a lode which was very promising, but they were compelled to cease following it, because it approached the workings of an old part of the mine which was known to be full of water. To tap this old part, or as the miners expressed it, to “hole into this house of water,” was, they were well aware, an exceedingly dangerous operation. The part of the mine to which we allude was not under the sea, but back a little from the shore, and was not very deep at that time. The “adit”—or water-conducting—level by which the spot was reached commenced at the cliffs, on a level with the seashore, and ran into the interior until it reached the old mine, about a quarter of a mile inland. Here was situated the “house,” which was neither more nor less than a number of old shafts and levels filled with water. As they had approached the old mine its near proximity was made disagreeably evident by the quantity of moisture that oozed through the crevices in the rocks—moisture which ere long took the form of a number of tiny rills—and at last began to spirt out from roof and sides in such a way that the miners became alarmed, and hesitated to continue to work in a place where they ran the most imminent risk of being suddenly drowned and swept into the sea, by the bursting of the rocks that still withstood the immense pressure of the confined water.

It was at this point in the undertaking that David Trevarrow went to examine the place, and made the discovery of a seam—a “keenly lode”—which had such a promising appearance that the anxiety of the miners to get rid of this obstructive “house” was redoubled.

It was at this point, too, that the council of which we write was held, in order to settle who should have the undesirable privilege of constituting the “forlorn hope” in their subterranean assault.

Maggot, who was known to be one of the boldest, and, at the same time, one of the most utterly reckless, men in St. Just, was appealed to in the emergency, and, as we have seen, offered to attack the enemy single-handed, on condition that the miners should give him a “pitch” of the good lode they had found—that is, give him the right to work out a certain number of fathoms of ore for himself.

They agreed to this, but one of them expressed some doubt as to Maggot’s courage being equal to the occasion.

To this remark Maggot vouchsafed no other reply than a frown, but his friend and admirer John Cock exclaimed in supreme contempt,—“What! Maggot afear’d to do it! aw, my dear, hould tha tongue.”

“But he haven’t bin to see the place,” urged the previous speaker.

“No, my son,” said Maggot, turning on the man with a look of pity, “but he can go an’ see it. Come, lads, lev us go an’ see this place of danger.”

The miners rose at once as Maggot threw his forehammer on a heap of coals, put on his hat, and strode out of the forge with a reckless fling. A few minutes sufficed to bring them to the beach at the mouth of the adit.

It was a singularly wild spot, close under those precipitous cliffs on which some of the picturesque buildings of Botallack mine are perched—a sort of narrow inlet or gorge which from its form is named the Narrow Zawn. There was nothing worthy of the name of a beach at the place, save a little piece of rugged ground near the adit mouth, which could be reached only by a zigzag path on the face of the almost perpendicular precipice.

Arrived here, each man lighted a candle, wrapped the customary piece of wet clay round the middle of it, and entered the narrow tunnel. They advanced in single file, James Penrose leading. The height of the adit permitted of their walking almost upright, but the irregularity of the cuttings rendered it necessary that they should advance carefully, with special regard to their heads. In about a quarter of an hour they reached a comparatively open space—that is to say, there were several extensions of the cutting in various directions, which gave the place the appearance of being a small cavern, instead of a narrow tunnel. Here the water, which in other parts of the adit flowed along the bottom, ran down the walls and spirted in fine streams from the almost invisible crevices of the rock, thus betraying at once the proximity and the power of the pent-up water.

“What think’ee now, my son?” asked an elderly man who stood at Maggot’s elbow.

After a short pause, during which he sternly regarded the rocks before him, the smith replied, “I’ll do it,” in the tone and with the air of a man who knows that what he has made up his mind to do is not child’s play.

The question being thus settled, the miners retraced their steps and went to their several homes.

Entering his cottage, the smith found his little girl Grace busily engaged in the interesting process of nursing the baby. He seated himself in a chair by the fireside, smoked his pipe, and watched the process, while his wife busied herself in preparing the evening meal.

Oh! but the little Maggot was a big baby—a worthy representative of his father—a true chip of the old block, for he was not only fat, riotous, and muscular, but very reckless, and extremely positive. His little nurse, on the contrary, was gentle and delicate; not much bigger than the baby, although a good deal older, and she had a dreadful business of it to keep him in order. All her efforts at lifting and restraining him were somewhat akin to the exertion made by wrestlers to throw each other by main force, and her intense desire to make baby Maggot “be good” was repaid by severe kicks on the shins, and sundry dabs in the face with, luckily, a soft, fat pair of fists.

“Sit ’ee quiet, now, or I’ll scat oo nose,” said the little nurse suddenly, with a terrible frown.

It need scarcely be said that she had not the remotest; intention of carrying out this dreadful threat to smash the little Maggot’s nose. She accompanied it, however, with a twist that suddenly placed the urchin in a sitting posture, much to his own surprise, for he opened his eyes very wide, drew his breath sharply, and appeared to meditate a roar. He thought better of it, however, and relapsed into goodness just as the door opened, and David Trevarrow entered.

“Oh, uncle David,” cried little Grace, jumping up and running towards him, “do help me nuss baby.”

“What’s the matter with the cheeld—bad, eh? Fetch un to me and I’ll cure him.”

There was no necessity to fetch baby, for that obstreperous individual entertained an immense regard for “Unkil Day,” and was already on his fat legs staggering across the floor to him with outstretched arms. Thereafter he only required a pair of wings to make him a complete cherub.

Little Grace, relieved of her charge, at once set to work to assist her mother in household matters. She was one of those dear little earnest creatures who of their own accord act in a motherly and wifely way from their early years. To look at little Grace’s serious thoroughgoing face, when she chanced to pause in the midst of work, and meditate what was to be done next, one might imagine that the entire care of the household had suddenly devolved upon her shoulders. In the matter of housewifery little Grace was almost equal to big Grace, her respected mother; in downright honesty and truthfulness she greatly excelled her.

The description of Maggot’s household, on that evening, would be very incomplete were we to omit mention of Zackey Maggot. That young man—for man he deemed himself, and man he was, in all respects, except the trifling matters of years, size, and whiskers—that young man entered the room with his uncle, and, without deigning to change his wet red garments, sat him down at his father’s feet and caught hold of a small black kitten, which, at the time, lay sound asleep on the hearth, and began to play with it in a grave patronising way, as though his taking notice of it at all were a condescension.

That black kitten, or Chet, as it was usually styled, was accustomed to be strangled the greater part of the morning by the baby. Most of the afternoon it was worried by Zackey, and, during the intervals of torment, it experienced an unusually large measure of the vicissitudes incident to kitten life—such as being kicked out of the way by Maggot senior, or thrown or terrified out of the way by Mrs Maggot, or dashed at by stray dogs, or yelled at by passing boys. The only sunshine of its life (which was at all times liable to be suddenly clouded) was when it slept, or when little Grace put it on her soft neck, tickled its chin, and otherwise soothed its ruffled spirit, as only a loving heart knows how. A bad memory seemed to be that kitten’s chief blessing. A horror of any kind was no sooner past than it was straightway forgotten, and the facetious animal would advance with arched back and glaring eyes in defiance of an incursive hen, or twirl in mad hopeless career after its own miserable tail!

“’Tis a keenly lode,” said Maggot, puffing his pipe thoughtfully.

“Iss,” assented David Trevarrow, also puffing his pipe, at the clouds issuing from which baby gazed with endless amazement and admiration; “it’s worth much, but it isn’t worth your life.”

“Sure, I ain’t goin’ to give my life for’t,” replied Maggot.

“But you’re goin’ to risk it,” said David, “an’ you shouldn’t, for you’ve a wife an’ child’n to provide for. Now, I tell ’ee what it is: you lev it to me. I’ll hole to the house. It don’t matter much what happens to me.”

“No, ’ee won’t,” said Maggot stoutly; “what I do promise to do I will do.”

“But if you die?” said David.

“Well, what if I do? we have all to come to that some day, sooner or later.”

“Are you prepared to die?” asked Trevarrow earnestly.

“Now, David, don’t ’ee trouble me with that. ’Tis all very well for the women an’ child’n, but it don’t suit me, it don’t, so lev us have no more of it, booy. I’ll do it to-morrow, that’s fixed, so now we’ll have a bit supper.”

The tone in which Maggot said this assured David that further conversation would be useless, so he dropped the subject and sat down with the rest of the family to their evening meal.

Chapter Ten.

Shows how Maggot made a Desperate Venture, and what Flowed from it.

“A wilful man must have his way” is a proverb the truth of which was illustrated by the blacksmith on the following day.

David Trevarrow again attempted to dissuade him from his purpose, and reiterated his offer to go in his stead, but he failed to move him. Mrs Maggot essayed, and added tears to her suasion, as also did little Grace; but they failed too—the obdurate man would not give way. The only one of his household who did not attempt to dissuade him (excepting, of course, the baby, who cared nothing whatever about the matter) was Zackey. That urchin not only rejoiced in the failure of the others to turn his father from his purpose, but pleaded hard to be allowed to go with him, and share his danger as well as glory. This, however, was peremptorily denied to the young aspirant to fame and a premature death by drowning in a dark hole.

Early in the forenoon Maggot and his friends proceeded to the shore, where they found a number of miners and others assembled near the adit mouth—among them our hero Oliver Trembath, Mr Donnithorne, and Mr Cornish, at that time the purser and manager of Botallack mine.

The latter gentleman accosted Maggot as he came forward, and advised him to be cautious. Of course the smith gave every assurance that was required of him, and immediately prepared himself to make the dangerous experiment.

Supplying himself with a number of tallow candles, a mining hammer, and other tools, Maggot stripped to the waist, and jestingly bidding his friends farewell, entered the mouth of the tunnel, and disappeared. The adit level, or tunnel, through which he had to pass to the scene of his operations, was, as we have said, about a quarter of a mile in length, about six feet high, and two and a half feet wide. It varied in dimensions here and there, however, and was rough and irregular throughout.

For the first hundred yards or so Maggot could see well enough to grope his way by the daylight which streamed in at the entrance of the adit, but beyond this point all was intense darkness; so here he stopped, and, striking a light by means of flint, steel, and tinder, lit one of his candles. This he attached to a piece of wet clay in the usual fashion, except that he placed the clay at the lower end of the candle instead of round the middle of it. He then stuck it against the rock a little above the level of his head. Lighting another candle he advanced with it in his hand. Walking, or rather wading onward (for the stream was ankle-deep) far enough to be almost beyond the influence of the first candle, he stopped again and stuck up another. Thus, at intervals, he placed candles along the entire length of the adit, so that he might have light to guide him in his race from the water which he hoped to set free. This precaution was necessary, because, although he meant to carry a candle in his hat all the time, there was a possibility—nay, a strong probability—that it would be blown or drowned out.

Little more than a quarter of an hour brought him to the scene of his intended adventure. Here he found the water spirting out all round, much more violently than it had been the day before. He did not waste much time in consideration, having made up his mind on the previous visit as to which part of the rock he would drive the hole through. Sticking his last candle, therefore, against the driest part of the wall that could be found, he seized his tools and commenced work.

We have already said that Maggot was a strong man. As he stood there, naked to the waist, holding the borer with his left hand, and plying the hammer with all his might with the other, his great breadth of shoulder and development of muscle were finely displayed by the candlelight, which fell in brilliant gleams on parts of his frame, while the rest of him was thrown into shadow, so deep that it would have appeared black, but for the deeper shade by which it was surrounded—the whole scene presenting a grand Rembrandt effect.

It is unnecessary to say that Maggot wrought with might and main. Excited somewhat by the novelty and danger of his undertaking, he felt relieved by the violence of his exertion. He knew, besides, that the candles which were to light him on his return were slowly but surely burning down. Blow after blow resounded through the place incessantly. When the smith’s right arm felt a very little wearied—it was too powerful to be soon or greatly exhausted—he shifted the hammer to his left hand, and so the work went on. Suddenly and unexpectedly the borer was driven to its head into the hole by a tremendous blow. The rock behind it had given way. Almost at the same instant a large mass of rock burst outwards, followed by a stream of water so thick and violent that it went straight at the opposite side of the cavern, against which it burst in white foam. This, rebounding back and around, rushed against roof and sides with such force that the whole place was at once deluged.

Maggot was knocked down at the first gush, but leaped up and turned to fly. Of course both candles—that in his hat as well as that which he had affixed to the wall—were extinguished, and he was at once plunged in total darkness, for the rays of the next light, although visible, were too feeble to penetrate with any effect to the extremity of the adit. Blinded by rushing water and confused by his fall, the smith mistook his direction, and ran against the side of the level with such violence that he fell again, but his sturdy frame withstood the shock, and once more he sprang to his feet and leaped along the narrow tunnel with all the energy of desperation.

Well was it for Maggot at that hour that his heart was bold and his faculties cool and collected, else then and there his career had ended. Bending forward and stooping low, he bounded away like a hunted deer, but the rush of water was so great that it rapidly gained on him, and, by concealing the uneven places in the path, caused him to stumble. His relay of candles served him in good stead; nevertheless, despite their light and his own caution, he more than once narrowly missed dashing out his brains on the low roof. On came the water after the fugitive, a mighty, hissing, vaulting torrent, filling the level behind, and leaping up on the man higher and higher as he struggled and floundered on for life. Quickly, and before quarter of the distance to the adit mouth was traversed, it gurgled up to his waist, swept him off his legs, and hurled him against projecting rocks. Once and again did he succeed in regaining his foothold, but in a moment or two the rising flood swept him down and hurled him violently onward, sporting with him on its foaming crest until it disgorged him at last, and cast him, stunned, bruised, and bleeding, on the seashore.

Of course the unfortunate man’s friends had waited for him with some impatience, and great was their anxiety when the first of the flood made its appearance. When, immediately after, the battered form of their comrade was flung on the beach, they ran forward and bore him out of the stream.

Oliver Trembath being on the spot, Maggot wae at once attended to, and his wounds bound up.

“He’ll do; he’s all right,” said Oliver, on completing the work—“only got a few cuts and bruises, and lost a little blood, but that won’t harm him.”

The expression of anxiety that had appeared on the faces of those who stood around at once vanished on hearing these reassuring words.

“I knaw’d it,” said John Cock energetically. “I knaw’d he couldn’t be killed—not he.”

“I trust that you may be right, Oliver,” said old Mr Donnithorne, looking with much concern on the pale countenance of the poor smith, who still lay stretched out, with only a slight motion of the chest to prove that the vital spark had not been altogether extinguished.

“No fear of him, he’s sure to come round,” replied Oliver; “come, lads, up with him on your backs.”

He raised the smith’s shoulder as he spoke. Three tall and powerful miners promptly lent their aid, and Maggot was raised shoulder-high, and conveyed up the steep, winding path that led to the top of the cliff.

“It would never do to lose Maggot,” murmured Mr Donnithorne, as if speaking to himself while he followed the procession beside Mr Cornish; “he’s far too good a—”

“A smuggler—eh?” interrupted the purser, with a laugh.

“Eh, ah! did I say smuggler?” cried Mr Donnithorne; “surely not, for of all vices that of smuggling is one of the worst, unless it be an overfondness for the bottle. I meant to have said that he is too valuable a man for St. Just to lose—in many ways; and you know, Mr Cornish, that he is a famous wrestler—a man of whom St. Just may be justly proud.”

Mr Donnithorne cast a sly glance at his companion, whom he knew to be partial to the ancient Cornish pastime of wrestling. Indeed, if report said truly, the worthy purser had himself in his youthful days been a celebrated amateur wrestler, one who had never been thrown, even although he had on more than one occasion been induced in a frolic to enter the public ring and measure his strength with the best men that could be brought against him. He was long past the time of life when men indulge in such rough play, but his tall commanding figure and huge chest and shoulders were quite sufficient to warrant the belief that what was said of him was possible, while the expression of his fine massive countenance, and the humorous glance of his clear, black eye, bore evidence that it was highly probable.

“’Twould be foul injustice,” said the purser with a quiet laugh, “if I were to deny that Maggot is a good man and true, in the matter of wrestling; nevertheless he is an arrant rogue, and defrauds the revenue woefully. But, after all he is only the cat’s-paw; those who employ him are the real sinners—eh, Mr Donnithorne?”

“Surely, surely,” replied the old gentleman with much gravity; “and it is to be hoped that this accident will have the effect of turning Maggot from his evil ways.”

The purser could not refrain from a laugh at the hypocritical solemnity of the old gentleman, who was, he well knew, one of the very sinners whom he condemned with such righteous indignation, but their arrival at Maggot’s cottage prevented further conversation on the subject at that time.

Mrs Maggot, although a good deal agitated when her husband’s almost inanimate and bloody form was carried in and laid on the bed, was by no means overcome with alarm. She, like the wives of St. Just miners generally, was too well accustomed to hear of accidents and to see their results, to give way to wild fears before she had learned the extent of her calamity; so, when she found that it was not serious, she dried her eyes, and busied herself in attending to all the little duties which the occasion required. Little Grace, too, although terribly frightened, and very pale, was quite self-possessed, and went about the house assisting her mother ably, despite the tendency to sob, which she found it very difficult to overcome. But the baby behaved in the most shameful and outrageous manner. His naughtiness is almost indescribable. The instant the door opened, and his father’s bloody face was presented to view, baby set up a roar so tremendous that a number of dogs in the neighbourhood struck in with a loud chorus, and the black kitten, startled out of an innocent slumber, rushed incontinently under the bed, faced about, and fuffed in impotent dismay!

But not only did baby roar—he also fell on the floor and kicked, thereby rendering his noise exasperating, besides exposing his fat person to the risk of being trod upon. Zackey was therefore told off as a detachment to keep this enemy in check, a duty which he performed nobly, until his worthy father was comfortably put to bed, after which the friends retired, and left the smith to the tender care of his own family.

“He has done good service anyhow,” observed Mr Donnithorne to his nephew, as he parted from him that evening; “for he has cleared the mine of water that it would have cost hundreds of pounds and many months to pump out.”

Chapter Eleven.

Shows that Music hath Charms, and also that it sometimes has Disadvantages.

One morning, not long after his arrival at St. Just, the young doctor went out to make a round of professional visits. He had on his way to pass the cottage of his uncle, which stood a little apart from the chief square or triangle of the town, and had a small piece of ground in front. Here Rose was wont to cultivate her namesakes, and other flowers, with her own fair hands, and here Mr Thomas Donnithorne refreshed himself each evening with a pipe of tobacco, the flavour of which was inexpressibly enhanced to him by the knowledge that it had been smuggled.

He was in the habit of washing the taste of the same away each night, before retiring to rest, with a glass of brandy and water, hot, which was likewise improved in flavour by the same interesting association.

The windows of the cottage were wide open, for no Atlantic fog dimmed the glory of the summer sun that morning, and the light air that came up from the mighty sea was fresh and agreeably cool.

As Oliver approached the end of the cottage he observed that Rose was not at her accustomed work in the garden, and he was about to pass the door when the tones of a guitar struck his ear and arrested his step. He was surprised, for at that period the instrument was not much used, and the out-of-the-way town of St. Just was naturally the last place in the land where he would have expected to meet with one. No air was played—only a few chords were lightly touched by fingers which were evidently expert. Presently a female voice was heard to sing in rich contralto tones. The air was extremely simple, and very beautiful—at least, so thought Oliver, as he leaned against a wall and listened to the words. These, also, were simple enough, but sounded both sweet and sensible to the listener, coming as they did from a woman’s lips so tunefully, and sounding the praises of the sea, of which he was passionately fond:—

Song.

“I love the land where acres broad

Are clothed in yellow grain;

Where cot of thrall and lordly hall

Lie scattered o’er the plain.

Oh! I have trod the velvet sod

Beneath the beechwood tree;

And roamed the brake by stream and lake

Where peace and plenty be.

But more than plain,

Or rich domain,

I love the bright blue sea!

“I love the land where bracken grows

And heath-clad mountains rise;

Where peaks still fringed with winter snows

Tower in the summer skies.

Oh! I have seen the red and green

Of fir and rowan tree,

And heard the din of flooded linn,

With bleating on the lea.

But better still

Than heath-clad hill

I love the stormy sea!”

The air ceased, and Oliver, stepping in at the open door, found Rose Ellis with a Spanish guitar resting on her knee. She neither blushed nor started up nor looked confused—which was, of course, very strange of her in the circumstances, seeing that she is the heroine of this tale—but, rising with a smile on her pretty mouth, shook hands with the youth.

“Why, cousin,” said Oliver, “I had no idea you could sing so charmingly.”

“I am fond of singing,” said Rose.

“So am I, especially when I hear such singing as yours; and the song, too—I like it much, for it praises the sea. Where did you pick it up?”

“I got it from the composer, a young midshipman,” said Rose sadly; at the same time a slight blush tinged her brow.

Oliver felt a peculiar sensation which he could not account for, and was about to make further inquiries into the authorship of the song, when it occurred to him that this would be impolite, and might be awkward, so he asked instead how she had become possessed of so fine a guitar. Before she could reply Mr Donnithorne entered.

“How d’ee do, Oliver lad; going your rounds—eh?—Come, Rose, let’s have breakfast, lass, you were not wont to be behind with it. I’ll be bound this gay gallant—this hedge-jumper with his eyes shut—has been praising your voice and puffing up your heart, but don’t believe him, Rose; it’s the fashion of these fellows to tell lies on such matters.”

“You do me injustice, uncle,” said Oliver with a laugh; “but even if it were true that I am addicted to falsehood in praising women, it were impossible, in the present instance, to give way to my propensity, for Truth herself would find it difficult to select an expression sufficiently appropriate to apply to the beautiful voice of Rose Ellis!”

“Hey-day, young man,” exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, as he carefully filled his pipe with precious weed, “your oratorical powers are uncommon! Surely thy talents had been better bestowed in the Church or at the Bar than in the sickroom or the hospital. Demosthenes himself would have paled before thee, lad—though, if truth must be told, there is a dash more sound than sense in thine eloquence.”

“Sense, uncle! Surely your own good sense must compel you to admit that Rose sings splendidly?”

“Well, I won’t gainsay it,” replied Mr Donnithorne, “now that Rose has left the room, for I don’t much care to bespatter folk with too much praise to their faces. The child has indeed a sweet pipe of her own. By the way, you were asking about her guitar when I came in; I’ll tell you about that.

“Its history is somewhat curious,” said Mr Donnithorne, passing his fingers through the bunch of gay ribbons that hung from the head of the instrument. “You have heard, I dare say, of the burning of Penzance by the Spaniards more than two hundred years ago; in the year 1595, I think it was?”

“I have,” answered Oliver, “but I know nothing beyond the fact that such an event took place. I should like to hear the details of it exceedingly.”

“Well,” continued the old gentleman, “our country was, as you know, at war with Spain at the time; but it no more entered into the heads of Cornishmen that the Spaniards would dare to land on our shores than that the giants would rise from their graves. There was, indeed, an old prediction that such an event would happen, but the prediction was either forgotten or not believed, so that when several Spanish galleys suddenly made their appearance in Mounts Bay, and landed about two hundred men near Mousehole, the inhabitants were taken by surprise. Before they could arm and defend themselves, the Spaniards effected a landing, began to devastate the country, and set fire to the adjacent houses.

“It is false,” continued the old man sternly, “to say, as has been said by some, that the men of Mousehole were seized with panic, and that those of Newlyn and Penzance deserted their houses terror-stricken. The truth is, that the suddenness of the attack, and their unprepared condition to repel it, threw the people into temporary confusion, and forced them to retreat, as, all history shows us, the best and bravest will do at times. In Mousehole, the principal inhabitant was killed by a cannon-ball, so that, deprived of their leading spirit at the critical moment when a leader was necessary, it is no wonder that at first the fishermen were driven back by well-armed men trained to act in concert. To fire the houses was the work of a few minutes. The Spaniards then rushed on to Newlyn and Penzance, and fired these places also, after which they returned to their ships, intending to land the next day and renew their work of destruction.

“But that night was well spent by the enraged townsmen. They organised themselves as well as they could in the circumstances, and, when day came, attacked the Spaniards with guns and bows, and that so effectively, that the Dons were glad to hoist their sails and run out of the bay.

“Well, you must know there was one of the Spaniards, who, it has been said, either from bravado, or vanity, or a desire to insult the English, or from all three motives together, brought a guitar on shore with him at Mousehole, and sang and played to his comrades while they were burning the houses. This man left his guitar with those who were left to guard the boats, and accompanied the others to Penzance. On his return he again took his guitar, and, going up to a high point of the cliff, so that he might be seen by his companions and heard by any of the English who chanced to be in hiding near the place, sang several songs of defiance at the top of his voice, and even went the length of performing a Spanish dance, to the great amusement of his comrades below, who were embarking in their boats.

“While the half-crazed Spaniard was going on thus he little knew that, not three yards distant from him, a gigantic Mousehole fisherman, who went by the name of Gurnet, lay concealed among some low bushes, watching his proceedings with an expression of anger on his big stern countenance. When the boats were nearly ready to start the Spaniard descended from the rocky ledge on which he had been performing, intending to rejoin his comrades. He had to pass round the bush where Gurnet lay concealed, and in doing so was for a few seconds hid from his comrades, who immediately forgot him in the bustle of departure, or, if they thought of him at all, each boat’s crew imagined, no doubt, that he was with one of the others.

“But he never reached the boats. As he passed the bush Gurnet sprang on him like a tiger and seized him round the throat with both hands, choking a shout that was coming up, and causing his eyes to start almost out of his head. Without uttering a word, and only giving now and then a terrible hiss through his clenched teeth, Gurnet pushed the Spaniard before him, keeping carefully out of sight of the beach, and holding him fast by the nape of the neck, so that when he perceived the slightest symptom of a tendency to cry out he had only to press his strong fingers and effectually nip it in the bud.

“He led him to a secluded place among the rocks, far beyond earshot of the shore, and there, setting him free, pointed to a flat rock and to his guitar, and hissed, rather than said, in tones that could neither be misunderstood nor gainsaid—

“‘There, dance and sing, will ’ee, till ’ee bu’st!’

“Gurnet clenched his huge fist as he spoke, and, as the Spaniard grew pale, and hesitated, he shook it close to his face—so close that he tapped the prominent bridge of the man’s nose, and hissed again, more fiercely than before—

“‘Ye haaf saved bucca, ye mazed totle, that can only frighten women an’ child’n, an burn housen; thee’rt fond o’ singin’ an’ dancin’—dance now, will ’ee, ye gurt bufflehead, or ef ye waant I’ll scat thee head in jowds, an’ send ’ee scrougin’ over cliffs, I will.’”

In justice to the narrator it is right to say that these words are not so bad as they sound.

“The fisherman’s look and action were so terrible whilst he poured forth his wrath, which was kept alive by the thought of the smouldering embers of his own cottage, that the Spaniard could not but obey. With a ludicrous compound of fun and terror he began to dance and sing, or rather to leap and wail, while Gurnet stood before him with a look of grim ferocity that never for a moment relaxed.

“Whenever the Spaniard stopped from exhaustion Gurnet shouted ‘Go on,’ in a voice of thunder, and the poor man, being thoroughly terrified, went on until he fell to the ground incapable of further exertion.

“Up to this point Gurnet had kept saying to himself, ‘He is fond o’ dancin’ an’ singin’, let un have it, then,’ but when the poor man fell his heart relented. He picked him up, threw him across his shoulder as if he had been a bolster, and bore him away. At first the men of the place wanted to hang him on the spot, but Gurnet claimed him as his prisoner, and would not allow this. He gave him his liberty, and the poor wretch maintained himself for many a day as a wandering minstrel. At last he managed to get on board of a Spanish vessel, and was never more heard of, but he left his guitar behind him. It was picked up on the shore, where he left it, probably, in his haste to get away.

“The truth of this story, of course, I cannot vouch for,” concluded Mr Donnithorne, with a smile, “but I have told it to you as nearly as possible in the words in which I have often heard my grandfather give it—and as for the guitar, why, here it is, having been sold to me by a descendant of the man who found it on the seashore.”

“A wonderful story indeed,” said Oliver—“if true.”

“The guitar you must admit is at least a fact,” said the old gentleman.

Oliver not only admitted this, but said it was a sweet-sounding fact, and was proceeding to comment further on the subject when Mr Donnithorne interrupted him—

“By the way, talking of sweet sounds, have you heard what that gruff-voiced scoundrel Maggot—that roaring bull of Bashan—has been about lately?”

“No, I have not,” said Oliver, who saw that the old gentleman’s ire was rising.

“Ha! lad, that man ought to be hanged. He is an arrant knave, a smuggler—a—an ungrateful rascal. Why, sir, you’ll scarcely believe it: he has come to me and demanded more money for the jewels which he and his comrade sold me in fair and open bargain, and because I refused, and called him a few well-merited names, he has actually gone and given information against me as possessor of treasure, which of right, so they say, belongs to Government, and last night I had a letter which tells me that the treasure, as they call it, must be delivered up without delay, on pain of I don’t know what penalties. Penalties, forsooth! as if I hadn’t been punished enough already by the harassing curtain-lectures of my over-scrupulous wife, ever since the unlucky day when the baubles were found, not to mention the uneasy probings of my own conscience, which, to say truth, I had feared was dead altogether owing to the villainous moral atmosphere of this smuggling place, but which I find quite lively and strong yet—a matter of some consolation too, for although I do have a weakness for cheap ’baccy and brandy, being of an economical turn of mind, I don’t like the notion of getting rid of my conscience altogether. But, man, ’tis hard to bear!”

Poor Mr Donnithorne stopped here, partly owing to shortness of breath, and partly because he had excited himself to a pitch that rendered coherent speech difficult.

“Would it not be well at once to relieve your conscience, sir,” suggested Oliver respectfully, “by giving up the things that cause it pain? In my profession we always try to get at the root of a disease, and apply our remedies there.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the old gentleman, wiping his heated brow, “and lose twenty pounds as a sort of fee to Doctor Maggot, who, like other doctors I wot of, created the disease himself, and who will certainly never attempt to alleviate it by returning the fee.”

“Still, the disease may be cured by the remedy I recommend,” said Oliver.

“No, man, it can’t,” cried the old gentleman with a perplexed expression, “because the dirty things are already sold and the money is invested in Botallack shares, to sell which and pay back the cash in the present depressed state of things would be utter madness. But hush! here comes my better half, and although she is a dear good soul, with an unusual amount of wisdom for her size, it would be injudicious to prolong the lectures of the night into the early hours of morning.”

As he spoke little Mrs Donnithorne’s round good-looking face appeared like the rising sun in the doorway, and her cheery voice welcomed Oliver to breakfast.

“Thank you, aunt,” said Oliver, “but I have already breakfasted more than an hour ago, and am on my way to visit my patients. Indeed, I have to blame myself for calling at so early an hour, and would not have done so but for the irresistible attraction of a newly discovered voice, which—”

“Come, come, youngster,” interrupted Mr Donnithorne, “be pleased to bear in remembrance that the voice is connected with a pair of capital ears, remarkable for their sharpness, if not their length, and at no great distance off, I warrant.”

“You do Rose injustice,” observed Mrs Donnithorne, as the voice at that moment broke out into a lively carol in the region of the kitchen, whither its owner had gone to superintend culinary matters. “But tell me, Oliver, have you heard of the accident to poor Batten?”

“Yes, I saw him yesterday,” replied the doctor, “just after the accident happened, and I am anxious about him. I fear, though I am not quite certain, that his eyesight is destroyed.”

“Dear! dear!—oh, poor man,” said Mrs Donnithorne, whose sympathetic heart swelled, while her blue eyes instantly filled with tears. “It is so very sad, Oliver, for his delicate wife and four young children are entirely dependent upon him and his two sons—and they found it difficult enough to make the two ends meet, even when they were all in health; for it is hard times among the miners at present, as you know, Oliver; and now—dear, dear, it is very, very sad.”

Little Mrs Donnithorne said nothing more at that time, but her mind instantly reverted to a portly basket which she was much in the habit of carrying with her on her frequent visits to the poor and the sick—for the good lady was one of those whose inclinations as well as principles lead them to “consider the poor.”

It must not be imagined, however, that the poor formed a large class of the community in St. Just. The miners of that district, and indeed all over Cornwall, were, and still are, a self-reliant, independent, hard-working race, and as long as tough thews and sinews, and stout and willing hearts, could accomplish anything, they never failed to wrench a subsistence out of the stubborn rocks which contain the wealth of the land. Begging goes very much against the grain of a Cornishman, and the lowest depth to which he can sink socially, in his own esteem, is that of being dependent on charity.

In some cases this sentiment is carried too far, and has degenerated into pride; for, when God in His wisdom sees fit, by means of disabling accident or declining health, to incapacitate a man from labour, it is as honourable in him to receive charity as it is (although not always sufficiently esteemed so) a high privilege and luxury of the more fortunate to give.

Worthy Mrs Donnithorne’s charities were always bestowed with such delicacy that she managed, in some mysterious way, to make the recipients feel as though they had done her a favour in accepting them. And yet she was not a soft piece of indiscriminating amiability, whose chief delight in giving lay in the sensations which the act created within her own breast. By no means. None knew better than she when and where to give money, and when to give blankets, bread, or tea. She was equally sharp to perceive the spirit that rendered it advisable for her to say, “I want you to do me a favour—there’s a good woman now, you won’t refuse me, etcetera,” and to detect the spirit that called forth the sharp remark, accompanied with a dubious smile and a shake of her fat forefinger, “There now, see that you make better use of it this time, else I shall have to scold you.”

Having received a message for poor Mrs Batten, the miner’s wife, the doctor left the cottage, and proceeded to pay his visits. Let us accompany him.

Chapter Twelve.

In which Oliver gets “a Fall,” and sees some of the Shadows of the Miner’s Life.

In crossing a hayfield, Oliver Trembath encountered the tall, bluff figure, and the grave, sedate smile of Mr Cornish, the manager.

“Good-morning, doctor,” said the old gentleman, extending his hand and giving the youth a grasp worthy of one of the old Cornish giants; “do you know I was thinking, as I saw you leap over the stile, that you would make a pretty fair miner?”

“Thanks, sir, for your good opinion of me,” said Oliver, with a smile, “but I would rather work above than below ground. Living the half of one’s life beyond the reach of sunlight is not conducive to health.”

“Nevertheless, the miners keep their health pretty well, considering the nature of their work,” replied Mr Cornish; “and you must admit that many of them are stout fellows. You would find them so if you got one of their Cornish hugs.”

“Perhaps,” said Oliver, with a modest look, for he had been a noted wrestler at school, “I might give them a pretty fair hug in return, for Cornish blood flows in my veins.”

“A fig for blood, doctor; it is of no avail without knowledge and practice, as well as muscle. With these, however, I do acknowledge that it makes weight—if by ‘blood’ you mean high spirit.”

“By the way, how comes it, sir,” said Oliver, “that Cornishmen are so much more addicted to wrestling than other Englishmen?”

“It were hard to tell, doctor, unless it be that they feel themselves stronger than other Englishmen, and being accustomed to violent exertion more than others, they take greater pleasure in it. Undoubtedly the Greeks introduced it among us, but whether they practised it as we now do cannot be certainly ascertained.”

Here Mr Cornish entered into an enthusiastic account of the art of wrestling; related many anecdotes of his own prowess in days gone by, and explained the peculiar method of performing the throw by the heel, the toe, and the hip; the heave forward, the back-heave, and the Cornish hug, to all of which the youth listened with deep interest.

“I should like much to witness one of your wrestling-matches,” he said, when the old gentleman concluded; “for I cannot imagine that any of your peculiar Cornish hugs or twists can be so potent as to overturn a stout fellow who is accustomed to wrestle in another fashion. Can you show me one of the particular grips or twists that are said to be so effective?”

“I think I can,” replied the old gentleman, with a smile, and a twinkle in his eye; “of course the style of grip and throw will vary according to the size of the man one has to deal with. Give me hold of your wrist, and plant yourself firmly on your legs. Now, you see, you must turn the arm—so, and use your toe—thus, so as to lift your man, and with a sudden twist—there! That’s the way to do it!” said the old gentleman, with a chuckle, as he threw Oliver head foremost into the middle of a haycock that lay opportunely near.

It is hard to say whether Mr Cornish or Oliver was most surprised at the result of the effort—the one, that so much of his ancient prowess should remain, and the other, that he should have been so easily overthrown by one who, although fully as large a man as himself, had his joints and muscles somewhat stiffened by age.

Oliver burst into a fit of laughter on rising, and exclaimed, “Well done, sir! You have effectually convinced me that there is something worth knowing in the Cornish mode of wrestling; although, had I known what you were about to do, it might not perhaps have been done so easily.”

“I doubt it not,” said Mr Cornish with a laugh; “but that shows the value of ‘science’ in such matters. Good-morning, doctor. Hope you’ll find your patients getting on well.”

He waved his hand as he turned off, while Oliver pursued his way to the miners’ cottages.

The first he entered belonged to a man whose chest was slightly affected for the first time. He was a stout man, about thirty-five years of age, and of temperate habits—took a little beer occasionally, but never exceeded; had a good appetite, but had caught cold frequently in consequence of having to go a considerable distance from the shaft’s mouth to the changing-house while exhausted with hard work underground and covered with profuse perspiration. Often he had to do this in wet weather and when bitterly cold winds were blowing—of late he had begun to spit blood.

It is necessary here to remind the reader that matters in this respect—and in reference to the condition of the miner generally—are now much improved. The changing-houses, besides being placed as near to the several shafts as is convenient, are now warmed with fires, and supplied with water-troughs, so that the men have a comfortable place in which to wash themselves on coming “to grass,” and find their clothes thoroughly dried when they return in the morning to put them on before going underground. This renders them less liable to catch cold, but of course does not protect them from the evil influences of climbing the ladders, and of bad air. Few men have to undergo such severe toil as the Cornish miner, because of the extreme hardness of the rock with which he has to deal. To be bathed in perspiration, and engaged in almost unremitting and violent muscular exertion during at least eight hours of each day, may be said to be his normal condition.

Oliver advised this man to give up underground work for some time, and, having prescribed for him and spoken encouragingly to his wife, left the cottage to continue his rounds.

Several cases, more or less similar to the above, followed each other in succession; also one or two cases of slight illness among the children, which caused more alarm to the anxious mothers than there was any occasion for. These latter were quickly but good-naturedly disposed of, and the young doctor generally left a good impression behind him, for he had a hearty, though prompt, manner and a sympathetic spirit.

At one cottage he found a young man in the last stage of consumption. He lay on his lowly bed pale and restless—almost wishing for death to relieve him of his pains. His young wife sat by his bedside wiping the perspiration from his brow, while a ruddy-cheeked little boy romped about the room unnoticed—ignorant that the hour was drawing near which would render him fatherless, and his young mother a widow.

This young man had been a daring, high-spirited fellow, whose animal spirits led him into many a reckless deed. His complaint had been brought on by racing up the ladders—a blood-vessel had given way, and he had never rallied after. Just as Oliver was leaving him a Wesleyan minister entered the dwelling.

“He won’t be long with us, doctor, I fear,” he said in passing.

“Not long, sir,” replied Oliver.

“His release will be a happy one,” said the minister, “for his soul rests on Jesus; but, alas! for his young wife and child.”

He passed into the sickroom, and the doctor went on.

The next case was also a bad one, though different from the preceding. The patient was between forty and fifty years of age, and had been unable to go underground for several years. He was a staid, sober man, and an abstemious liver, but it was evident that his life on earth was drawing to a close. He had been employed chiefly in driving levels, and had worked a great deal in very bad air, where the candles could not be made to burn unless placed nine or ten feet behind the spot where he was at work. Indeed, he often got no fresh air except what was blown to him, and only a puff now and then. When he first went to work in the morning the candle would not keep alight, so that he had to take his coat and beat the air about before going into the level, and, after a time, went in when the candles could be got to burn by holding them on one side, and teasing out the wick very much. This used to create a great deal of smoke, which tended still further to vitiate the air. When he returned “to grass” his saliva used to be as black as ink. About five years before giving up underground work he had had inflammation of the lungs, followed by blood-spitting, which used to come on when he was at work in what he called “poor air,” or in “cold-damp,” and he had never been well since.

Oliver’s last visit that day was to the man John Batten; who had exploded a blast-hole in his face the day before. This man dwelt in a cottage in the small hamlet of Botallack, close to the mine of the same name. The room in which the miner lay was very small, and its furniture scanty; nevertheless it was clean and neatly arranged. Everything in and about the place bore evidence of the presence of a thrifty hand. The cotton curtain on the window was thin and worn, but it was well darned, and pure as the driven snow. The two chairs were old, as was also the table, but they were not rickety; it was obvious that they owed their stability to a hand skilled in mending and in patching pieces of things together. Even the squat little stool in the side of the chimney corner displayed a leg, the whiteness of which, compared with the other two, told of attention to small things. There was a peg for everything, and everything seemed to be on its peg. Nothing littered the well-scrubbed floor or defiled the well-brushed hearthstone, and it did not require a second thought on the part of the beholder to ascribe all this to the tidy little middle-aged woman, who, with an expression of deep anxiety on her good-looking countenance, attended to the wants of her injured husband.

As Oliver approached the door of this cottage two stout youths, of about sixteen and seventeen respectively, opened it and issued forth.

“Good-morning, lads! Going to work, I suppose?” said Oliver.

“Iss, sur,” replied the elder, a fair-haired ruddy youth, who, like his brother, had not yet sacrificed his colour to the evil influence of the mines; “we do work in the night corps, brother and me. Father is worse to-day, sur.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said the doctor, as he passed them and entered the cottage, while the lads shouldered their tools and walked smartly down the lane that led to Botallack mine.

“Your husband is not quite so well to-day, I hear,” said the doctor, going to the side of the bed on which the stalwart form of the miner lay.

“No, sur,” replied the poor woman; “he has much pain in his eyes to-day, but his heart is braave, sur; I never do hear a complaint from he.”

This was true. The man lay perfectly still, the compressed lip and the perspiration that moistened his face alone giving evidence of the agony he endured.

“Do you suffer much?” inquired the doctor, as he undid the bandages which covered the upper part of the man’s face.

“Iss, sur, I do,” was the reply.

No more was said, but a low groan escaped the miner when the bandage was removed, and the frightful effects of the accident were exposed to view. With intense anxiety Mrs Batten watched the doctor’s countenance, but found no comfort there. A very brief examination was sufficient to convince Oliver that the eyes were utterly destroyed, for the miner had been so close to the hole when it exploded that the orbs were singed by the flame, and portions of unburnt powder had been blown right into them.

“Will he see—a little, sur?” whispered Mrs Batten.

Oliver shook his head. “I fear not,” he said in a low tone.

“Speak out, doctor,” said the miner in firm tones, “I ain’t afeard to knaw it.”

“It would be unkind to deceive you,” replied Oliver sadly; “your eyes are destroyed.”

No word was spoken for a few minutes, but the poor woman knelt by her husband’s side, and nestled close to him. Batten raised his large brown hand, which bore the marks and scars of many a year of manly toil, and laid it gently on his wife’s head.

“I’ll never see thee again, Annie,” he murmured in a low deep tone; “but I see thee face now, lass, as I last saw it, wi’ the smile of an angel on’t—an’ I’ll see it so till the day I die; bless the Lord for that.”

Mrs Batten rose and went softly but quickly out of the room that she might relieve her bursting heart without distressing her husband, but he knew her too well to doubt the reason of her sudden movement, and a faint smile was on his lips for a moment as he said to Oliver,—“She’s gone to weep a bit, sur, and pray. It will do her good, dear lass.”

“Your loss is a heavy one—very heavy,” said Oliver, with hesitation in his tone, for he felt some difficulty in attempting to comfort one in so hopeless a condition.

“True, sur, true,” replied the man in a tone of cheerful resignation that surprised the doctor, “but it might have been worse; ‘the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord!’”

Mrs Batten returned in a few minutes, and Oliver left them, after administering as much comfort as he could in the circumstances, but to say truth, although well skilled in alleviating bodily pains, he was incapable of doing much in the way of ministering to the mind diseased. Oliver Trembath was not a medical missionary. His mother, though a good, amiable woman, had been a weak, easy-going creature—one of those good-tempered, listless ladies who may be regarded as human vegetables, who float through life as comfortably as they can, giving as little trouble as possible, and doing as little good as is compatible with the presence of even nominal Christianity. She performed the duties of life in the smallest possible circle, the centre of which was herself, and the extremity of the radii extending to the walls of her garden. She went to church at the regulation hours; “said her prayers” in the regulation tone of voice; gave her charities in the stated way, at stated periods, with a hazy perception as to the objects for which they were given, and an easy indifference as to the success of these objects—the whole end and aim of her wishes being attained in, and her conscience satisfied by, the act of giving. Hence her son Oliver was not much impressed in youth with the power or value of religion, and hence he found himself rather put out when his common sense told him, as it not unfrequently did, that it was his duty sometimes to administer a dose to the mind as well as to the body.

But Oliver was not like his mother in any respect. His fire, his energy, his intellectual activity, and his impulsive generosity he inherited from his father. Amiability alone descended to him from his mother—an inheritance, by the way, not to be lightly esteemed, for by it all his other qualities were immeasurably enhanced in value. His heart had beat in sympathy with the mourners he had just left, and his manly disposition made him feel ashamed that the lips which could give advice glibly enough in regard to bandages and physic, and which could speak in cheery, comforting tones when there was hope for his patient, were sealed and absolutely incapable of utterance when death approached or hopeless despair took possession of the sufferer.

Oliver had felt something of this even in his student life, when the solemnities of sickness and death were new to him; but it was pressed home upon him with peculiar power, and his manhood was often put to the blush when he was brought into contact with the Wesleyan Methodism of West Cornwall, where multitudes of men and women of all grades drew comfort from the Scriptures as readily and as earnestly as they drew water from their wells—where religion was mingled with everyday and household duties—and where many of the miners and fishermen preached and prayed, and comforted one another with God’s Word, as vigorously, as simply, and as naturally as they hewed a livelihood from the rocks or drew sustenance from the sea.

Chapter Thirteen.

Treats of Spirits and of Sundry Spirited Matters and Incidents.

One sunny afternoon Mrs Maggot found herself in the happy position of having so thoroughly completed her round of household work that she felt at leisure to sit down and sew, while little Grace sat beside her, near the open door, rocking the cradle.

Baby, in blissful unconsciousness of its own existence, lay sound asleep with a thumb in its mouth; the resolute sucking of that thumb having been its most recent act of disobedience.

Little Grace was flushed, and rather dishevelled, for it had cost her half an hour’s hard wrestling to get baby placed in recumbent somnolence. She now sought to soothe her feelings by tickling the chin of the black kitten—a process to which that active creature submitted with purring satisfaction.

“Faither’s long of coming hum, mother,” said little Grace, looking up.

“Iss,” replied Mrs Maggot.

“D’ee knaw where he is?” inquired Grace.

“No, I doan’t,” replied her mother.

It was evident that Mrs Maggot was not in the humour for conversation, so Grace relapsed into silence, and devoted herself to the kitten.

“Is that faither?” said Grace, after a few minutes, pointing to the figure of a man who was seen coming over the distant moor or waste land which at that period surrounded the town of St. Just, though the greater part of it is now cultivated fields.

“It isn’ like un,” said Mrs Maggot, shading her eyes with her hand; “sure, it do look like a boatsman.”

(The men of the coastguard were called “boatsmen” at that time.)

“Iss, I do see his cutlash,” said little Grace; “and there’s another man comin’ down road to meet un.”

“Haste ’ee, Grace,” cried Mrs Maggot, leaping up and plucking her last-born out of the cradle, “take the cheeld in to Mrs Penrose, an’ bide theer till I send for ’ee—dost a hear?”

Plucked thus unceremoniously from gentle slumber to be plunged headlong and without preparation into fierce infantine war, was too much for baby Maggot; he uttered one yell of rage and defiance, which was succeeded by a lull—a sort of pause for the recovery of breath—so prolonged that the obedient Grace had time to fling down the horror-struck Chet, catch baby in her arms, and bear him into the neighbouring cottage before the next roar came forth. The youthful Maggot was at once received into the bosom of the Penrose family, and succeeding yells were smothered by eight out of the sixteen Penroses who chanced to be at home at the time.

That Mrs Maggot had a guilty conscience might have been inferred from her future proceedings, which, to one unacquainted with the habits of her husband, would have appeared strange, if not quite unaccountable. When baby was borne off, as related, she seized a small keg, which stood in a corner near the door and smelt strongly of brandy, and, placing it with great care in the vacant cradle, covered it over with blankets. She next rolled a pair of stockings into a ball and tied on it a little frilled night-cap, which she disposed on the pillow, with the face pretty well down, and the back of the head pretty well up, and so judiciously and cleverly covered it with bedclothes that even Maggot himself might have failed to miss his son, or to recognise the outlines of a keg. A bottle half full of brandy, with the cork out, was next placed on the table to account for the odour in the room, and then Mrs Maggot sat down to her sewing, and rocked the cradle gently with her foot, singing a sweet lullaby the while. Ten minutes later, two stout men of the coastguard, armed with cutlasses and pistols, entered the cottage. Mrs Maggot observed that they were also armed with a pick and shovel.

“Good-hevenin’, missus; how dost do?” said the man who walked foremost, in a hearty voice.

“Good-hevenin’, Eben Trezise; how are you?” said Mrs Maggot.

“Braave, thank ’ee,” said Trezise; “we’ve come for a drop o’ brandy, missus, havin’ heard that you’ve got some here, an’ sure us can smell it—eh?”

“Why, iss, we’ve got wan small drop,” said Mrs Maggot, gently arranging the clothes on the cradle, “that the doctor have order for the cheeld. You’re welcome to a taste of it, but plaise don’t make so much noise, for the poor cheeld’s slaipin’.”

“He’ll be smothered, I do think, if you don’t turn his head up a bit, missus,” said the man; “hows’ever you’ve no objection to let Jim and me have a look round the place, I dessay?”

Mrs Maggot said they were welcome to do as they pleased, if they would only do it quietly for the sake of the “cheeld;” so without more ado they commenced a thorough investigation of the premises, outside and in. Then they went to the smithy, where Mrs Maggot knew her husband had concealed two large kegs of smuggled liquor on the hearth under a heap of ashes and iron débris, but these had been so cleverly, yet carelessly, hidden that the men sat down on the heap under which they lay, to rest and wipe their heated brows after their fruitless search.

“Hast ’ee found the brandy?” inquired Mrs Maggot, with a look of innocence, when the two men returned.

“Not yet,” replied Eben Trezise; “but we’ve not done. There’s a certain shaft near by that has got a bad name for drinkin’, missus; p’raps you may have heard on it? Its breath do smell dreadful bad sometimes.”

Both men laughed at this, and winked to each other, while Mrs Maggot smiled, and, with a look of surprise, vowed that she had not heard of the disreputable shaft referred to.

Despite her unconcerned look, however, Mrs Maggot felt anxious, for she was aware that her husband had recently obtained an unusually large quantity of French brandy and tobacco from the Scilly Islands, between which and the coasts of Cornwall smuggling was carried on in a most daring and extensive manner at the time of our story, and she knew that the whole of the smuggled goods lay concealed in one of those numerous disused shafts of old mines which lie scattered thickly over that part of the country. Maggot’s absence rendered her position still more perplexing, but she was a woman of ready wit and self-reliance, and she comforted herself with the knowledge that the brandy lay buried far down in the shaft, and that it would take the boatsmen some time to dig to it—that possibly they might give up in despair before reaching it.

While the men went off to search for the shaft, and while Mrs Maggot was calmly nursing her spirited little baby, Maggot himself, in company with his bosom friend John Cock, was sauntering slowly homeward along the cliffs near Kenidjack Castle, the ruins of which occupy a bold promontory a little to the north of Cape Cornwall. They had just come in sight of the tin-mine and works which cover Nancharrow valley from the shore to a considerable distance inland, where stand the tall chimneys and engine-houses, the whims and varied machinery of the extensive and prolific old tin-mine named Wheal Owles.

The cliffs on which the two men stood are very precipitous and rugged—rising in some places to a height of about 300 feet above the rocks where the waters of the Atlantic roll dark and deep, fringing the coast with a milky foam that is carried away by the tide in long streaks, to be defiled by the red waters which flow from Nancharrow valley into Porth Ledden Cove.

This cove is a small one, with a narrow strip of sand on its shore. At its northern extremity is a deep narrow gorge, into which the waves rush, even in calm weather, with a peculiar sound. In reference to this it is said that the waves “buzz-and-go-in,” hence the place has been named Zawn Buzzangein. The sides of the Zawn are about sixty feet high, and quite precipitous. In one part, especially, they overhang their base. It was here that Maggot and his friend stopped on their way home, and turned to look out upon the sea.

“No sign o’ pilchers yet,” observed Maggot, referring to the immense shoals of pilchards which visit the Cornish coasts in the autumn of each year, and form a large portion of the wealth of the county.

“Too soon,” replied John Cock.

“By the way, Jack,” said Maggot, “wasn’t it hereabouts that the schooner went ashore last winter?”

“Iss, ’twor down theer, close by Pullandeese,” replied the other, pointing to a deep pool in the rocks round which the swell of the Atlantic broke in white foam. “I was theere myself. I had come down ’bout daylight—before others were stirring, an’ sure ’nuff there she lay, on the rocks, bottom up, an’ all the crew lost. We seed wan o’ them knackin’ on the rocks to the north, so we got ropes an’ let a man down to fetch un up, but of coorse it was gone dead.”

“That minds me, Jack,” said Maggot, “that I seed a daw’s nest here the last time I come along, so lev us go an’ stroob that daw’s nest.”

“Thee cusn’t do it,” said John Cock.

Maggot laughed, and said he not only could but would, so he ran down to the neighbouring works and returned with a stout rope, which he fixed firmly to a rock at the edge of the overhanging cliff.

We have already said that Maggot was a noted madcap, who stuck at nothing, and appeared to derive positive pleasure from the mere act of putting his life in danger. No human foot could, by climbing, have reached the spot where the nest of the daw, or Cornish chough, was fixed—for the precipice, besides being perpendicular and nearly flat, projected a little near the top, where the nest lay in a crevice overhanging the surf that boiled and raged in Zawn Buzzangein. Indeed, the nest was not visible from the spot where the two men stood, and it could only be seen by going round to the cliffs on the opposite side of the gorge.

Without a moment’s hesitation Maggot swung himself over the edge of the precipice, merely cautioning his comrade, as he did so, to hold on to the rope and prevent it from slipping.

He slid down about two yards, and then found that the rock overhung so much that he was at least six feet off from the crevice in which the young daws nestled comfortably together, and no stretch that he could make with his legs, long though they were, was sufficient to enable him to get on the narrow ledge just below the nest. Several times he tried to gain a footing, and at each effort the juvenile daws—as yet ignorant of the desperate nature of man—opened their little eyes to the utmost in undisguised amazement. For full five minutes Maggot wriggled and the daws gazed, and the anxious comrade above watched the vibrations and jerks of the part of the rope that was visible to him while he listened intently. The bubbles on Zawn Buzzangein, like millions of watery eyes, danced and twinkled sixty feet below, as if in wonder at the object which swung wildly to and fro in mid-air.

At last Maggot managed to touch the rock with the extreme point of his toe. A slight push gave him swing sufficient to enable him to give one or two vigorous shoves, by which means he swung close to the side of the cliff. Watching his opportunity, he planted both feet on the narrow ledge before referred to, stretched out his hands, pressed himself flat against the rock, let go the rope, and remained fast, like a fly sticking to a wall.

This state of comparative safety he announced to his anxious friend above by exclaiming,—“All right, John—I’ve got the daws.”

This statement was, however, not literally true, for it cost him several minutes of slow and careful struggling to enable him so to fix his person as to admit of his hands being used for “stroobing” purposes. At length he gained the object of his ambition, and transferred the horrified daws from their native home to his own warm but unnatural bosom, in which he buttoned them up tight. A qualm now shot through Maggot’s heart, for he discovered that in his anxiety to secure the daws he had let go the rope, which hung at a distance of full six feet from him, and, of course, far beyond his reach.

“Hullo! John,” he cried.

“Hullo!” shouted John in reply.

“I’ve got the daws,” said Maggot, “but I’ve lost the rope!”

“Aw! my dear,” gasped John; “have ’ee lost th’ rope?”

It need scarcely be said that poor John Cock was dreadfully alarmed at this, and that he eagerly tendered much useless advice—stretching his neck the while as far as was safe over the cliff.

“I say, John,” shouted Maggot again.

“Hullo!” answered John.

“I tell ’ee what: I’m goin’ to jump for th’ rope. If I do miss th’ rope, run thee round to Porth Ledden Cove, an’ tak’ my shoes weth ’ee; I’ll be theere before ’ee.”

Having made this somewhat bold prediction, Maggot collected all his energies, and sprang from his narrow perch into the air, with arms and hands wildly extended. His effort was well and bravely made, but his position had been too constrained, and his foothold too insecure, to admit of a good jump. He missed the rope, and, with a loud cry, shot like an arrow into the boiling flood below.

John Cock heard the cry and the plunge, and stood for nearly a minute gazing in horror into Zawn Buzzangein. Presently he drew a deep sigh of relief, for Maggot made his appearance, manfully buffeting the waves. John watched him with anxiety while he swam out towards the sea, escaped the perpendicular sides of the Zawn, towards which the breakers more than once swept him, doubled the point, and turned in towards the cove. The opposite cliffs of the gorge now shut the swimmer out from John’s view, so he drew another deep sigh, and picking up his comrade’s shoes, ran round with all his might to Porth Ledden Cove, where, true to his word, having been helped both by wind and tide, Maggot had arrived before him.

“Are ’ee safe, my dear man?” was John’s first question.

“Iss,” replied Maggot, shaking himself, “safe enough, an’ the daws too, but semmen to me they’ve gone dead.”

This was too true. The poor birds had perished in their captor’s bosom.

Chapter Fourteen.

Continues to treat of Spirits, and shows the Value of Hospitality.

Having accomplished the feat narrated in the last chapter Maggot proceeded with his friend towards the town. On their way they had to pass the mouth of an old shaft in which both of them chanced to be much interested at that time, inasmuch as it contained the produce of a recent smuggling expedition on a large scale, consisting of nearly a hundred tubs of brandy. The liquor had been successfully brought ashore and concealed in the mine, and that night had been fixed on for its removal. Mules had been provided, and about fifty men were appointed to meet at a certain spot, at a fixed hour, to carry the whole away into the neighbouring towns.

Maggot and his comrade began to converse about the subject that was uppermost in their minds, and the former increased his pace, when John Cock drew his attention to the fact that the sun was getting low.

“The boys will be mustering now,” said John, “an’ them theere daws have kep’ us late enough already.”

“They do say that the boatsmen are informed about the toobs,” observed Maggot.

“More need to look alive,” said John.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Maggot suddenly; “there’s some wan in the shaft!”

He pointed to a neighbouring mound of rubbish, on which, just as he spoke, a man made his appearance.

Without uttering a word the smugglers sauntered towards the mound, assuming a careless air, as though they were passing that way by chance. On drawing near they recognised Ebenezer Trezise, the coastguard-man.

“Good-hevening, sur,” said Maggot; “semmen as if you’d found a keenly lode.”

“Why, iss, we’ve diskivered a noo vein,” said Trezise with a sly smile, “and we’re sinkin’ a shaft here in the hope o’ raisin’ tin, or somethin’.”

“Ha! hope you’ll let John an’ me have a pitch in the noo bal, won’t ’ee?” said Maggot with a laugh.

“Oh, cer’nly, cer’nly,” replied the boatsman; “if you’ll lend us a hand to sink the shaft. You appear to have been in the water, and ’twill warm ’ee.”

“No, thank ’ee,” replied Maggot; “I’ve bin stroobin’ a daw’s nest under cliff, an’ I fell into the say, so I’m goin’ hum to dry myself, as I’m afeared o’ kitchin’ cold, being of a delikit constitootion. But I’ll p’raps lend thee a hand afterwards.”

Maggot nodded as he spoke, and left the place at a slow saunter with his comrade, followed by the thanks and good-wishes of the boatsman, who immediately returned to the laborious task of clearing out the old shaft.

“They’ve got the scent,” said Maggot when out of earshot; “but we’ll do ’em yet. Whenever thee gets on the leeside o’ that hedge, John, do ’ee clap on all sail for Balaswidden, where the boys are waitin’, an’ tell ’em to be ready for a call. I’ll send Zackey, or wan o’ the child’n to ’ee.”

John went off on his errand the moment he was out of sight of the boatsmen, and Maggot walked smartly to his cottage.

“Owld ooman,” he said, commencing to unbutton his wet garments, “do ’ee git ready a cup o’ tay, as fast as you can, lass; we shall have company to-night.”

“Company!” exclaimed Mrs Maggot in surprise; “what sort o’ company?”

“Oh! the best, the best,” said Maggot with a laugh; “boatsmen no less—so look sharp. Zackey booy, come here.”

Zackey put down the unfortunate black kitten (which immediately sought comfort in repose) and obeyed his father’s summons, while his mother, knowing that her husband had some plot in his wise head, set about preparing a sumptuous meal, which consisted of bread and butter, tea and fried mackerel, and Cornish pasty.

“Zackey, my son,” said Maggot while he continued his toilet.

“Iss, father.”

“I want ’ee to come down to the owld shaft with me, an’ when I give ’ee the ward cut away as hard as thee legs can spank to Balaswidden, an’ fetch the lads that are theere to the owld shaft. They knaw what to do, but tell ’em to make so little noise as they can. Dost a hear, my son?”

“Iss, faither,” replied Zackey, with a wink of such profound meaning that his sire felt quite satisfied he was equal to the duty assigned him.

“Now, doan’t ’ee wag tongue more than enough,” continued Maggot; “and go play with the chet till I’m ready.”

The urchin at once descended like a thunderbolt on the black kitten, but that marvellous animal had succeeded in snatching five minutes’ repose, which seemed to be amply sufficient to recruit its energies, for it began instantly to play—in other words to worry and scratch the boy’s hand—with the utmost glee and good-humour.

In a few minutes Maggot and his son went out and hastened to the old shaft, where they found the boatsmen still hard at work with pick and shovel clearing away the rubbish.

“You haven’t found a bunch o’ copper yet, I dessay?” said Maggot with a grin.

“No, not yet, but we shan’t be long,” replied Eben Trezise with a knowing smile.

“It’s warm work,” observed Maggot, as he looked down the hole, and saw that what the boatsman said was true, and that they would not be long of reaching the spot where the liquor had been concealed.

Trezise admitted that it was warm work, and paused to wipe his heated brow.

“I wish we had a drop o’ water here,” he said, looking up.

“Ha!” exclaimed Maggot; “not much chance o’ findin’ water in that hole, I do think—no, nor brandy nuther.”

“Not so sure o’ that,” said Trezise, resuming his work.

“Now, et is a shame to let ’ee die here for want of a drop o’ water,” said Maggot in a compassionate tone; “I’ll send my booy hum for some.”

The boatsmen thanked him, and Zackey was ordered off to fetch a jug of water; but his father’s voice arrested him before he had gone a hundred yards.

“Hold on a bit, my son.—P’raps,” he said, turning to Trezise, “you’d come up hum with me and have a dish o’ tay? Missus have got it all ready.”

The invitation appeared to gratify the boatsmen, who smiled and winked at each other, as though they thought themselves very clever fellows to have discovered the whereabouts of a hidden treasure, and to be refreshed in the midst of their toil by one whom they knew to be a noted smuggler, and whom they strongly suspected of being concerned in the job they were at that time endeavouring to frustrate. Throwing down their tools they laughingly accepted the invitation, and clambered out of the shaft.

“Now’s your time,” whispered Maggot with a nod to his hopeful son, and then added aloud—

“Cut away, Zackey booy, an’ tell mother to get the tay ready. Run, my son, let us knaw what thee legs are made of.”

“He’s a smart lad,” observed Trezise, as Zackey gave his father an intelligent look, and dashed away at the top of his speed.

“Iss, a clever cheeld,” assented Maggot.

“Bin down in the mines, I dessay?” said Trezise.

“Iss, oh iss; he do knaw tin,” replied Maggot with much gravity.

In a few minutes the two coastguard-men were seated at Mrs Maggot’s well-supplied board, enjoying the most comfortable meal they had eaten for many a day. It was seasoned, too, with such racy talk, abounding in anecdote, from Maggot, and such importunate hospitality on the part of his better half, that the men felt no disposition to cut it short. Little Grace, too, was charmingly attentive, for she, poor child, being utterly ignorant of the double parts which her parents were playing, rejoiced, in the native kindliness of her heart, to see them all so happy. Even the “chet” seemed to enter into the spirit of what was going on, for, regardless of the splendid opportunity that now presented itself of obtaining repose to its heart’s content, that black ball of concentrated essence of mischief dashed wildly about the floor and up the bed-curtains, with its back up and its tail thickened, and its green eyes glaring defiance at everything animate, inanimate, or otherwise, insomuch that Maggot made sundry efforts to quell it with the three-legged stool—and Mrs Maggot followed suit with a dish-clout—but in vain!

Meanwhile, men and mules and horses were converging by many paths and lanes towards the old shaft, and the shaft itself was apparently endued with the properties of a volcano, for out of its mouth issued a continuous shower of dust and stones, while many stalwart arms laid bare the mine beneath, and tossed up the precious “tubs” of brandy.

Before the pleasant little tea-party in Maggot’s cottage broke up the whole were scattered abroad, and men and mules and horses sped with their ill-gotten gains across the furze-clad moors.

“Sure it’s early to break up,” said Maggot, when the boatsmen at last rose to take their leave; “there’s no fear o’ the bunches o’ copper melting down there, or flyin’ away.”

“There’s no saying,” replied Eben Trezise; “you’ve heerd as well as we of lodes takin’ the bit in their teeth an’ disappearing—eh?”

“Well, iss, so they do sometimes; I’ll not keep ’ee longer; good-hevenin’ to ’ee,” said Maggot, going outside the door and wishing them all manner of success as they returned to the old shaft.

Reader, shall we follow the two knowing fellows to that shaft? Shall we mark the bewildered expression of amazement with which they gazed into it, and listen to the wild fiendish laugh of mingled amusement and wrath that bursts from them in fitful explosions as the truth flashes into their unwilling minds? No; vice had triumphed over virtue, and we deem it a kindness to your sensitive nature to draw a veil over the scene of her discomfiture.

sChapter Fifteen.

Introduces a Stranger, describes a Picnic, and reveals some Secrets of Mining.

Somewhere in the vicinity of that magnificent piece of coast scenery in West Cornwall, known by the name of Gurnard’s Head, there sauntered, one fine afternoon, a gentleman of tall, commanding aspect. All the parts of this gentleman were, if we may so speak, prononcé. Everything about him savoured of the superlative degree. His head and face were handsome and large, but their size was not apparent because of the capacity of his broad shoulders and wide chest. His waist was slender, hair curly and very black, only to be excelled by the intense blackness of his eyes. His nose was prominent; mouth large and well shaped; forehead high and broad; whiskers enormous; and nostrils so large as to appear dilated. He was a bony man, a powerful man—also tall and straight, and a little beyond forty. He was to all appearance a hero of romance, and his mind seemed to be filled with romantic thoughts, for he smiled frequently as he gazed around him from the top of the cliffs on the beautiful landscape which lay spread out at his feet.

Above him there were wild undulating slopes covered with rich green gorse; below were the cliffs of Gurnard’s Cove, with rocky projections that resemble the castellated work of man’s hand, and intermingled therewith much of the matériel connected with the pilchard fishery, with masses of masonry so heavy and picturesque as to resemble Nature’s handiwork. Beyond lay the blue waters of the Atlantic, which at that time were calm almost as a mill-pond, studded with a hundred sails, and glittering in sunshine.

The spot appeared a beautiful solitude, for no living thing was visible save the romantic gentleman and a few seagulls and sheep. The pilchard fishery had not yet commenced, and the three or four fishermen who pitched and repaired their boats on the one little spot of sand that could be seen far below on that rugged coast appeared like mice, and were too far distant to break the feeling of solitude—a feeling which was not a little enhanced by the appearance, on a spot not far distant, of the ruined engine-house of a deserted mine.

It was indeed a lovely afternoon, and a beautiful scene—a very misanthrope would have gazed on it with an approach at least to benignity. No wonder that George Augustus Clearemout smiled on it so joyously, and whisked his walking-cane vigorously in the exuberance of his delight.

But, strange to say, his smile was always brightest, and the cane flourished most energetically, when he turned his eyes on the ruined mine! He even laughed once or twice, and muttered to himself as he looked at the picturesque object; yet there seemed nothing in its appearance calculated to produce laughter. On the contrary, there were those alive whom the sight of it might have reduced to tears, for, in its brief existence, it had raised uncommonly little tin or copper, although it had succeeded in sinking an immense amount of gold! Nevertheless Mr Clearemout chuckled every time he looked at the ruin, and appeared very much tickled with the thoughts to which it gave rise.

“Yes! the very thing! capital!” he muttered to himself, turning again and again to the object of his admiration, “couldn’t be better—ha! ha! most suitable; yes, it will do for ’em, probably it will do ’em—do ’em,” (he repeated the phrase two or three times with a greater display of white teeth at each utterance of it), “a most superb name—Wheal Do-em—ha! ha! Spell it with two o’s to make it look more natural, and ensure correct pronunciation—Wheal Dooem—nothing could be finer, quite candid and above-board—no one can call it a swindle.”

This last idea caused Mr Clearemout to break into the loudest laugh in which he had hitherto indulged, and he was about to repeat it, when the appearance of a phaeton at a turn of the carriage road reduced him to gravity.

The vehicle contained a party of ladies and gentlemen from St. Just, among whom were Rose Ellis, Mrs Donnithorne and her husband, Oliver Trembath, and Mr William Grenfell, a gentleman of property in the neighbourhood.

As it approached the spot where Mr Clearemout stood, the horse swerved at a sheep which started out from behind a furze bush, and then backed so rapidly that the hind-wheels were on the point of passing over the edge of the road, when the tall stranger sprang to its head, and led it gently forward.

The danger was not great, for the road at the place was elevated little above the sward, but it was sufficiently so to warrant a profusion of thanks from the occupants of the vehicle, and a pressing invitation to Mr Clearemout to join the picnic party then and there assembling.

“You see, we’re not all here,” said Mr Donnithorne, bustling about energetically, as he pulled baskets and bottles from the body of the vehicle, while Oliver assisted the ladies to alight; “there’s another machineful coming, but we have lots of grub for all, and will only be too glad of your company, Mr—Mr—what did you say?”

“Clearemout,” interposed that gentleman, with a bow and a bland smile that quite took Mr Donnithorne by storm.

“Ah, yes, glad to have you, Mr Clearemout; why, our necks might all have been broken but for you. Rose, my dear, do look after this basket. There—thanks—how hot it is, to be sure! Mr Clearemout—Mr Grenfell; no introduction—only to let you know his name—my wife—niece, Rose—Oliver Trembath, and all the rest; there, dispense with ceremony on a picnic always. That’s the chief fun of it.”

While the lively old gentleman ran on thus, and collected the baskets together, Mr Grenfell, who was a tall, gentlemanly man of about sixty, with a grave, aristocratic countenance and polite manner, assured Mr Clearemout that he was happy to make the acquaintance of a man who had rendered them such opportune service, whereupon Mr Clearemout declared himself to be fortunate in being present at such a juncture, and protested that his service was a trifle in itself, although it had led to an introduction which was most gratifying. Then, turning with much urbanity of manner to the ladies, he entered into conversation with them.

“Here they come!” shouted old Mr Donnithorne, as another carriage drove up.

“The rest of our party,” said Mr Grenfell, turning to Mr Clearemout; “friends from St. Just.”

The carriage stopped as he spoke, and a number of ladies and gentlemen descended therefrom, and mingled their congratulations at the narrow escape which had just been made, with thanks to the dark stranger, and with orders, questions, counter-orders, and explanations innumerable, about baskets to be carried and places to be selected.

The picnic, we need scarcely say, very much resembled picnics in general. All were in good spirits—elated with the splendour of the day, the beauty of the views, and the freshness of the sea-breeze that sprang up soon after their arrival. The only one whose feelings were not absolutely unruffled was Oliver Trembath. That youth was afflicted with an unaccountable dislike to the dark stranger which rendered him somewhat uncomfortable. As for the stranger, he made himself extremely agreeable—told anecdotes, sang songs, and became an immaculate waiter on the whole company, handing about plates, glasses, knives, etcetera, etcetera, as deftly as if he were dealing a pack of cards. Above all, he was a good listener, and not only heard other people’s stories out to the end, but commented on them as one who had been interested. With all this, he was particularly attentive to Rose Ellis, but so guarded was he that no one noticed the attentions as being peculiar except Rose herself, and Oliver Trembath, who, for the first time in his life, to his great surprise and displeasure, felt the demon of jealousy tormenting his breast.

But in the midst of all this, Mr George Augustus Clearemout displayed an insatiable curiosity in regard to mines and miners. Whatever might be the subject of conversation for the time, he invariably took the first opportunity of returning to his favourite theme with one or another of the party, as occasion served.

Ashamed of the feelings which troubled him, Oliver Trembath resolved to take the bold and manly step of stifling them, by making himself agreeable to the object of his dislike. Accordingly, he availed himself of an opportunity when the party broke up into groups to saunter about the cliffs, and entered into converse with the stranger on the subject of mines.

“You appear to take much interest in mining, I think,” said he, as they walked out on the promontory together.

“I do indeed,” replied Clearemout; “the mines of Cornwall have ever been a subject of deep interest to me, and the miners I regard as a race of men singularly endowed with courage and perseverance.”

“Your opinion of them is correct,” said Oliver. “Have you ever seen them at work?”

“No, I have only just arrived in the county, but I hope to visit the mines ere long.”

“When you do,” said Oliver with enthusiasm, “your opinion of them will be strengthened, for their endurance underground, and their perseverance in a species of labour which taxes their muscular power as well as their patience to the uttermost, surpasses anything I have either seen or heard of. England does not fully appreciate, because she is not minutely acquainted with, the endurance and courage of her Cornish miners. The rocks through which they have to cut are so hard and unyielding that men who had not been trained from childhood to subdue them would lose heart altogether at the weight of toil and the small return for it. Sometimes, indeed, miners are fortunate, and here, as elsewhere, lucky hits are made, but for the most part their gains are barely sufficient for their wants; and whether they are lucky or unlucky in that respect, the toil is always hard—so hard that few of them retain health or strength sufficient to go underground beyond the age of forty-five, while hundreds of them find an early grave, owing to disease resulting from their peculiar work, or to accidents. These last are usually occasioned by the bursting out of collections of water which flood the mines, or the fall of masses of timber, or the premature explosion of blast-holes. At other times the men lose hold of the ladders—‘fall away’ from them, as they express it—or stumble into a winze, which is a small shaft connecting level with level, in which latter case death is almost certain to ensue, many of the winzes being sixty feet deep. In St. Just you will see many poor fellows who have been blinded or maimed in the mines. Nevertheless Cornish miners are a contented, uncomplaining race of men, and Cornwall is justly proud of them.”

“I am much interested in what you tell me,” said Clearemout; “in fact I have come here for the purpose of making inquiry into mines and mining concerns.”

“Then you will find this to be the very place for you,” said Oliver. “My uncle, Mr Donnithorne, and Mr Grenfell, and Mr Cornish are intimately acquainted with mining in all its phases, and will, I am certain, be happy to give you all the information in their power. As to the people of St. Just and its neighbourhood, you will find them most agreeable and hospitable. I can speak from personal experience, although I have only been a short time among them.”

“I doubt it not,” replied Mr Clearemout with a bland smile; “my own limited experience goes far to corroborate what you say, and I hope to have the pleasure of still further testing the truth of your observations.”

And Mr George Augustus Clearemout did test their truth for several weeks after the picnic. He was received with kindness and hospitality everywhere; he was taken down into the mines by obliging agents, and was invited to several of the periodical business dinners, called “account-dinners,” at which he met shareholders in the mines, and had an opportunity of conversing with men of note and wealth from various parts of the county. He dwelt, during his stay, with old Mr Donnithorne, and, much to the surprise if not pleasure of Rose, proved himself to be a proficient on the guitar and a good musician.

At length the dark gentleman took his departure for London, whither we shall follow him, and watch his proceedings for a very short time, before returning to the principal scene of our tale.

Almost immediately on his arrival in the great city, he betook himself to the West End, and there, in a fashionable square, solicited an interview with an old lady, whose principal noteworthy points were that she had much gold and not much brains. She was a confiding old lady, and had, on a previous occasion, been quite won by the insinuating address of the “charming Mr Clearemout,” who had been introduced to her by a noble lord.

To this confiding old lady George Augustus painted Cornish mines and mining in the most glowing colours, and recommended her to invest in a mine a portion of her surplus funds. The confiding old lady had no taste for speculation, and was rather partial to the three per cent consols, but George Augustus was so charmingly persuasive that she could not help giving in—so George proposed little plans, and opened up little prospects, and the confiding old lady agreed to all the little plans without paying much regard to the little prospects.

After this Mr Clearemout paid another visit in another West End square—this time to a gentleman. The gentleman was young and noble, for Clearemout styled him “My lord.” Strange to say he also was of a confiding nature—very much so indeed—and appeared to be even more completely under the influence of George Augustus than the confiding old lady herself.

For the benefit of this young gentleman Mr Clearemout painted the same picture in the same glowing colours, which colours seemed to grow warmer as the sun of success rose upon it. He added something about the value of a name, and referred to money as being a matter of small consequence in comparison. The young lord, like the old lady, agreed to everything that was proposed to him, except the proposal to advance money. On that point he was resolute, but Clearemout did not care much about obtaining money from the confiding young gentleman. His name was as good as gold, and would enable him to screw money out of others.

After this the dark man paid a visit to several other friends at the West End, all of whom were more or less confiding—some with selfish, others with unselfish, dispositions—but all, without exception, a little weak intellectually. These had the same glowing pictures of a Cornish mine laid before them, and most of them swallowed the bait whole, only one or two being content to nibble.

When afternoon began to merge into evening Mr Clearemout paid a last visit for the day—but not in the West End, rather nearer to the City—to a gentleman somewhat like himself, though less prepossessing, for whose benefit he painted no glowing picture of a mine, but to whom he said, “Come, Jack, I’ve made a pretty good job of it; let’s go and have a chop. If your luck has equalled mine the thing is done, and Wheal Dooem, as I have named the sweet little thing, will be going full swing in a couple of weeks—costing, perhaps, a few hundreds to put it in working order, with a trifle thereafter in the shape of wages to a man and a boy to coal the fire, and keep the thing moving with as much noise as possible to make a show, and leaving a pretty little balance of some twenty or thirty thousand at the credit of the Company, for you and me to enjoy in the meantime—minus a small sum for rent of office, clerk’s salary, gas and coal, etcetera, as long as the bubble lasts.”

Thus did this polite scoundrel go about from house to house getting up a Cornish Mining Company on false pretences (as other polite scoundrels have done before, and doubtless as others will do again), bringing into unmerited disrepute those genuine and grand old mines of Cornwall which have yielded stores of tin and copper, to the enriching of the English nation, ever since those old-world days when the Phoenicians sailed their adventurous barks to the “Cassiterides” in quest of tin.

While these things were being done in London, a terrible catastrophe happened in Botallack mine, which threw a dark cloud for some time over more than one lowly cottage in St. Just.

Chapter Sixteen.

Describes “Holing to a House of Water” and its Terrible Consequences.

One morning, about seven o’clock, George and James, the two fair-haired sons of poor John Batten of Botallack, started for their work as usual. They were in high spirits, having obtained a good “pitch” on last setting-day, and things were looking well.

They put on their underground clothing at the changing-house, and with several spare candles attached to buttons on the breasts of their coats, and their tools slung over their shoulders, walked towards the head of the ladder-shaft. At the mouth of the shaft they paused for a moment and glanced round. The sky was bright, the landscape green, and the sun lit up many a distant sail on the Atlantic.

“I do wish,” said the younger with a slight sigh, “that our work was more in the sunshine?”

“You’ll never be a true miner, Jimmy, if ’ee go hankerin’ after the sun like that,” said his brother with a laugh, as he stepped on the ladder and began to descend.

Jimmy took a last look at the rising sun, and followed him close without replying. The lads were soon beyond the reach of daylight.

This was the last they ever saw of earthly sunshine. In a few minutes there came a low soft sound up the shaft; it was the lads singing one of Wesley’s beautiful hymns. They had been taught to sing these by their mother from their infancy, and usually beguiled the tedium of the long descent of the ladders by singing one or two of them.

Arrived at their place of work the brothers threw down their tools, fixed their candles against the walls of the level, and began the labour of the day.

Other men were in that part of the mine at the time, and the brothers found that a message had been sent to one of the captains requesting him to come and examine the place, as the men were becoming uneasy at the increasing flow of water from the walls. One miner, named John Nicols, was “driving an end,” that is, extending the level lengthwise, and two others were “stopeing,” or cutting up into the roof in pursuit of a promising little lode. They were using hammer and pick in soft ground when the water trickled through to them.

It was well known that they were approaching an old part of the mine which had not been worked for thirty years. The drainage of the ground was not, however, accurately known, therefore questions had been put to experienced miners as to the probable condition of this “untapped land.” The answer was that, as far as was known, the old mine was full of “deads,” that is, of rubbish, and that there was therefore, in all probability, no gathering of water in it.

Just at that moment one of the captains entered the level, accompanied by Oliver Trembath. The latter had been called to see a patient near the mine, and chanced to be with the captain when he was summoned. Being anxious to see the place, and the nature of the danger that threatened, he had descended along with him.

Before the captain had time to put a question, and while the men were still picking cautiously at the soft ground, the flow of water suddenly increased. Recognising probable danger, a lad named Oats called to his father, who was at the “end” of the level with Nicols. At the same moment the water forced a gap in the wall three feet long by about half a foot wide, and burst in upon them with terrific violence. All turned and fled. Oats and his son, with the captain and Nicols, made for the nearest shaft—which was about eighty yards distant—and escaped, but the brothers Batten and Oliver were thrown down and swept away. One desperate effort was made by Oliver to outstrip the rushing stream; but the candles had been blown out, and, not stooping sufficiently low, he dashed his head against an overhanging rock, and fell. He retained sufficient consciousness, however, to be aware that a desperate struggle for life must be made, and, without knowing what he did, or at what he aimed, he fought with the strength of a giant in thick darkness against the chaotic flood; but his strength soon gave way, and in a few seconds he became insensible.

That a terrible catastrophe had occurred was at once known to all the men in the mine by the roar of the rushing water. In order that the reader may clearly understand the situation, it is necessary to explain that the accident occurred in one of the upper levels, at or near its extremity. At the same depth there were many of these underground passages, running in various directions, and several miles in extent, some of them being worked, but most of them old and used up—all the ore having been extracted from them. At various depths below this level other levels had been cut—also running in various directions, and of several miles’ extent. These successive levels were not only connected and communicated with by the main shafts of the mine, but by “winzes” or smaller shafts which connected level with level in many places. Some of these were used as ladder-ways, but others had been cut merely for the purpose of securing ventilation. In many parts of these lower levels miners were at work—some, in following the course of promising lodes, “stopeing,” or cutting overhead, some cutting downwards, some “driving ends” or extending the levels, and others sinking winzes to keep up the ventilation as they pushed further and further from the shafts or throats, down which flowed the life-giving air.

By all of these men the dreaded sounds above—which reached the profounder depths with the muffled but deep-toned roar of a distant storm—were well understood and well heard, for the pent-up waters, in their irresistible fury, carried before them the pent-up atmosphere, and sent it through the low and narrow levels as if through the circling tubes of a monster trumpet, which, mingled with the crash of hurling timbers, rocks, and débris, created a mighty roar that excelled in hideous grandeur the prolonged peals of loud thunder.

Every man dropped his tools, and ran to the nearest shaft for his life. It was not, indeed, probable that the flood would fill all the wide-extended ramifications of the vast mine, but no one knew for certain where the catastrophe had occurred, or how near the danger might be to the spot where he laboured. Enough for each that death was dealing terrible destruction somewhere overhead, and that, unless every muscle were strained to the uttermost, the pathway might be filled up, and his retreat cut off. The rush was swiftly but not easily made. Those who have never traversed the levels of a Cornish mine may perhaps fancy, on hearing of levels six feet high, and about two and a half feet broad, on the average, that the flight might resemble the rush of men through the windings and turnings of the intricate passages in a stupendous old castle. But it was far otherwise. The roofs, walls, and floors of these levels were irregular, not only in direction, but in height and form. There was no levelling or polishing-off anywhere. It was tunnelling of the roughest kind. Angles and projections remained as the chisel, the pick, and the blasting-powder had left them. Here, the foot tripped over a lump, or plunged into a hollow; there, the head narrowly missed a depending mass of rock, or the shoulder grazed a projecting one. Elsewhere, pools of water lay in the path, and at intervals the yawning chasm of a winze appeared, with one or two broken planks to bridge the gulf, of twenty, forty, or sixty feet, that descended to the levels below. Sometimes it was possible to run with the head stooped a little; generally the back had to be bent low—often double; and occasionally progress could only be made on hands and knees,—this, too, with a candle to be guarded from blasts of air or dripping water, and trimmed, lest it should go out and leave the place in total darkness.

But long-continued habit and practice had made the men so familiar with the place, and so nimble in their movements, that they traversed the levels with wonderful rapidity, and most of them ascended the shaft of the mine in safety.

Some, however, escaped with the utmost difficulty, and a few there were—chiefly among those who had been near to or immediately below the scene of the outbreak—who perished miserably.

At the first rush the water had almost filled the level where it occurred, and, sweeping onward about eight fathoms to a winze, plunged down and partly over it. The greater part, however, went down to the eighty-five fathom level. East of this a man named Anguin, with his two sons, William and James—youths of about twenty years of age—were at work. They heard the roar of the approaching torrent, and the father and younger son James rushed towards the winze, intending to ascend the ladder. Before they reached it the flood was pouring down with deafening noise. The least harmful part of the cataract was the water, for the current now carried along with it stones, pieces of timber, and rubbish. To encounter all this might have caused the stoutest hearts to quail, but miners can never calculate the probable extent of an inundation. They might, indeed, by remaining in the roof of the level, escape; but, on the other hand, if the flood should be great enough to fill the place, they would certainly be drowned. Father and son, therefore, preferred to make a desperate effort to save their lives. They dashed into the flood and made a grasp at the ladder, but before their hands touched the first round they were beaten down and swept away dead corpses. William, on the other hand, climbed to a cross-piece of timber, where he remained until the water abated, which it did in a very short time, for events of this kind are for the most part awfully sudden and brief as well as fatal. Then, descending, he groped his way in the dark over the very spot where his father and brother lay dead—fearfully mutilated and covered with rubbish—and escaped up the shaft.

In a still lower level two brothers were at work. Miners usually work in couples—sometimes in larger numbers—and brothers frequently go together. They were in a winze about thirty fathoms from the engine-shaft. Being overtaken by the flood they were washed down, to the next level, and along it nearly to the shaft. As the torrent tore past this place, bearing splintered timber, stones, and rubbish along with it, an iron wagon was caught up and flung across the level. This formed a barricade, against which the brothers were dashed. The elder of these brothers was afterwards found alive here, and carried to the surface; but he was speechless, and died twenty minutes after being brought up. When the dead body of the younger and weaker brother was recovered, it was found to be dreadfully shattered, nearly every bone being crushed.

In the same level, two men—John Paul and Andrew Teague—hearing the rush of the advancing torrent above their head, made for a shaft, went up it against a heavy fall of water, and escaped.

A man named Richard—a powerful man and a cool experienced miner, who had faced death in almost every form—was at work in one of the lowest levels with his son William, a youth of twenty-one, and his nephew, a lad of seventeen, who was the sole support of a widowed mother with six children. They were thirty fathoms from one of the winzes down which the water streamed. On hearing the roar Richard cautioned the younger men to be prompt, but collected. No time was to be lost, but rash haste might prove as fatal as delay. He sent them on in front of him, and they rushed under and past the winze, where they were nearly crushed by the falling water, and where, of course, their candles were extinguished, leaving them in midnight darkness. This last was not so serious a matter to the elder Richard as, at first sight, it might appear. He knew every foot of the ground they had to traverse, with all its turnings, yawning chasms, and plank bridges, and could have led the way blindfold almost as easily as with a light. As they neared the shaft he passed the younger men, and led the way to prevent them falling into it. At this time the water raged round them as high as their waists. The nephew, who was weak, in consequence of a fever from which he had not quite recovered, fell, and, passing the others unobserved, went down the shaft and was lost. The escape of Richard and his son was most wonderful. William was a stout fellow, but the father much more so. They were driven at first into the shaft, but there the fall of water was so great that they could do nothing more than cling to the ladder. By this cataract they were beaten back into the level, but here the water rose around them so quickly and with such force as to oblige them to make another effort to ascend.

There was a crevice in the roof of the level here, in which the father had left part of his supply of candles and a tinder-box. He succeeded in reaching these, and in striking a light, which revealed to them the full horrors of their situation. It was with difficulty that the candle could be kept burning by holding it close to the roof under a projecting piece of rock which sheltered it partially from the dashing spray.

“Let us try again!” shouted the father.

The noise was so great that it was with difficulty they could make each other hear.

“It’s all over with we,” cried the son; “let us pray, faither.”

The father urged his son, however, to make another effort, as the water had risen nearly to their waists, and prevailed on him to do so, getting on the ladder himself first, in order to bear the brunt of the falling water and thus break its force to his son. As the water below was now rising swiftly William only held the light long enough to enable his father to obtain a secure footing on the ladder, when he dropped it and followed him. So anxious was the youth to escape from the danger that menaced him from below, that he pressed eagerly up against his father. In doing so, he over-reached the rounds of the ladder on which his father trod, and, almost at every step, the latter unwittingly planted his heavy-nailed boots on the son’s hands, lacerating them terribly. To avoid this was impossible. So heavy was the descending flood, that it was only his unusually great strength which enabled the father to advance slowly up against it. The son, being partially sheltered by his father’s body, knew not the power against which he had to contend, and, being anxious to go up faster, pressed too closely on him, regardless, in his alarm, of the painful consequences. Masses of stone, wood, and rubbish, dashed down the shaft and grazed their shoulders, but providentially none struck them severely. Thus, slowly and painfully, did they ascend to a height of eighty-four feet, and were saved.

In another part of the mine, below the level where the accident occurred, James Penrose, whom we have already introduced to the reader, was at work with John Cock. The latter having taken a fancy to try mining for a time instead of smuggling—just by way of a change—had joined the former in working a “pitch” in Botallack mine. These men were peculiarly situated. They were in a level which the water entered, not by flowing along or descending, but, by rising up through a winze. On hearing the noise they ran to this winze, and, looking down, saw the water boiling and roaring far below. They were about to pass on to the shaft when Penrose observed a dark object moving on the ladder. It came slowly up.

“Hallo! John,” cried Penrose, “stay a bit; here’s some one on the ladder.”

John Cock returned, and they both stooped to afford help. In another moment Oliver Trembath, drenched and bleeding, and covered with mud, stood, or rather reeled, before them. It was evident that he was only half conscious, and scarcely able to stand. But they had no time to speak—scarcely to think—for the water was already boiling up through the winze like a huge fountain, and filling the level. They seized Oliver by the arms and dragged him hastily towards the nearest winze that led upward. Here they found water pouring down like rain, and heard its thunders above them, but the stream was not sufficient to retard their progress up the winze, which they ascended with comparative ease. Penrose and Cock were surprised at this, but the small quantity of water was soon accounted for by the fact that the hatch or trap-door of the winze had been closed; and thus, while it prevented the great body of water above from descending, also effectually shut off the only way of escape. They were therefore compelled to descend again to the level, in which the water was now rising rapidly.

Oliver leaned against the rock, and stood in apathetic silence. Penrose tried to rouse him, but failed. His injuries had rendered him almost in capable of coherent speech, and his replies showed that his mind was rambling on the necessity of making haste and struggling hard.

James Penrose, who was a “class-leader” and a local preacher among the Wesleyans, and mentally much superior to his comrades, now proved beyond a doubt that his God was to him “a very present help in trouble.” Both he and Cock knew, or at least believed, that death was certain to overtake them in a few minutes, for both before and behind retreat was cut off, and the water was increasing with frightful rapidity. Observing that Cock looked anxious, Penrose turned and said earnestly,—“John, you and I shall be dead in a few minutes.

“For myself I have no fear, for my peace is already made with God, through Jesus Christ—blessed be His name—but, oh! John, you do know that it is not so with you. Turn, John, turn, even now, to the Lord, who tells you that ‘though thy sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as snow,’ and that ‘now is the day of salvation,’ if you will only repent, and believe on Him!”

“Pray for un, James,” said Cock, whose face betrayed his fears.

Penrose at once clasped his hands, and, closing his eyes, prayed for his comrade with such fervour that his voice rose loud and strong above the turmoil of the flood. He was still engaged in prayer when the water drove them from the level, and compelled them to re-ascend the winze. Here John Cock began to pray for himself in agonising tones. By this time Oliver had partially recovered, and suggested that they should ascend the winze to the top. Penrose assured him that it was useless to do so; but, while he was still speaking, he observed that the water ceased to rise, and began quickly to abate. In fact, all that we have taken so long to describe—from the outburst to the termination of the great rush—took place within half an hour.

The noise overhead now grew less and less, until it almost ceased. They then ascended to the trap-door and tried to force it open, but failed. They shouted, however, and were heard, ere long, by those who had escaped and had returned to the mine to search for their less fortunate companions. The trap-door was opened, strong and willing hands were thrust down the dark winze to the rescue, and in a few seconds the three men were saved.

The danger was past—but several lives had been lost in the terrible catastrophe.

Chapter Seventeen.

Touches on the Causes of Accidents: Oliver in a New Light and his Uncle in a sad one.

That was a sad day in St. Just which followed the event related in the last chapter. Many a heart-broken wail was heard round the mouths of the shafts, as the remains of those who perished were brought to the surface, and conveyed to their former homes.

Saddest of all perhaps was the procession that marched slowly to the cottage of blind John Batten, and laid the two fair-haired lads before their stricken parents. Tears were wrung from the strongest men there when they beheld the agonised but tearless mother guide her husband’s hand to their faces that he might for the last time feel the loved ones whom, she said in the bitterness of her grief, “he should never see more.”

“Never see more, dear lass!” he replied with a sad smile, “how can thee say so? Shall we not behold their dear faces again when we see our blessed Lord face to face?”

Thus the Christian miner comforted himself and his sorrowing family.

It is right to add that such catastrophes are not of frequent occurrence in the mines. The danger of “holing to a house of water,” is so great and so well known that the operation is usually conducted with great care, and accident is well guarded against.

Nevertheless, an occasional act of carelessness will now and then result in a terrible disaster. A catastrophe, similar in all its chief features to that which has been related in the last chapter, happened in North Levant mine many years ago, and in the burying-ground of the Wesleyan Chapel of St. Just may be seen a tombstone, which bears record of the sad event as follows:—

Sacred to the memory of

James, aged 20,

and

John, aged 15 years,

sons of James and Nanny Thomas of Bollowall,

in this Parish,

who were drowned (with three others)

by the holing to a house of water in

North Levant Mine on the first of April 1867.

A “house” of much larger dimensions, and containing a much greater body of water than that which caused the latest destruction of life in North Levant mine, was cleared of water not long ago in Botallack. The agents knew of its existence, for, the whole region both above and below ground being measured off and planned, they could lay their finger on the exact spot where they knew that an old mine existed. They kept a large borer, six feet long, going constantly before them as they cut their way towards the point of danger. The result was that when the borer at last pierced through to the old mine, there were six feet of solid rock between them and the water. Through the small hole the water flowed, and thus the mine was slowly but safely drained. In the other case, the ground happened to be soft, and had been somewhat recklessly cut away.

Of course, there are occasions—proving the truth of the proverb that “accidents will happen in the best regulated families”—in which neither foresight nor precaution can prevent evil; but these are comparatively few. Sometimes the cupidity of a miner will lead him, for the sake of following a rich lode, to approach too near and too recklessly to danger, despite the vigilance of captains, and cause considerable risk to the mine as well as to themselves. Such was the case once long ago at Botallack, when the miners below the sea cut away the rock to within three or four feet of the water, and actually made a small hole through so that they had to plug it up with a piece of wood.

This is a fact which we can vouch for, having seen the plug, and heard the boulders rattling loudly over our head with each successive wave; but there is no danger here, because the cutting under the sea is narrow, and the rock solid and intensely hard.

Such also was the case, not many years since, at Levant mine, where the men working in the levels under the sea drove upwards until the salt water began to trickle through to them in alarming quantities—insomuch that the other miners struck work, and refused to go again into the mine, unless the workings in that part were stopped, and the place made secure. This was accordingly done, and the men returned to the mine. The danger here was really great, because the cutting that had been made was wide, and the ground overhead comparatively soft.

But, to return to our tale.

For many days after the catastrophe Oliver Trembath lay in his bed suffering from severe cuts and bruises, as well as from what must have been, as nearly as possible, concussion of the brain, for he had certainly been washed down one of the winzes, although he himself retained only a confused recollection of the events of that terrible day, and could not tell what had befallen him. At length, however, he became convalescent, and a good deal of his old vigour returned.

During this period of illness and convalescence Oliver had been constrained by old Mr Donnithorne to take up his abode in his house, and the young doctor could not have experienced more attention and kindness from the old couple if he had been their son. Rose Ellis, too, did her best to cheer him, and, as we need scarcely add, was wonderfully successful in her efforts!

It was during this period that Oliver made the acquaintance of a young man of St. Just, named Charles Tregarthen—a congenial spirit—and one who was, besides, a thorough gentleman and an earnest Christian. With this youth he formed a sincere friendship, and although the subject of religion was never obtrusively thrust upon him by young Tregarthen, it entered so obviously into all his thoughts, and shone so clearly in his words and conduct, that Oliver’s heart was touched, and he received impressions at that time which never left him.

Oliver and his friend were sitting one forenoon in Mr Donnithorne’s dining-room, which commanded an extensive view of green fields and grass-covered stone walls, with the beams and machinery of mines on the horizon, and the blue sea beyond. They were planning a short walking tour, which it was thought would be of great benefit to Oliver in that stage of his recovery, when old Mr Donnithorne entered the room with a somewhat perturbed expression of countenance.

“How are you, Charlie my boy?” he said. “Oliver, I want to have a few minutes’ talk with you in my room on business; I know Charlie will excuse you.”

“I was on the point of taking leave at any rate,” said Tregarthen with a smile, as he grasped Oliver’s hand; “think over our plan, like a good fellow; I am sure Mr Donnithorne will approve of it, and I’ll look in to-morrow forenoon to hear what decision you come to.”

“Oliver,” said Mr Donnithorne, sitting down opposite the invalid when his friend had left, and frowning portentously, “d’you know I’m a ruined man?”

“I trust not, uncle,” replied Oliver with an incredulous smile, supposing that the old gentleman was jesting.

“Yes, but I am,” he repeated with tremendous gravity. “At all events, I shall be ere long. These—these—vile jewels will be the death of me.”

Having thus broken the ice Mr Donnithorne went on with much volubility of utterance and exasperation of tone to explain that legal proceedings had been instituted for the recovery of the jewels which he had purchased from the fishermen; that things seemed almost certain to go against him; and that in all probability he should be compelled to sell his estate in order to refund the money.

“But can you not sell your shares in Botallack and refund with the proceeds?” said Oliver.

“No, I cannot,” replied the old gentleman. “You know that at present these shares are scarcely saleable except at a ruinous discount, and it would be a pity to part with them just now, seeing that there is some hope of improvement at this time. There is nothing for it but to sell my estate, and I don’t think there will be enough left to buy butter to my bread after this unhappy affair is settled, for it amounts to some thousands of pounds.”

“Indeed, uncle! how comes it that they found out the value of them?”

“Oh, simply enough, Oliver, but strangely too. You must know that Maggot, the scoundrel (and yet not such a scoundrel either, for the fellow informed on me in a passion, without having any idea of the severity of the consequences that would follow),—Maggot, it seems, kept the cloth belt in which the jewels were found tied round the owner’s waist, and there happened to be a piece of parchment sewed up in the folds of it, in which the number and value of the jewels were enumerated. This belt was ferreted out by the lawyers, and the result is that, as I said before, I shall be a ruined man. Verily,” added Mr Donnithorne, with a look of vexation, as he stumped up and down the room with his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets, “verily, my wife was a true prophetess when she told me that my sin would be sure to find me out, and that honesty was the best policy. ’Pon my conscience, I’m half inclined to haul down my colours and let her manage me after all!”

“I am much concerned at what you tell me,” said Oliver, “and I regret now very deeply that the few hundreds which I possessed when I came here—and which you know are all my fortune—have also been invested in Botallack shares, for they should have been heartily at your service, uncle.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about your hundreds, lad,” said the old gentleman testily; “I didn’t come here to ask assistance from you in that way, but to tell you the facts of the case, and ask you to do me the favour to carry a letter to my lawyer in Penzance, and inquire into the condition of a mine I have something to do with there—a somewhat singular mine, which I think will surprise as well as interest you; will you do this, for me, lad?”

“Most willingly,” replied Oliver. “You heard my friend Charlie Tregarthen speak of our intention to go on a walking tour for a couple of days; now, if you have no objection, he and I will set off together without delay, and make Penzance our goal, going round by the Land’s End and the coast.”

“So be it, Oliver, and don’t hurry yourselves, for the business will wait well enough for a day or two. But take care of yourself, lad; don’t go swimming off the Land’s End again, and above all things avoid smugglers. The scoundrels! they have been the ruin of me, Oliver. Not bad fellows in their way either, but unprincipled characters—desperately regardless of the national laws; and—and—keep clear of ’em, I advise you strongly—have nothing to do with ’em, Oliver, my son.”

So saying the old gentleman left the room, shaking his head with profound gravity.

Chapter Eighteen.

Tells of King Arthur and other more or less Fabulous Matters.

Next day Oliver Trembath and his friend Charles Tregarthen, before the sun had mounted his own height above the horizon, were on their way to the Land’s End.

The young men were admirably suited to each other. Both were well educated, and possessed similar tastes, though their temperaments were dissimilar, and both were strong athletic youths—Oliver’s superiority in this latter respect being at that time counterbalanced by his recent illness, which reduced him nearly to a level with his less robust companion.

Their converse was general and desultory until they reached the Land’s End, on the point of which they had resolved to breakfast.

“Now, Oliver, we have purchased an appetite,” said Tregarthen, throwing down a wallet in which he carried some provisions; “let us to work.”

“Stay, Charlie, not here,” said Oliver; “let us get out on the point, where we shall have a better view of the cliffs on either side of the Land’s End. I love a wide, unobstructed view.”

“As you will, Oliver; I leave you to select our table, but I pray you to remember that however steady your head may have been in days of yore when you scaled the Scottish mountains, the rough reception it has met with in our Cornish mines has given it a shake that renders caution necessary.”

“Pshaw! Charlie, don’t talk to me of caution, as if I were a timid old woman.”

“Nay, then, I talk of it because you are not a timid old woman, but a reckless young man who seems bent on committing suicide. Yonder is a grassy spot which I think will suit you well.”

He pointed to a level patch of sward on the neck of land that connects the outlying and rugged promontory which forms the extreme Land’s End with the cliffs of the mainland. Here they spread their meal, and from this point they could see the cliffs and bays of the iron-bound shore extending on the one hand towards Cape Cornwall, and on the other towards that most romantic part of the coast known by the somewhat curious name of Tolpedenpenwith, where rocks and caverns are found in such fantastic fashion that the spot has become justly celebrated for picturesque grandeur. At their feet, far below, the great waves (caused by the swell, for there was no wind) boomed in solemn majesty, encircling the cliffs with a lace-work of foam, while on the horizon the Scilly Islands could be seen shimmering faintly. A bright sun shone on the unruffled sea, and hundreds of ships and boats lay becalmed on its breast.

“’Tis a splendid scene!” said Oliver, sitting down beside his friend.

“It is indeed, and reminds me of the sea of glass before the great white throne that we read of in Revelation. It is difficult to imagine or to believe that the peaceful water before us, lying between this spot and the Scilly Islands yonder, was once a land full of verdure and life—yet such tradition tells us was the case.”

“You mean, I suppose, the fabled land of Lionesse?” said Oliver.

“Yes; you have heard the story of its destruction, I suppose?”

“Not I,” said Oliver, “so if you have a mind to tell it me while I satisfy the cravings of an unusually sharp appetite I’ll consider you a most obliging fellow. Pass me the knuckle of ham—thanks—and the bread; now go ahead.”

“’Tis a romantic story,” said Tregarthen.

“All the better,” replied Oliver.

“And terrible,” added Tregarthen.

“It won’t spoil my appetite,” said his friend.

“Well, then, I’ll tell it—to the best of my ability.” The youth then began the following legend, pausing ever and anon during the narration to swallow a piece of bread or a mouthful of cold tea, which constituted the principal elements of their frugal meal.

“You must know that, once upon a time, long, long ago, in those ancient days before Norman or Dane had invaded this land, while Britain still belonged to the British, and King Arthur held his court in Tintagel’s halls, there was a goodly land, named Lethowsow or the Lionesse, extending a distance of thirty miles between this cape and yonder shadowy islets which seem to float like cirrus clouds on the horizon. It is said that this land of Lionesse was rich and fertile, supporting many hundreds of families, with large flocks and herds. There were no fewer than forty churches upon it, from which it follows that there must have been a considerable population of well-doing people there.

“About the time of the events which I am going to narrate, King Arthur’s reign was drawing to a close. Treason had thinned the ranks of the once united and famous knights of the Round Table. It is true that Sir Kaye, the seneschal, remained true, and Sir Ector de Mans, and Sir Caradoc, and Sir Tristram, and Sir Lancelot of the Lake, of whom it was said that ‘he was the kindest man that ever struck with sword; and he was the goodliest person that ever rode among the throng of knights; and he was the meekest man, and the gentlest, that did ever eat in hall among ladies; and he was the sternest knight to his mortal foe that ever laid lance in rest.’ But many seats at the Round Table that once were filled by brave warriors had become empty, and among these, that of Prince Mordred, who, it was rumoured, meant to declare open war against his royal cousin and benefactor.

“One night King Arthur sat at the Round Table in Tintagel Castle with his knights gathered round him, and Queen Guenever with her maidens by his side. At the beginning of the feast the king’s brow was clouded, for, although there was no lack of merriment or song, there was a want of the free-hearted courtesy and confidence of former days. Still the semblance of unabated good-fellowship was kept up, and the evening passed in gaiety until its close, when the king rose to retire. Taking in his hand a golden cup to pledge his guests, he was about to drink, when a shudder passed through his frame, and he cast the goblet away, exclaiming, ‘It is not wine, but blood! My father Merlin is among us, and there is evil in the coming days. Break we up our court, my peers! It is no time for feasting, but rather for fasting and for prayer.’

“The king glanced with a dark frown at the chair of his kinsman Mordred, but it was not empty! A strange, indistinct, shadowy form rested on it. It had no human shape, but a dreadful outline of something unearthly. Awe-struck and silent, the company at once broke up.

“On the following day, news of Mordred’s revolt arrived at Tintagel Castle, and day after day fresh rumours reached it of foes flocking in numbers to the rebel standard. The army increased as it advanced, but, strange to say, King Arthur showed no disposition to sally forth and meet the traitor. It seemed as if his brave heart had quailed at last, and his good sword Excalibur had lost its magic virtue. Some thought that he doubted the fidelity of those who still remained around him. But, whatever the cause might have been, King Arthur made no preparation, and indicated no feeling or intention. He lay still in his castle until the rebels had approached to the very gates. There was something terrible in this mysterious silence of the king, which had a tendency to overawe the rebels as they drew near, and remembered that they were about to match themselves against warriors who had grown old in fellowship with victory.

“When the main body of the invaders appeared, the great bell of the fortress at last rang out a stirring peal, and before the barbican the trumpets sounded to horse. King Arthur then with his knights and men-at-arms, the best warriors of Britain, arose and sallied forth to fight in their last battle.

“Next evening a broken band of horsemen alone remained to tell of the death of their king and the destruction of all their hopes. They numbered several hundreds, but their hacked armour, jaded steeds, and gaping wounds told that they were unfit to offer battle to any foe. They were in full flight, bearing a torn banner, still wet with the blood of King Arthur; yet they fled unwillingly, as men who were unused to retreat, and scarce knew how to comport them in the novel circumstances. Their course was in the direction of the Lionesse, the tract of country called in the Cornish tongue Lethowsow. On they dashed, without uttering a word, over the bleak moors before them. Sometimes they halted to drink at a spring or tighten their girths, and occasionally a man fell behind from sheer exhaustion. At night they encamped, after a hard ride of thirty miles. Next morning the flight was resumed, but the vindictive Mordred still thundered on in pursuit. Ere long they heard a trumpet sounding in their rear, and King Arthur’s men halted for a few minutes, with the half-formed design of facing the foe and selling their lives dearly. While they paused in gloomy irresolution, gazing sternly on the advancing host, whose arms flashed back the rays of the morning sun, a mist rose up between them and their foes. It was a strange shadowy mist, without distinct form, yet not without resemblance to something ghostly. The knights at once recognised it as the shade of Merlin, the Great Wizard! Slowly the cloud uprose between the pursuers and pursued, effectually protecting the latter; nevertheless, although baffled, the former did not give up the chase.

“At last Mordred reached a lofty slope, from the top of which he descried his enemies retreating across the land of Lionesse. Mad with rage, he descended to the plain, where soft sunlight shone through luxuriant glades and across the green pastures, gladdening the hearts of man and beast. Nature was all peaceful, and gloriously beautiful, but Mordred’s eyes saw it not, his heart felt not the sweet influences. The bitterness induced by hatred and an evil conscience reigned within, as he urged his steed furiously onward.

“Suddenly a terrible change occurred in the atmosphere, which became oppressively sultry and horrible, while low muttering thunders were heard, and heavings of the earth felt. At the same time the cloud gradually condensed in front of Mordred, and, assuming a distinct form, stood before him in the person of Merlin the Wizard. For a few seconds they stood face to face, frowning on each other in awful silence. Then Merlin raised his arm, and immediately the thunders and confused mutterings increased, until the earth began to undulate and rend as if the foundations of the world were destroyed. Great fissures appeared, and the rocks welled up like the waves of the sea. With a cry of agony the pursuers turned to fly. But it was too late. Already the earth was rent into fragments; it upheaved convulsively for a few seconds; then sank beneath the level of the deep, and the ocean rushed wildly over the land, leaving nothing behind to mark the spot where land had been, save the peaked and barren rocks you see before you, with the surge beating continually around them.”

“A most extraordinary tale, truly,” said Oliver. “Do you believe it has any foundation?”

“I believe not the supernatural parts of it, of course,” replied Tregarthen; “but there is something in the fact that the land of Cornwall has unquestionably given up part of its soil to the sea. You are aware, I suppose, that St. Michael’s Mount, the most beautiful and prominent object in Mounts Bay, has been described as ‘a hoare rock in a wood,’ about six miles from the sea, although it now stands in the bay; and this idea of a sunken land is borne out by the unquestionable fact that if we dig down a few feet into the sand of the shore near Penzance, we shall come on a black vegetable mould, full of woodland detritus, such as branches, leaves of coppice wood, and nuts, together with carbonised roots and trunks of forest trees of larger growth; and these have been found as far out as the lowest tide would permit men to dig! In addition to this, portions of land have been overwhelmed by the sea near Penzance, in the memory of men now alive.”

“Hum!” said Oliver, stretching out his huge limbs like a giant basking in the sunshine, “I dare say you are correct in your suppositions, but I do not profess to be an antiquary, so that I won’t dispute the subject with you. At the same time, I may observe that it does seem to me as if there were a screw loose somewhere in the historical part of your narrative, for methinks I have read, heard, or dreamt, that King Arthur was Mordred’s uncle, not his cousin, and that Mordred was slain, and that the king was the victor, at the fatal field of Camelford, although the victory was purchased dearly—Arthur having been mortally wounded and carried back to Tintagel to die there. But, of course, I won’t pretend to doubt the truth of your narrative because of such trifling discrepancies. As to the encroachment of the sea on the Cornish coast, and the evidences thereof in Mounts Bay, I raise no objection thereto, but I cannot help thinking that we want stronger proof of the existence of the land of Lionesse.”

“Why, Oliver,” said Tregarthen, laughing, “you began by saying that you would not dispute the subject with me, and in two minutes you have said enough to have justified a regular attack on my part, had I been so disposed. However, we have a long road before us, so I must protest against a passage of arms just now.”

Having finished breakfast, the two friends proceeded along the coast a few miles to Tolpedenpenwith. Here, in the midst of the finest scenery on the coast, they spent the greater part of the day, and then proceeded to Penberth Cove, intending to secure a lodging for the night, order supper, and, while that was in preparation, pay a visit to the famous Logan Rock.

Penberth Cove is one of the prettiest little vales in the west of Cornwall. It is enriched with groups of trees and picturesque cottages, and possesses a luxuriant growth of shrubs and underwood, that almost conceals from view the streamlet, which is the chief cause of its fertility.

There were also, at the time we write of, one or two houses which, although not public inns, were open for the entertainment of travellers in a semi-private fashion. Here, therefore, our excursionists determined to put up for the night, with the widow of a fisherman who had perished in a storm while engaged in the herring fishery off the Irish coast. This good woman’s chief physical characteristic was rotundity, and her prominent mental attribute good-humour. She at once received the gentlemen hospitably, and promised to prepare supper for them while they went to visit the far-famed Logan or Logging Rock, which lay in the vicinity.

This rock is one of those freaks of nature which furnish food for antiquaries, points of interest to strangers, and occupation to guides. Every one who goes to the Land’s End must needs visit the Logan Rock, if he would “do” the country properly; and if our book were a “Guide to Cornwall,” we should feel bound to describe it with much particularity, referring to its size, form, weight, and rocking quality, besides enlarging on the memorable incident in its career, when a wild officer of the navy displaced it from its pivot by means of seamen and crowbars, and was thereafter ordered to replace it (a herculean task, which he accomplished at great cost) on pain of we know not what penalties. But, as we make no pretensions to the important office of a guide, we pass this lion by, with the remark that Oliver and his friend visited it and rocked it, and then went back to Penberth Cove to sup on pilchards, after which followed a chat, then bed, sound sleep, daybreak and breakfast, and, finally, the road to Penzance, with bright sunshine, light hearts, and the music of a hundred larks ringing in the sky.

Chapter Nineteen.

Small Talk and some Account of Cornish Fairies.

“What a splendid country for a painter of cliffs!” observed Oliver, as the friends walked briskly along; “I wonder much that our artists do not visit it more frequently.”

“Perhaps they find metal more attractive nearer home,” replied Tregarthen; “all the world has not fallen so violently in love with furze-clad moorland and rugged sea-cliffs as you seem to have done. Besides, the country is somewhat remote. Mayhap when a railway runs into it, which will doubtless be the case before many years pass by, we shall see knights of the brush pitching their white tents on the Land’s End; meanwhile we have a few promising young men of our own who bid fair to rival the great Opie himself. You have heard of him, of course?”

“I have heard of him indeed, and seen some of his works, but I’m ashamed to confess that, having left Cornwall when very young, and been a dweller in the far north of the kingdom ever since, I have only known the facts that he was a celebrated Cornish artist, and became the President of the Royal Academy. Can you tell me anything of his personal history?”

“Not much, but I can give you a brief outline of his career. John Opie was the son of a carpenter of St. Agnes, near Truro, and was discovered and extracted, like a ‘bunch’ of rich ore, from the midst of the tin-mines, by Dr Wolcot—who was celebrated under the name of Peter Pindar. The doctor first observed and appreciated Opie’s talent, and, resolving to bring him into notice, wrote about him until he became celebrated as the ‘Cornish Wonder.’ He also introduced people of note to the artist’s studio in London, many of whom sat for their portraits. These gave so much satisfaction that the reputation of the ‘Cornish Wonder’ spread far and wide, and orders came pouring in upon him, insomuch that he became a rich man and a Royal Academician, and ultimately President of the Academy. He married an authoress, and his remains were deposited in St. Paul’s Cathedral, near to those of Sir Joshua Reynolds. I have heard my grandfather say that he met him once in the town of Helston, and he described him as somewhat rough and unpolished, but a sterling, kind-hearted man.”

“Did he paint landscape at all?” inquired Oliver.

“Not much, I believe. He devoted himself chiefly to portraits.”

“Well, now,” said Oliver, looking round him; “it strikes me that this is just the country for a landscape painter. There is nowhere else such fine cliff scenery, and the wild moors, which remind me much of Scotland, are worthy of being sketched by an able brush.”

“People have curiously different opinions in reference to the moors which you admire so much,” said Tregarthen. “A clergyman who lived and wrote not very long ago, came to Cornwall in search of the picturesque, and he was so disappointed with what he termed a barren, desolate region, that he stopped suddenly on the road between Launceston and Bodmin, and turned his back on Cornwall for ever. As might be expected, such a man gave a very false idea of the country. On the other hand, a more recent writer, commenting on the first, speaks of his delight—after having grown somewhat tired of the almost too rich and over-cultivated scenery of Kent—on coming to what he styled ‘a sombre apparition of the desert in a corner of green England,’ and dwells with enthusiasm on ‘these solitudes, and hills crowned with rugged rocks, classical heaths and savage ravines, possessing a character of desolate grandeur.’ But this writer did more. He travelled through the country, and discovered that it possessed other and not less beautiful features; that there were richly clothed vales and beautiful rivulets, cultivated fields and prolific gardens, in close proximity to our grand cliffs and moors.”

“He might have added,” said Oliver, “that plants and flowers flourish in the open air here, and attain to a size, and luxuriance which are rare in other parts of England. Why, I have seen myrtles, laurels, fuchsias, pomegranates, and hortensias forming hedges and growing on the windows and walls of many houses. To my mind Cornwall is one of the finest counties in England—of which Flora herself has reason to be proud, and in which fairies as well as giants might dwell with much delight.”

“Spoken like a true Cornishman!” said Tregarthen, laughing; “and in regard to the fairies I may tell you that we are not without a few of them, although giants confessedly preponderate.”

“Indeed!” said Oliver; “pray whereabouts do they dwell?”

“You have heard of the Gump, I suppose?”

“What! the barren plain near Carn Kenidjack, to the north of St. Just?”

“The same. Well, this is said to be a celebrated haunt of the pixies, who have often led benighted travellers astray, and shown them wonderful sights. Of course one never meets with any individual who has actually seen them, but I have frequently met with those who have assured me they had known others who had conversed with persons who had seen fairies. One old man, in particular, I have heard of, who was quite convinced of the reality of a fairy scene which he once witnessed.

“This old fellow was crossing the Gump one evening, by one of the numerous paths which intersect it. It was summer-time. The sun had gone down beyond the sea-line, and the golden mists of evening were merging into the quiet grey that hung over the Atlantic. Not a breath of wind passed over land or sea. To the northward Chun Castle stood darkly on the summit of the neighbouring hill, and the cromlech loomed huge and mysterious; southward were traces of mystic circles and upright stones, and other of those inexplicable pieces of antiquity which are usually saddled on the overladen shoulders of the Druids. Everything, in fact—in the scene, the season, and the weather—contributed to fill the mind of the old man with romantic musings as he wended his way over the barren moor. Suddenly there arose on the air a sound of sweet, soft music, like the gentle breathings of an Aeolian harp. He stopped and gazed around with looks of mingled curiosity and surprise, but could see nothing unusual. The mysterious sounds continued, and a feeling of alarm stole over him, for twilight was deepening, and home was still far distant. He attempted to advance, but the music had such a charm for him that he could not quit the spot, so he turned aside to discover, if possible, whence it came. Presently he came to a spot where the turf was smoother and greener than elsewhere, and here the most wonderful and enchanting scene met his gaze. Fairies innumerable were before him; real live fairies, and no mistake. Lying down on the grass, the old man crept cautiously towards them, and watched their proceedings with deep interest. They were evidently engaged in the pleasant occupation of holding a fair. There were stalls, tastefully laid out and decorated with garlands of flowers. On these were spread most temptingly all the little articles of fairy costume. To be sure the said costume was very scanty, and to all appearance more picturesque than useful; nevertheless there was great variety. Some wore heath-bells jauntily stuck on their heads; some were helmeted with golden blossoms of the furze, and looked warlike; others had nothing but their own luxuriant hair to cover them. A few of the lady fairies struck the old man as being remarkably beautiful, and one of these, who wore an inverted tulip for a skirt, with a small forget-me-not in her golden hair, seemed to him the very picture of what his old Molly had been fifty years before. It was particularly noticeable that the stalls were chiefly patronised by the fairy fair sex, with the exception of one or two which were much frequented by the men. At these latter, articles were sold which marvellously resembled cigars and brandy, and the old man declared that he saw them smoke the former, and that he smelt the latter; but as he had himself been indulging a little that evening in smuggled spirits and tobacco, we must regard this as a somewhat ungenerous statement on his part, for it is ridiculous to suppose that fairies could be such senseless creatures as to smoke or drink! They danced and sang, however, and it was observed that one young man, with a yellow night-cap and a bad cold, was particularly conspicuous for his anxiety to be permitted to sing.

“The music was naturally the great attraction of the evening. It consisted of a large band, and although some of the performers used instruments made of reeds, and straws, and other hollow substances, cut into various forms and lengths, most of them had noses which served the purpose of musical instruments admirably. Indeed, the leader of the band had a prolongation of the nose so like to a flesh-coloured clarionet, that it might easily have been mistaken for the real thing, and on this he discoursed the most seraphic music. Another fairy beside him had a much longer nose, which he used as a trombone with great effect. This fellow was quite a character, and played with such tremendous energy that, on more than one occasion, he brought on a fit of sneezing, which of course interrupted the music, and put the clarionet in a passion. A stout old misshapen gnome, or some such creature, with an enormous head, served for the big drum. Four fairies held him down, and a fifth belaboured his head with a drumstick. It sounded wonderfully hollow, and convinced the old man that it was destitute of brains, and not subject to headache.

“All the time that the old man gazed at them, troops of fairies continued to arrive, some on the backs of bats, from which they slipped as they whirred past; others descending, apparently, on moonbeams. The old man even fancied that he saw one attempting to descend by a starbeam, which, being apparently too weak to support his weight, broke, and let him down with a crash into the midst of a party who were very busy round a refreshment stall, where a liberal supply of mountain dew was being served out; but the old man never felt quite sure upon this point, for, at sight of the mountain dew, he felt so thirsty that he determined to taste it. Fixing his eyes on the stall, he suddenly threw his hat into the midst of the party, and made a dash at it; but, to his intense disappointment, the vision was instantly dispelled, and nothing was to be seen on the spot but a few snails creeping over the wet grass, and gossamer threads bespangled with dewdrops.”

“A very pretty little vision,” exclaimed Oliver, “and not the first that has been prematurely dispelled by too ardent a pursuit of strong drink! And now, Charlie, as you appear to be in the vein, and we have still some distance to go, will you tell me something about the giants, and how it came to pass that they were so fond of roaming about Cornwall?”

“Their fondness for it, Oliver, must be ascribed to the same cause as your own—just because it is a lovable place,” said Tregarthen; “moreover, being a thinly-peopled county, they were probably not much disturbed in their enjoyment of it. To recount their surprising deeds would require a longer space of time than is just now at our disposal, but you have only to look round, in passing through the country, to understand what a mighty race of men they were. There are ‘giants’ quoits,’ as you know, without end, some of which have the marks of the fingers and thumbs with which they grasped them. Their strength may be estimated by the fact that one of these quoits is no less than forty feet long and twenty wide, and weighs some hundreds of tons. It would puzzle even your strong arm to toss such a quoit! One of these giants was a very notable fellow. He was named ‘Wrath,’ and is said to have been in the habit of quenching his thirst at the Holy Well under St. Agnes’s Beacon, where the marks of his hands, made in the solid granite while he stooped to drink, may still be seen. This rascal, who was well named, is said to have compelled poor St. Agnes, in revenge for her refusing to listen to his addresses, to carry in her apron to the top of Beacon Hill the pile of stones which lies there. But here we are at Penzance, so we shall have done with fiction for the present, and revert to matters of fact. You have business with a lawyer, I believe, and I have business for a short time with a friend. Let us appoint a time and place of meeting.”

“What say you to the Wherry Mine at two o’clock?” said Oliver. “It is probable that my business will be concluded by that time, when we can go and see this mine together. My uncle seems to set great store by it, because of an old prophecy to the effect that some day or other it will enrich somebody!”

“Why, that prophecy has been fulfilled long ago,” said Tregarthen, with a laugh. “The mine was a bold undertaking, and at one time paid well, but I fear it won’t do so again. However, let us meet there; so farewell, old boy, till two.”

Chapter Twenty.

The Mine in the Sea.

True to their appointment, young Tregarthen and Oliver Trembath met at the western end of the town of Penzance, close to the sea-beach, where a mass of buildings and a chimney indicated the position of the Wherry Mine.

Oliver’s countenance betrayed anxiety as he came forward.

“Nothing wrong, I hope?” said Tregarthen.

“Well, I can’t say exactly that things are wrong; but, at the same time, I don’t know that they are altogether right.”

“Much the same thing,” said Tregarthen, smiling; “come, Oliver, unbosom yourself, as novelists say. It will do you good, and two heads, you know, are better than one.”

“It’s not easy to unbosom myself, old fellow,” returned Oliver, with a troubled look; “for my poor uncle’s affairs are in a perplexed condition, and I hate explanations, especially when I don’t understand the nature of what I attempt to explain, so we’ll not talk about it, please, till after our visit to the mine. Let it suffice to say that that notorious smuggler Jim Cuttance is concerned in it, and that we must go to Newlyn this afternoon on a piece of business which I shall afterwards disclose. Meanwhile, where is this mine?”

“Lift up your eyes and behold,” said Tregarthen, pointing to an object which was surrounded by the sea, and stood above two hundred yards from the beach.

“What! that martello-tower-like object?” exclaimed Oliver in much surprise.

“Even so,” replied Tregarthen, who thereupon proceeded to give his friend a history and description of the mine—of which the following is the substance:—

At the western extremity of the sea-beach at Penzance there is a reef of sunken rocks which shows its black crest above water at low tide. It was discovered that this reef contained tin, and the people of the town attacked it with hammers and chisels, when each receding tide left it exposed, as long as the seasons would permit, until the depth became unmanageable. After having been excavated a few fathoms the work was abandoned.

Fortunately for the progress of this world there exist a few enterprising men whom nothing can discourage, who seem to be spurred on by opposition, and to gather additional vigour and resolution from increasing difficulties. These men are not numerous, but the world is seldom without a few of them; and one made his appearance in Penzance about the end of last century, in the person of a poor miner named Thomas Curtis. This man conceived the bold design of sinking a shaft through this water-covered rock, and thus creating a mine not only under, but in the sea.

With the energy peculiar to his class he set to work. The distance of the rock from the beach was about two hundred and forty yards; the depth of water above it at spring tides about nineteen feet. Being exposed to the open sea, a considerable surf is raised on it at times by the prevailing winds, even in summer; while in winter the sea bursts over with such force as to render all operations on it impossible.

That Curtis was a man of no common force of character is obvious from the fact that, apart from the difficulties of the undertaking, he could not expect to derive any profit whatever from his labour for several years. As the work could only be carried on during the short period of time in which the rock was above water, and part of this brief period must necessarily be consumed each tide in pumping out the water in the excavation, it of course progressed slowly. Three summers were consumed in sinking the pump-shaft. After this a framework, or caisson, of stout timber and boards, was built round the mouth of the shaft, and rendered watertight with pitch and oakum. It rose to a height of about twelve feet above the surface of the sea, and was strengthened and supported by stout bars, or buttresses of timber. A platform was placed on the top, and a windlass, at which four men could work, was fixed thereon. This erection was connected with the shore by a stage or “wherry” erected on piles. The water was cleared out; the men went “underground,” and, with the sea rolling over their heads, and lashing wildly round the turret which was their only safeguard from terrible and instant destruction, they hewed daily from the submarine rock a considerable portion of tin.

These first workers, however, had committed an error in carrying on their operations too near the surface, so that water permeated freely through the rock, and the risk of the pressure above being too great, for it rendered the introduction of immense supporting timbers necessary. The water, too, forced its way through the shaft during the winter months, so that the regular working of the mine could not be carried on except in summer; nevertheless, this short interval was sufficient to enable the projector to raise so much ore that his mine got the reputation of being a profitable adventure, and it was wrought successfully for many years.

About the end of the century the depth of the pump-shaft was about four fathoms, and the roof had been cut away to the thinness of three feet in some places. Twelve men were employed for two hours at the windlass in hauling the water, while six others were “teaming” from the bottom into the pump. When sufficient water had been cleared away the men laboured at the rock for six hours—in all, eight hours at a time. The prolific nature of the mine may be gathered from the fact that in the space of six months ten men, working about one tenth of that time—less than three weeks—broke about 600 pounds worth of ore. During one summer 3,000 pounds worth of tin was raised!

A steam-engine was ultimately attached to the works, and the mine was sunk to a depth of sixteen fathoms, but the expense of working it at length became so great that it was abandoned—not, however, before ore to the amount of 70,000 pounds had been raised from under the sea!

At the time of our tale another effort had been made to work the Wherry Mine, and great expectations had been raised, but these expectations were being disappointed. Our unfortunate friend Mr Donnithorne was among the number of those who had cause to regret having ventured to invest in the undertaking, and it was to make inquiries in regard to certain unfavourable rumours touching the mine that Oliver Trembath had been sent to Penzance.

After inspecting Wherry Mine the two friends walked along the shore together, and Oliver explained the nature of the difficulties in which his uncle was involved.

“The fact is, Charlie,” he said, “an old fish-purchaser of Newlyn named Hitchin is one of the principal shareholders in this concern. He is as rich, they say, as Croesus, and if we could only prevail on him to be amiable the thing might be carried on for some time longer with every hope of a favourable result, for there can be no doubt whatever that there is plenty of tin in the mine yet, and the getting of it out is only a question of time and capital.”

“A pretty serious question—as most speculators find,” said Tregarthen, laughing; “you appear to think lightly of it.”

“Well, I don’t pretend to know much about such matters,” replied Oliver, “but whatever may be the truth of the case, old Hitchin refuses to come forward. He says that he is low in funds just now, which nobody seems to believe, and that he owes an immense sum of money to Jim Cuttance, the smuggler, for what, of course, he will not tell, but we can have no difficulty in guessing. He says that Cuttance is pressing him just now, and that, therefore, he cannot afford to advance anything on the mine. This being the case it must go down, and, if it does, one of the last few gleams of prosperity that remain to my poor uncle will have fluttered away. This must be prevented, if possible, and it is with that end in view that I purpose going to Newlyn this afternoon to see Hitchin and bring my persuasive powers to bear on him.”

“H’m, not of much use, I fear,” said Tregarthen. “Hitchin is a tough old rascal, with a hard heart and a miserly disposition. However, it may be worth while to make the attempt, for you have a very oily tongue, Oliver.”

“And you have an extremely impudent one, Charlie. But can you tell me at what time the mackerel boats may be expected this evening, for it seems the old fellow is not often to be found at home during the day, and we shall be pretty sure to find him on the beach when the boats arrive?”

Thus appealed to, Tregarthen cast a long look at the sea and sky.

“Well, I should say, considering the state of the tide and the threatening appearance of the sky, we may expect to see them at six o’clock, or thereabouts.”

“That leaves us nearly a couple of hours to spare; how shall we spend it?” said Oliver.

“Go and have a look at this fine old town,” suggested Tregarthen. “It is worth going over, I assure you. Besides the town hall, market, museum, etcetera, there are, from many points of the surrounding eminences, most superb views of the town and bay with our noble St. Michael’s Mount. The view from some of the heights has been said by some visitors to equal that of the far-famed Bay of Naples itself.”

“Part of this I have already seen,” said Oliver, “the rest I hope to live to see, but in the meantime tin is uppermost in my mind; so if you have no objection I should like to have a look at the tin-smelting works. What say you?”

“Agreed, by all means,” cried Tregarthen; “poor indeed would be the spirit of the Cornishman who did not feel an interest in tin!”

Chapter Twenty One.

Treats of Tin-Smelting and other Matters.

There is something grand in the progress of a mechanical process, from its commencement to its termination. Especially is this the case in the production of metals, nearly every step in the course of which is marked by the hard, unyielding spirit of vis inertiae on the one hand, and the tremendous power of intelligence, machinery, and manual dexterity on the other.

Take, for example, the progress of a mass of tin from Botallack.

Watch yonder stalwart miner at work, deep in the bowels of the mine. Slowly, with powerful blows, he bores a hole in the hard rock. After one, two, or three hours of incessant toil, it is ready for the powder. It is charged; the match is applied; the man takes shelter behind a projection; the mass is rent from its ancient bed, and the miner goes off to lunch while the smoke is clearing away. He returns to his work at length, coughing, and rubbing his eyes, for smoke still lingers there, unable, it would seem, to find its way out; and no wonder, lost as it is in intricate ramifications at the depth of about one thousand five hundred feet below the green grass! He finds but a small piece of ore—perhaps it is twice the size of his head, it may be much larger, but, in any case, it is an apparently poor return for the labour expended. He adds it, however, to the pile at his side, and when that is sufficiently large fills a little iron wagon, and sends it up “to grass” through the shaft, by means of the iron “kibble.” Here the large pieces of ore are broken into smaller ones by a man with a hammer; as far as the inexperienced eye can distinguish he might be breaking ordinary stones to repair the road! These are then taken to the “stamps.”

Those who have delicate nerves would do well to keep as far as possible from the stamps of a tin-mine! Enormous hammers or pounders they are, with shanks as well as heads of malleable-iron, each weighing, shank and head together, seven hundredweight. They are fearful things, these stamps; iron in spirit as well as in body, for they go on for ever—night and day—wrought by a steam-engine of one hundred horse-power, as enduring as themselves. The stamps are so arranged as to be self-feeders, by means of huge wooden troughs with sloping bottoms, into which the ore is thrown in quantities sufficient to keep them constantly at work without requiring much or constant attendance. Small streams of water trickle over the ore to keep it slowly sliding down towards the jaws, where the stamps thunder up and down alternately. A dread power of pounding have they, truly; and woe be to the toe that should chance to get beneath them!

The rock they have to deal with is, as we have said, uncommonly hard, and it enters the insatiable mouth of the stamps about the size of a man’s fist, on the average, but it comes out from these iron jaws so exceeding fine as to be incapable of thickening the stream of reddish-yellow water that carries it away. The colour of the stream is the result of iron, with which the tin is mingled.

The particles of tin are indeed set free by the stamps from solid bondage, but they are so fine as to be scarcely visible, and so commingled with other substances, such as iron, copper, sulphur, etcetera, that a tedious process of separation has yet to be undergone before the bright metal can be seen or handled.

At the present time the stream containing it is poured continuously on several huge wooden tables. These tables are each slightly raised in the centre where the stream falls, so that all the water runs off, leaving the various substances it contains deposited on the table, and these substances are spread over it regularly, while being deposited, by revolving washers or brushes.

Tin, being the heaviest of all the ingredients contained in the stream, falls at once to the bottom, and is therefore, deposited on the head or centre of the table; iron, being a shade lighter, is found to lodge in a circle beyond; while all other substances are either spread over the outer rim or washed entirely away. When the tables are full—that is, coated with what appears to be an earthy substance up wards of a foot in depth—the rich tin in the centre is carefully cut out with shovels and placed in tubs, while the rest is rewashed in order that the tin still mingled with it may be captured—a process involving much difficulty, for tin is so very little heavier than iron that the lighter particles can scarcely be separated even after repeated and careful washings.

In old times the tin was collected in large pits, whence it was transferred to the hands of balmaidens (or mine-girls) to be washed by them in wooden troughs called “frames,” which somewhat resembled a billiard table in form. Indeed, the frames are still largely employed in the mines, but these and the modern table perform exactly the same office—they wash the refuse from the tin.

Being finally cleansed from all its impurities, our mass of tin bears more resemblance to brown snuff than to metal. An ignorant man would suppose it to be an ordinary earthy substance, until he took some of it in his hand and felt its weight. It contains, however, comparatively little foreign substance. About seventy per cent of it is pure tin, but this seventy per cent is still locked up in the tight embrace of thirty per cent, of refuse, from which nothing but intense fire can set it free.

At this point in the process, our mass of tin leaves the rough hand of the miner. In former days it was divided among the shareholders in this form—each receiving, instead of cash, so many sacks of tin ore, according to the number of his shares or “doles,” and carrying it off on mule or horse back from the mine, to be smelted where or by whom he pleased. But whether treated in this way, or, as in the present day, sold by the manager at the market value, it all comes at last to the tin-smelter, whose further proceedings we shall now follow, in company with Oliver and his friend.

The agent of the smelting company—a stout, intelligent man, who evidently did “knaw tin”—conducted them first to the furnaces, in the neighbourhood of which were ranged a number of large wooden troughs or bins, all more or less filled with tin ore. The ore got from different mines, he said, differed in quality, as well as in the percentage of tin which it contained. Some had much iron mixed with it, in spite of all the washings it had undergone; some had a little copper and other substances; while some was very pure. By mixing the tin of different mines, better metal could be procured than by simply smelting the produce of each mine separately. Pointing to one of the bins, about three yards square, he told them it contained tin worth 1,000 pounds. There was a large quantity of black sand in one of the bins, which, the agent said, was got by the process of “streaming.” It is the richest and best kind of tin ore, and used to be procured in large quantities in Cornwall—especially in ancient times—being found near the surface, but, as a matter of course, not much of that is to be found now, the land having been turned over three times in search of it. This black sand is now imported in large quantities from Singapore.

The agent then conducted his visitors to the testing-house, where he showed them the process of testing the various qualities of tin ore offered, to the House for sale. First he weighed out twenty parts of the ore, which, as we have said, resembled snuff. This, he remarked, contained about five-sixths of pure tin, the remaining one-sixth being dross. He mixed it with four parts of fine coal dust, or culm, and added a little borax—these last ingredients being intended to expedite the smelting process. This compound was put into a crucible, and subjected to the intense heat of a small furnace for about twenty minutes. At the end of that time, the agent seized the crucible with a pair of tongs, poured the metal into an iron mould, and threw away the dross. The little mass of tin thus produced was about four inches long, by half an inch broad, and of a dull bluish-grey colour. It was then put into an iron ladle and melted, as one would melt lead when about to cast bullets, but it was particularly noteworthy here, that a very slight heat was required. To extract the metal from the tin ore, a fierce heat, long applied, was necessary, but a slight heat, continued for a few minutes, sufficed to melt the metal. This remelted metal was poured into a stone mould, where it lay like a bright little pool of liquid silver. In a few seconds it solidified, retaining its clear purity in all its parts.

“That,” said the agent, “is tin of the very best quality. We sell it chiefly to dyers, who use it for colouring purposes, and for whom no tin but the best is of any use. I will now show you two other qualities—namely, second and inferior.”

He went to a small cupboard as he spoke, and took therefrom a small piece of tin which had already gone through the smelting process in the crucible above described. Melting this in the ladle, he poured it into the mould, where it lay for a few moments, quite bright and pure, but the instant it solidified, a slight dimness clouded its centre.

“That,” explained the agent, “is caused by a little copper which they have failed to extract from the tin. Such tin would not do for the dyers, but it is good for the tin-plate makers, who, by dipping thin sheets of iron into molten tin, produce the well-known tin-plates of which our pot-lids and pans, etcetera, are manufactured. This last bit, gentlemen,” he added, taking a third piece of tin from the cupboard, “is our worst quality.”

Having melted it, he poured it into the mould, where it assumed a dull, half-solid appearance, as if it were a liquid only half frozen—or, if you prefer it, a solid in a half molten state.

“This is only fit to mix with copper and make brass,” said the agent, throwing down the mould. “We test the tin ore twice—once to find out the quantity of metal it contains, and again to ascertain its quality. The latter process you have seen—the former is just the same, with this difference, that I am much more careful in weighing, measuring, etcetera. Every particle of dross I would have collected and carefully separated from any metal it might contain; the whole should then have been reweighed, and its reduction in the smelting process ascertained. Thus, if twenty parts had been the weight of tin ore, the result might perhaps have been fourteen parts of metal and six parts of dross. And now, gentlemen, having explained to you the testing process, if you will follow me, I will show you the opening of one of our furnaces. The smelting-furnace just shows the testing process on a large scale. Into this furnace, six hours ago,” he said, pointing to a brick erection in the building to which he led them, “we threw a large quantity of tin ore, mingled with a certain proportion of culm. It is smelted and ready to be run off now.”

Here he gave an order to a sturdy man, who, with brawny arms bared to the shoulders, stood close at hand. He was begrimed and hairy—like a very Vulcan.

Seizing an iron poker, Vulcan probed the orifice of the furnace, and forthwith there ran out a stream of liquid fire, which was caught in an iron bowl nearly four feet in diameter. The intense heat of this pool caused the visitors to step back a few paces, and the ruddy glow shone with a fierce glare on the swart, frowning countenance of Vulcan, who appeared to take a stern delight in braving it.

Oliver’s attention was at once attracted to this man, for he felt convinced that he had seen his face before, but it was not until he had taxed his memory for several minutes that the scene of his adventure with the smugglers near the Land’s End flashed upon him, when he at once recognised him as the man named Joe Tonkin, who had threatened his life in the cavern. From a peculiar look that the man gave him, he saw that he also was recognised.

Oliver took no further notice of him at the time, however, but turned to watch the flow of the molten tin.

When the iron cauldron was almost full, “slag,” or molten refuse began to flow and cover the top of the metal. The hole was immediately plugged up by Vulcan, and the furnace cleared out for the reception of another supply of ore. The surface of the tin was now cleared of slag, after which it was ladled into moulds and allowed to cool. This was the first process completed; but the tin was still full of impurities, and had to undergo another melting and stirring in a huge cauldron. This latter was a severe and protracted operation, which Vulcan performed with tremendous power and energy.

In reference to this, it may interest the reader to mention a valuable discovery which was the result of laziness! A man who was employed in a tin-smelting establishment at this laborious work of stirring the molten metal in order to purify it, accidentally discovered that a piece of green wood dropped into it had the effect of causing it to bubble as if it were boiling. To ease himself of some of his toil, he availed himself of the discovery, and, by stirring the metal with a piece of green wood, caused such a commotion that the end in view was accomplished much more effectually and speedily than by the old process. The lazy man’s plan, we need scarcely add, is now universally adopted.

The last operation was to run the metal into moulds with the smelter’s name on them, and these ingots, being of portable size, were ready for sale.

While the agent was busily engaged in explaining to Charles Tregarthen some portions of the work, Oliver stepped aside and accosted Joe Tonkin.

“So, friend,” he said, with a smile, “it seems that smuggling is not your only business?”

“No, sur, it ain’t,” replied Joe, with a grin. “I’m a jack-of-all-trades—a smelter, as you do see, an’ a miner also, when it suits me.”

“I’m glad to hear it, my man, for it gives you a chance of coming in contact with better men than smugglers—although I’m free to confess that there is some good among them too. I don’t forget that your comrade Jim Cuttance hauled me out of the sea. Where is he?”

“Don’t knaw, sur,” replied Tonkin, with an angry frown; “he and I don’t pull well together. We’ve parted now.”

Oliver glanced at the man, and as he observed his stern, proud expression of face, and his huge, powerful frame, he came to the conclusion that Cuttance had met a man of equal power and force of character with himself, and was glad to get rid of him.

“But I have not gi’n up smuggling,” added the man, with a smile. “It do pay pretty well, and is more hearty-like than this sort o’ thing.”

“I’d advise you to fall back on mining,” said Oliver. “It is hard work, I know, but it is honest labour, and as far as I have seen, there does not appear to be a more free, hearty, and independent race under the sun than Cornish miners.”

Joe Tonkin shook his head and smiled dubiously.

“You do think so, sur, but you haven’t tried it. I don’t like it. It don’t suit me, it don’t. No, no; there’s nothin’ like a good boat and the open sea.”

“Things are looking a little better at Botallack just now, Joe,” said Oliver, after a pause. “I’d strongly advise you to try it again.”

The man remained silent for a few minutes, then he said,—“Well, Mr Trembath, I don’t mind if I do. I’m tired o’ this work, and as my time is up this very day, I’ll go over to-morrow and see ’bout it. There’s a man at Newlyn as I’ve got somethin’ to say to; I’ll go see him to-night, and then—”

“Come along, Oliver,” shouted Tregarthen at that moment; “it’s time to go.”

Oliver bade Tonkin good-afternoon, and, turning hastily away, followed his friend.

The two proceeded arm in arm up Market-Jew Street, and turning down towards the shore, walked briskly along in the direction of the picturesque fishing village of Newlyn, which lies little more than a mile to the westward of Penzance.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Shows how Oliver and his Friend went to Newlyn and saw the Mackerel Market, and found some Difficulties and Mysteries Awaiting them there.

The beach opposite Newlyn presented a busy scene when Oliver Trembath and his friend Charlie Tregarthen reached it.

Although the zenith of the season was over, mackerel fishing was still going on there in full vigour, and immense crowds of men, women, and children covered the sands. The village lies on the heights above, and crowds of people were leaning over the iron rails which guard the unwary or unsteady passenger from falling into the sea below. A steep causeway connects the main street above with the shore beneath; and up and down it horses, carts, and people were hurrying continuously.

True, there was not at that time quite as much bustle as may be witnessed there at the present day. The railway has penetrated these remote regions of the west, and now men work with a degree of feverish haste that was unknown then. While hundreds of little boats (tenders to the large ones) crowd in on the beach, auctioneers with long heavy boots wade knee-deep into the water, followed and surrounded by purchasers, and, ringing a bell as each boat comes in, shout,—“Now, then, five hundred, more or less, in this boat; who bids? Twenty shillings a hundred for five hundred—twenty shillings—say nineteen—I’m bid nineteen—nineteen-and-six—say nineteen-an—twenty—twenty shillings I’m bid—say twenty-one—shall I make it twenty-one shillings for any person?” etcetera.

The bells and voices of these auctioneers, loud though they be, are mild compared with the shouts of men, women, and children, as the fish are packed in baskets, with hot haste, to be in time for the train; and horses with laden carts gallop away over the sands at furious speed, while others come dashing back for more fish. And there is need for all this furious haste, for trains, like time and tide, wait for no man, and prices vary according to trains. Just before the starting of one, you will hear the auctioneers put the fish up at 20 shillings, 25 shillings, and even 30 shillings a hundred, and in the next half-hour, after the train is gone, and no chance remains of any more of the fish being got into the London market by the following morning, the price suddenly falls to 8 shillings a hundred, sometimes even less. There is need for haste, too, because the quantity of fish is very great, for there are sometimes two hundred boats at anchor in the bay, each with four thousand fish on the average, which must all be washed and packed in four or five hours. Yes, the old days cannot be compared with the present times, when, between the months of April and June, the three hundred boats of Mounts Bay will land little short of three thousand tons of mackerel, and the railway, for the mere carriage of these to London, Manchester, Birmingham, etcetera, will clear above 20,000 pounds!

Nevertheless, the busy, bustling, hearty nature of the scene on Newlyn beach in days of yore was not so very different as one might suppose from that of the present time. The men were not less energetic then than now; the women were not less eager; the children were quite as wild and mischievous, and the bustle and noise apparently, if not really, as great.

“What interests you?” asked Charlie Tregarthen, observing that his companion gazed pointedly at some object in the midst of the crowd.

“That old woman,” said Oliver; “see how demurely she sits on yonder upturned basket, knitting with all her might.”

“In the midst of chaos,” observed Tregarthen, laughing; “and she looks as placidly indifferent to the noise around her as if it were only the murmuring of a summer breeze, although there are two boys yelling at her very ear at this moment.”

“Perhaps she’s deaf,” suggested Oliver.

Tregarthen said he thought this highly probable, and the two remained silent for some time, watching, from an elevated position on the road leading down to the sands, the ever-changing and amusing scene below. Talk of a pantomime, indeed! No Christmas pantomime ever got up in the great metropolis was half so amusing or so grand as that summer pantomime that was performed daily on Newlyn sands, with admission to all parts of the house—the stage included—for nothing! The scenery was painted with gorgeous splendour by nature, and embraced the picturesque village of Newlyn, with its irregular gables, variously tinted roofs, and whitewashed fronts; the little pier with its modest harbour, perfectly dry because of the tide being out, but which, even if the tide had been in, and itself full to overflowing, could not apparently have held more than a dozen of the larger fishing-boats; the calm bay crowded with boats of all sizes, their brown and yellow sails reflected in the clear water, and each boat resting on its own image. On the far-off horizon might be seen the Lizard Point and the open sea, over which hung red and lurid clouds, which betokened the approach of a storm, although, at the time, all nature was quiet and peaceful. Yes, the scenery was admirably painted, and nothing could exceed the perfection of the acting. It was so very true to nature!

Right in front of the spot where the two friends stood, a fisherman sat astride of an upturned basket, enjoying a cup of tea which had been brought to him by a little girl who sat on another upturned basket at his side, gazing with a pleased expression into his rugged countenance, one cheek of which was distended with a preposterously large bite of bread and butter. The great Mathews himself never acted his part so well. What admirable devotion to the one engrossing object in hand! What a perfect and convincing display of a hearty appetite! What obvious unconsciousness of being looked at, and what a genuine and sudden burst of indignation when, owing to a touch of carelessness, he capsized the cup, and poured the precious tea upon the thirsty sand. At the distance from which Oliver and his friend observed him, no words were audible, but none were necessary. The man’s acting was so perfect that they knew he was scolding the little girl for the deed which he himself had perpetrated. Then there was something peculiarly touching in the way in which he suddenly broke into a short laugh, and patted the child’s head while she wiped out the cup, and refilled it from the little brown broken-nosed teapot hitherto concealed under her ragged shawl to keep it warm. No wizard was needed to tell, however, that this was quite an unnecessary piece of carefulness on the little girl’s part, for any brown teapot in the world, possessing the smallest amount of feeling, would have instantly made hot and strong tea out of cold water on being pressed against the bosom of that sunny child!

Just beyond this couple, three tired men, in blue flannel shirts, long boots, and sou’-westers, grouped themselves round a bundle of straw to enjoy a pipe: one stretched himself almost at full length on it, in lazy nonchalance; another sat down on it, and, resting his elbows on his knees, gazed pensively at his pipe as he filled it; while the third thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood for a few seconds with a grand bend at the small of his back (as if he felt that his muscles worked easily), and gazed out to sea. The greatest of the old masters could have painted nothing finer.

Away to the right, an old man might be seen tying up the lid of a basket full of fish beside his cart, and dividing his attention between the basket and the horse, which latter, much to his surprise, was unwontedly restive that evening, and required an unusual number of cautions to remain still, and of threats as to the punishment that would follow continued disobedience, all of which afforded the most intense and unutterable delight to a very small precocious boy, who, standing concealed on the off side of the animal, tickled its ear with a straw every time it bent its head towards the bundle of hay which lay at its feet. No clown or pantaloon was there to inflict condign punishment, because none was needed. A brother carter standing by performed the part, extempore. His eye suddenly lit on the culprit; his whip sprang into the air and descended on the urchin’s breech. Horror-struck, his mouth opened responsive to the crack, and a yell came forth that rose high above the surrounding din, while his little legs carried him away over the sands like a ragged leaf driven before the wind.

To the left of this scene (and ignorant of it, for the stage was so large, the actors were so numerous, and the play so grand, that few could do more than attend to their own part) a cripple might be seen with a crutch hopping actively about. He was a young man; had lost his leg, by an accident probably, and was looking about for a cast-away fish for his own supper. He soon found one. Whether it was that one had been dropped accidentally, or that some generous-hearted fish-dealer had dropped one on purpose, we cannot tell, but he did get one—a large fat one, too—and hobbled away as quickly as he could, evidently rejoicing.

The cripple was not the only one who crossed the stage thus lightly burdened. There were several halt and maimed, and some blind and aged ones there, whose desires in regard to piscatorial wealth extended only to one, or perhaps two, and they all got what they wanted. That was sufficient for the evening’s supper—for the morrow there was no need to care; they could return to get a fresh supply evening after evening for many a day to come, for it was a splendid mackerel season—such as had not been for many years—so said the sages of the village.

There were other groups, and other incidents that would have drawn laughter as well as tears from sympathetic hearts, but we must forbear. The play was long of being acted out—it was no common play; besides, it is time for our actors to come upon the stage themselves.

“I see old Hitchin,” exclaimed Oliver Trembath, starting suddenly out of a reverie, and pointing into the thickest of the crowd.

“How can you tell? you don’t know him,” said his companion.

“Know him! Of course I do; who could fail to know him after the graphic description the lawyer gave of him? See—look yonder, beside the cart with the big man in it arranging baskets. D’you see?”

“Which? the one painted green, and a scraggy horse with a bag hanging to its nose?”

“No, no; a little further to the left, man—the one with the broken rail and the high-spirited horse. There, there he is! a thin, dried-up, wrinkled, old shabby—”

“Ah! that’s the man,” exclaimed Tregarthen, laughing. “Come along, and let’s try to keep our eyes on him, for there is nothing so difficult as finding any one in a crowd.”

The difficulty referred to was speedily illustrated by the fact that the two friends threaded their way to the spot where the cart had stood, and found not only that it was gone, but that Hitchin had also moved away, and although they pushed through the crowd for more than a quarter of an hour they failed to find him.

As they were wandering about thus, they observed a very tall broad-shouldered man talking earnestly in undertones to a sailor-like fellow who was still broader across the shoulders, but not quite so tall. It is probable that Oliver would have paid no attention to them, had not the name of Hitchin struck his ear. Glancing round at the men he observed that the taller of the two was Joe Tonkin, and the other his friend of the Land’s End, the famous Jim Cuttance.

Oliver plucked his companion by the sleeve, and whispered him to stand still. Only a few words and phrases reached them, but these were sufficient to create surprise and arouse suspicion. Once, in particular, Tonkin, who appeared to be losing his temper, raised his voice a little, exclaiming,—“I tell ’ee what it is, Cuttance, I do knaw what you’re up to, an’ I’ll hinder ’ee ef I can.”

The man confirmed this statement with a savage oath, to which Cuttance replied in kind; nevertheless he was evidently anxious to conciliate his companion, and spoke so low as to be nearly inaudible.

Only the words, “Not to-night; I won’t do it to-night,” reached the ears of the listeners.

At this point Tonkin turned from the smuggler with a fling, muttering in an undertone as he went, “I don’t b’lieve ’ee, Cuttance, for thee’rt a liard, so I’ll watch ’ee, booy.”

Oliver was about to follow Tonkin, when he observed Hitchin himself slowly wending his way through the crowd. He had evidently heard nothing of the conversation that appeared to have reference to himself, for he sauntered along with a careless air, and his hands in his pockets, as though he were an uninterested spectator of the busy scene.

Oliver at once accosted him, “Pray, sir, is your name Hitchin?”

“It is,” replied the old man, eyeing his interrogator suspiciously.

“Allow me to introduce myself, sir—Oliver Trembath, nephew to Mr Thomas Donnithorne of St. Just.”

Mr Hitchin held out his hand, and said that he was happy to meet with a nephew of his old friend, in the tone of a man who would much rather not meet either nephew or uncle.

Oliver felt this, so he put on his most insinuating air, and requested Mr Hitchin to walk with him a little aside from the crowd, as he had something of a private nature to say to him. The old man agreed, and the two walked slowly along the sands to the outskirts of the crowd, where young Tregarthen discreetly left them.

The moment Oliver broached the subject of the advance of money, Hitchin frowned, and the colour in his face betrayed suppressed anger.

“Sir,” said he, “I know all that you would say to me. It has already been said oftener than there is any occasion for. No one appears to believe me when I assert that I have met with heavy losses of late, and have no cash to spare—not even enough to pay my debts.”

“Indeed, sir,” replied Oliver, “I regret to hear you say so, and I can only apologise for having troubled you on the subject. I assure you nothing would have induced me to do so but regard for my uncle, to whom the continuance of this mine for some time would appear to be a matter of considerable importance; but since you will not—”

“Wilt not!” interrupted Hitchin angrily, “have I not said can not? I tell you, young man, that there is a scoundrel to whom I owe a large sum for—for—well, no matter what it’s for, but the blackguard threatens that if I don’t—pshaw!—”

The old man seemed unable to contain himself at this point, for he turned angrily away from Oliver, and, hastening back towards the town, was soon lost again in the crowd.

Oliver was so taken by surprise, that he stood still gazing dreamily at the point where Hitchin had disappeared, until he was roused by a touch on the shoulder from Charlie Tregarthen.

“Well,” said he, smiling, “how fares your suit?”

Oliver replied by a burst of laughter.

“How fares my suit?” he repeated; “badly, very badly indeed; why, the old fellow’s monkey got up the moment I broached the subject, and I was just in the middle of what I meant to be a most conciliating speech, when he flung off as you have seen.”

“Odd, very odd,” said Tregarthen, “to see how some men cling to their money, as if it were their life. After all, it is life to some—at least all the life they have got.”

“Come now, don’t moralise, Charlie, for we must act just now.”

“I’m ready to act in any way you propose, Oliver; what do you intend to do? Issue your commands, and I’ll obey. Shall we attack the village of Newlyn single-handed, and set fire to it, as did the Spaniards of old, or shall we swim off to the fleet of boats, cut the cables, bind the men in charge, and set sail for the mackerel fishing?”

“Neither, my chum, and especially not the latter, seeing that a thundercloud is about to break over the sea ere long, if I do not greatly misjudge appearances in the sky; but, man, we must see this testy old fellow again, and warn him of the danger which threatens him. I feel assured that that rascal Cuttance means him harm, for he let something fall in his anger, which, coupled with what we have already heard from the smuggler himself, and from Tonkin, convinces me that evil is in the wind. Now the question is, how are we to find him, for searching in that crowd is almost useless?”

“Let us go to his house,” suggested Tregarthen, “and if he is not at home, wait for him.”

“Do you know where his house is?”

“No, not I.”

“Then we must inquire, so come along.”

Pushing once more through the throng of busy men and women, the friends ascended the sloping causeway that led to the village, and here asked the first man they met where Mr Hitchin lived.

“Right over top o’ hill,” replied the man.

“Thank you. That’ll do, Charlie, come along,” said Oliver, turning into one of the narrow passages that diverged from the main street of Newlyn, and ascending the hill with giant strides; “one should never be particular in their inquiries after a place. When I’m told to turn to the right after the second turning to the left, and that if I go right on till I come to some other turning, that will conduct me point blank to the street that enters the square near to which lies the spot I wish to reach, I’m apt to get confused. Get a general direction if possible, the position indicated by compass is almost enough, and ask again. That’s my plan, and I never found it fail.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

In which is Recorded a Visit to an Infant-School; a Warning to a Thankless Old Gentleman; also a Storm, and a Sudden as well as Surprising End of a Mine, besides Dark Designs.

Oliver Trembath’s plan of “asking again” had to be put in practice sooner than had been anticipated, for the back alleys and lanes of Newlyn were a little perplexing to a stranger.

“Let us inquire here,” said Tregarthen, seeing the half-open door of a very small cottage, with part of a woman’s back visible in the interior.

“By all means,” said Oliver, pushing open the door and stooping low as he entered.

The visitors were instantly transfixed by thirty pair of eyes—all of them bright blue, or bright black—few of them elevated much more than two feet from the ground, and not one of them dimmed by the smallest approach to a wink. Nay, on the contrary, they all opened so wide when the strangers entered that it seemed as if either winking or shutting were in future out of the question, and that to sleep with eyes wide open was the sad prospect of the owners thereof in all time coming.

“An infant-school,” murmured Tregarthen.

The very smallest boy in the school—an infant with legs about five inches long, who sat on a stool not more than three inches high—appeared to understand what he said, and to regard it as a personal insult, for he at once began to cry. A little girl with bright red hair, a lovely complexion, and a body so small as to be scarce worth mentioning, immediately embraced the small boy, whereupon he dried his eyes without delay.

“You have a nice little school here,” said Oliver.

“Iss, sur; we do feel proud of it,” said the good-looking motherly dame in charge, with a little twitch of her shoulders, which revealed the horrible fact that both her arms had been taken off above the elbows, “the child’n are very good, and they do sing bootiful. Now then, let the gentlemen hear you—‘O that’ll be’—come.”

Instantly, and in every possible pitch, the thirty mouths belonging to the thirty pair of eyes opened, and “O that will be joyful,” etcetera, burst forth with thrilling power. A few leading voices gradually turned the torrent into a united channel, and before the second verse was reached the hymn was tunefully sung, the sweet voice of the little girl with the bright hair being particularly distinguishable, and the shrill pipe of the smallest boy sounding high above the rest as he sang, “O that will be doyful, doyful, doyful, doyful,” with all his might and main.

When this was finished Tregarthen asked the schoolmistress what misfortune had caused the loss of her arms, to which she replied that she had lost them in a coach accident. As she was beginning to relate the history of this sad affair, Oliver broke in with a question as to where old Mr Hitchin’s house was. Being directed to it they took leave of the infant-school, and soon found themselves before the door of a small cottage. They were at once admitted to the presence of the testy old Hitchin, who chanced to be smoking a pipe at the time. He did not by any means bestow a welcome look on his visitors, but Oliver, nevertheless, advanced and sat down in a chair before him.

“I have called, Mr Hitchin,” he began, “not to trouble you about the matter which displeased you when we conversed together on the beach, but to warn you of a danger which I fear threatens yourself.”

“What danger may that be?” inquired Hitchin, in the tone of a man who held all danger in contempt.

“What it is I cannot tell, but—”

“Cannot tell!” interrupted the old man; “then what’s the use of troubling me about it?”

“Neither can I tell of what use my troubling you may be,” retorted Oliver with provoking coolness, “but I heard the man speak of you on the beach less than an hour ago, and as you referred to him yourself I thought it right to call—”

At this point Hitchin again broke in,—“Heard a man speak of me—what man? Really, Mr Trembath, your conduct appears strange to me. Will you explain yourself?”

“Certainly. I was going to have added, if your irascible temper would have allowed me, that the notorious smuggler, Jim Cuttance—”

Oliver stopped, for at the mention of the smuggler’s name the pipe dropped from the old man’s mouth, and his face grew pale.

“Jim Cuttance!” he exclaimed after a moment’s pause; “the villain, the scoundrel—what of him? what of him? No good, I warrant. There is not a rogue unhanged who deserves more richly to swing at the yard-arm than Jim Cuttance. What said he about me?”

When he finished this sentence the old man’s composure was somewhat restored. He took a new pipe from the chimney-piece and began to fill it, while Oliver related all that he knew of the conversation between the two smugglers.

When he had finished Hitchin smoked for some minutes in silence.

“Do you really think,” he said at length, “that the man means to do me bodily harm?”

“I cannot tell,” replied Oliver; “you can form your own judgment of the matter more correctly than I can, but I would advise you to be on your guard.”

“What says your friend?” asked Hitchin, turning towards Tregarthen, of whom, up to that point, he had taken no notice.

Thus appealed to, the youth echoed Oliver’s opinion, and added that the remark of Cuttance about his intention not to do something unknown that night, and Joe Tonkin’s muttered expressions of disbelief and an intention to watch, seemed to him sufficient to warrant unusual caution in the matter of locks, bolts, and bars.

As he spoke there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a loud and prolonged peal of thunder.

Oliver sprang up.

“We must bid you good-night,” he said, “for we have to walk to St. Just, and don’t wish to get more of the storm than we can avoid.”

“But you cannot escape it,” said Hitchin.

“Nevertheless we can go as far as possible before it begins, and then take shelter under a bush or hedge, or in a house if we chance to be near one. I would rather talk in rain any day than drive in a kittereen!”

“Pray be persuaded to stop where you are, gentlemen,” said the old man in a tone of voice that was marvellously altered for the better. “I can offer you comfortable quarters for the night, and good, though plain fare, with smuggled brandy of the best, and tobacco to match.”

Still Oliver and Tregarthen persisted in their resolution to leave, until Hitchin began to plead in a tone that showed he was anxious to have their presence in the house as protectors. Then their resolution began to waver, and when the old man hinted that they might thus find time to reconsider the matter of the Wherry Mine, they finally gave in, and made up their minds to stay all night.

According to the opinion of a celebrated poet, the best-laid plans of men as well as mice are apt to miscarry. That night the elements contrived to throw men’s calculations out of joint, and to render their cupidity, villainy, and wisdom alike ineffectual.

A storm, the fiercest that had visited them for many years, burst that night on the southern shores of England, and strewed her rocks and sands with wrecks and dead bodies. Nothing new in this, alas! as all know who dwell upon our shores, or who take an interest in, and read the records of, our royal and noble Lifeboat Institution. But with this great subject we have not to do just now, further than to observe, as we have said before, that in those days there were no lifeboats on the coast.

Under the shelter of an old house on the shore at Penzance were gathered together a huge concourse of townspeople and seafaring men watching the storm. It was a grand and awful sight—one fitted to irresistibly solemnise the mind, and incline it, unless the heart be utterly hardened, to think of the great Creator and of the unseen world, which seems at such a season to be brought impressively near.

The night was extremely dark, and the lightning, by contrast, peculiarly vivid. Each flash appeared to fill the world for a moment with lambent fire, leaving the painful impression on observers of having been struck with total blindness for a few seconds after, and each thunderclap came like the bursting of artillery, with scarcely an interval between the flash and crash, while the wind blew with almost tropical fury.

The terrible turmoil and noise were enhanced tenfold by the raging surf, which flew up over the roadway, and sent the spray high above and beyond the tops of the houses nearest to the shore.

The old house creaked and groaned in the blast as if it would come down, and the men taking shelter there looked out to sea in silence. The bronzed veterans there knew full well that at that hour many a despairing cry was being uttered, many a hand was stretched wildly, helplessly, and hopelessly from the midst of the boiling surf, and many a soul was passing into eternity. They would have been ready then, as well as now, to have risked life and limb to save fellow-creatures from the sea, but ordinary boats they knew could not live in such a storm.

Among the watchers there stood Jim Cuttance. He had been drinking at a public-house in Penzance, and was at the time, to use his own expression, “three sheets in the wind”—that is, about half-drunk. What his business was nobody knew, and we shall not inquire, but he was the first to express his belief that the turret and bridge of the Wherry Mine would give way. As he spoke a vivid flash of lightning revealed the stout timbers of the mine standing bravely in the storm, each beam and chain painted black and sharp against the illumined sky and the foaming sea.

“She have stud out many a gale,” observed a weather-beaten old seaman; “p’raps she won’t go down yet.”

“I do hope she won’t,” observed another.

“She haven’t got a chance,” said Cuttance.

Just then another flash came, and there arose a sharp cry of alarm from the crowd, for a ship was seen driving before the gale close in upon the land, so close that she seemed to have risen there by magic, and appeared to tower almost over the heads of the people. The moments of darkness that succeeded were spent in breathless, intense anxiety. The flashes, which had been fast enough before, seemed to have ceased altogether now; but again the lightning gleamed—bright as full moonlight, and again the ship was seen, nearer than before—close on the bridge of the mine.

“’Tis the Yankee ship broken from her anchors in Gwavus Lake,” exclaimed a voice.

The thunder-peal that followed was succeeded by a crash of rending timber and flying bolts that almost emulated the thunder. Certainly it told with greater power on the nerves of those who heard it.

Once again the lightning flashed, and for a moment the American vessel was seen driving away before the wind, but no vestige of Wherry Mine remained. The bridge and all connected with it had been completely carried away, and its shattered remnants were engulfed in the foaming sea.

It deserved a better fate; but its course was run, and its hour had come. It passed away that stormy night, and now nothing remains but a few indications of its shaft-mouth, visible at low water, to tell of one of the boldest and most singular of mining enterprises ever undertaken and carried out by man.

There was one spectator of this imposing scene who was not very deeply impressed by it. Jim Cuttance cared not a straw for storms or wrecks, so long as he himself was safe from their influence. Besides, he had other work in hand that night, so he left the watchers on the beach soon after the destruction of the bridge. Buttoning his coat up to the neck, and pulling his sou’-wester tight over his brows, he walked smartly along the road to Newlyn, while many of the fishermen ran down to the beach to render help to the vessel.

Between the town of Penzance and the village of Newlyn several old boats lay on the grass above high-water mark. Here the smuggler stopped and gave a loud whistle. He listened a moment and than repeated it still louder. He was answered by a similar signal, and four men in sailor’s garb, issuing from behind one of the boats, advanced to meet him.

“All right, Bill?” inquired Cuttance.

“All right, sur,” was the reply.

“Didn’t I tell ’ee to leave them things behind?” said Cuttance sternly, as he pointed to the butt of a pistol which protruded from the breast-pocket of one of the men; “sure we don’t require powder and lead to overcome an old man!”

“No more do we need a party o’ five to do it,” replied the man doggedly.

To this Cuttance vouchsafed no reply, but, plucking the weapon from the man, he tossed it far into the sea, and, without further remark, walked towards the fishing village, followed by his men.

By this time the thunder and rain had abated considerably, but the gale blew with increased violence, and, as there were neither moon nor stars, the darkness was so intense that men less acquainted with the locality would have been obliged to proceed with caution. But the smugglers knew every foot of the ground between the Lizard and the Land’s End, and they advanced with rapid strides until they reached the low wall that encompassed, but could not be said to guard, old Mr Hitchin’s garden-plot.

The hour was suited for deeds of darkness, being a little after midnight, and the noise of the gale favoured the burglars, who leaped the wall with ease and approached the back of the cottage.

In ordinary circumstances Hitchin would have been in bed, and Cuttance knew his habits sufficiently to be aware of this; his surprise, therefore, was great when he found lights burning, and greater still when, peeping through a chink of the window-shutter, he observed two stout fellows seated at the old man’s table. Charles Tregarthen he had never seen before, and, as Oliver Trembath sat with his back to the window, he could not recognise him.

“There’s company wi’ the owld man,” said Cuttance, returning to his comrades; “two men, young and stout, but we do knaw how to manage they!”

This was said by way of an appeal, and was received with a grin by the others, and a brief recommendation to go to work without delay.

For a few minutes they whispered together as to the plan of attack, and then, having agreed on that point, they separated. Cuttance and the man whom he had called Bill, went to the window of the room in which Hitchin and his guests were seated, and stationed themselves on either side of it. The sill was not more than breast high. The other three men quickly returned, bearing a heavy boat’s-mast, which they meant to use as a battering-ram. It had been arranged that Cuttance should throw up the window, and, at the same moment, his comrades should rush at the shutter with the mast. The leader could not see their faces, but there was light sufficient to enable him to distinguish their dark forms standing in the attitude of readiness. He therefore stepped forward and made a powerful effort to force up the window, but it resisted him, although it shook violently.

Those inside sprang up at the sound, and the smugglers sank down, as if by mutual consent, among the bushes which grew thickly near the window.

“I told you it was only the wind,” said Oliver Trembath, who had opened the shutter and gazed through the window for some time into the darkness, where, of course, he saw nothing.

Well was it for him that Cuttance refused to follow Bill’s advice, which was to charge him through the window with the mast. The former knew that, with the window fastened, it would be impossible to force an entrance in the face of such a youth as Tregarthen, even although they succeeded in rendering the other hors de combat, so he restrained Bill, and awaited his opportunity.

Oliver’s remark appeared to be corroborated by a gust of wind which came while he was speaking, and shook the window-frame violently.

“There it is again,” he said, turning to his host with a smile. “Depend upon it, they won’t trouble you on such a night as this.”

He closed and refastened the shutter as he spoke, and they all returned to their places at the table.

Unfortunately Oliver had not thought of examining the fastening of the window itself. Had he done so, he would have seen that it was almost wrenched away. Cuttance saw this, however, and resolved to make sure work of it next time.

When the men with the battering-ram were again in position, he and Bill applied their united strength to the window, and it instantly flew up to the top. At same moment, bolts and bars gave way, and the shutter went in with a crash. Making use of the mast as a rest, Cuttance sprang on the window-sill and leaped into the room.

The whole thing was done with such speed, and, if we may so express it, with such simultaneity of action, that the bold smuggler stood before the astonished inmates almost as soon as they could leap from their chairs. Cuttance ducked to evade a terrific blow which Oliver aimed at him with his fist, and in another instant grappled with him. Tregarthen rushed to the window in time to meet Bill, on whose forehead he planted a blow so effectual that that worthy fell back into the arms of his friends, who considerately let him drop to the ground, and made a united assault on Charlie.

Had Oliver Trembath possessed his wonted vigour, he would speedily have overcome his adversary despite his great strength, but his recent illness had weakened him a little, so that the two were pretty equally matched. The consequence was that, neither daring to loosen his hold in order to strike an effective blow, each had to devote all his energies to throw the other, in which effort they wrenched, thrust, and swung each other so violently round the room that chairs and tables were overturned and smashed, and poor old Hitchin had enough to do to avoid being floored in the mêlée, and to preserve from destruction the candle which lighted the scene of the combat.

At first Oliver had tried to free his right hand in order to strike, but, finding this impossible, he attempted to throw the smuggler, and, with this end in view, lifted him bodily in the air and dashed him down, but Cuttance managed to throw out a leg and meet the ground with his foot, which saved him. He was a noted wrestler. He could give the famous Cornish hug with the fervour of a black bear, and knew all the mysteries of the science. Often had he displayed his great muscular power and skill in the ring, where “wrestlers” were wont to engage in those combats of which the poet writes:—

“They rush, impetuous, with a shock

Their arms implicit, rigid, lock;

They twist; they trip; their limbs are mixed;

As one they move, as one stand fixed.

Now plant their feet in wider space,

And stand like statues on their base.”

But never before had Jim Cuttance had to deal with such a man as Oliver Trembath, who swung him about among the chairs, and crashed him through the tables, until, seizing a sudden opportunity, he succeeded in flinging him flat on the floor, where he held him down, and planted his knee on his chest with such force that he nearly squeezed all the breath out of him.

No word did Jim Cuttance utter, for he was incapable of speech, but the colour of his face and his protruding tongue induced Oliver to remove his knee.

Meanwhile Charlie Tregarthen had enough to do at the window. After he had tumbled Bill out, as we have described, two of the other men sprang at him, and, seizing him by the collar of his coat, attempted to drag him out. One of these he succeeded in overthrowing by a kick on the chest, but his place was instantly taken by the third of the bearers of the battering-ram, and for a few minutes the struggle was fierce but undecided. Suddenly there arose a great shout, and all three tumbled head over heels into the shrubbery.

It was at this moment that Oliver rose from his prostrate foe. He at once sprang to the rescue; leaped out of the window, and was in the act of launching a blow at the head of the first man he encountered, when a voice shouted,—“Hold on, sur.”

It is certain that Oliver would have declined to hold on, had not the voice sounded familiar. He held his hand, and next moment Charlie appeared in the light of the window dragging a struggling man after him by the nape of the neck. At the same time Joe Tonkin came forward trailing another man by the hair of the head.

“Has Cuttance got off?” inquired Tonkin.

“No,” replied Oliver, leaping back into the room, just in time to prevent Jim, who had recovered, from making his escape.

“Now, my man, keep quiet,” said Oliver, thrusting him down into a chair. “You and I have met before, and you know that it is useless to attempt resistance.”

Cuttance vouchsafed no reply, but sat still with a dogged expression on his weather-beaten visage.

Hitchin, whose nerves were much shaken by the scene of which he had been a trembling spectator, soon produced ropes, with which the prisoners were bound, and then they were conducted to a place of safe keeping—each of the victors leading the man he had secured, and old Hitchin going before—an excited advance-guard. The two men whom Tregarthen knocked down had recovered, and made their escape just before the fight closed.

Oliver Trembath walked first in the procession, leading Jim Cuttance.

“I gave you credit for a more manly spirit than this,” said Oliver, as he walked along. “How could you make so cowardly an attack on an old man?”

Cuttance made no reply, and Oliver felt sorry that he had spoken, for the remembrance of the incident at the Land’s End was strong upon him, and he would have given all he possessed to have had no hand in delivering the smuggler up to justice. At the same time he felt that the attempt of Cuttance was a dastardly one, and that duty required him to act as he did.

It seemed to Oliver as if Joe Tonkin had divined his thoughts, for at that moment he pushed close to him and whispered in his ear, “Jim Cuttance didn’t mean to rob th’ owld man, sur. He only wanted to give he a fright, an’ make un pay what he did owe un.”

This was a new light on the subject to Oliver, who at once formed his resolution and acted on it.

“Cuttance,” he said, “it is not unlikely that, if brought to justice, you will swing for this night’s adventure.”

He paused and glanced at the face of his prisoner, who still maintained rigid silence.

“Well,” continued our hero, “I believe that your intentions against Mr Hitchin were not so bad as they would appear to be—”

“Who told ’ee that?” asked the smuggler sternly.

“No matter,” replied Oliver, drawing a knife from his pocket, with which he deliberately cut the cords that bound his prisoner. “There—you are free. I hope that you will make better use of your freedom in time to come than you have in time past, although I doubt it much; but remember that I have repaid the debt I owe you.”

“Nay,” replied Cuttance, still continuing to walk close to his companion’s side. “I did give you life. You have but given me liberty.”

“I’d advise you to take advantage of that liberty without delay,” said Oliver, somewhat nettled by the man’s remark, as well as by his cool composure, “else your liberty may be again taken from you, in which case I would not give much for your life.”

“If you do not assist, there is no one here who can take me now,” replied Cuttance, with a smile. “However, I’m not ungrateful—good-night.”

As he said this, the smuggler turned sharp to the right into one of the numerous narrow passages which divide the dwellings of Newlyn, and disappeared.

Charles Tregarthen, who was as sharp as a needle, observed this, and, leaving his man in charge of Tonkin, darted after the fugitive. He soon returned, however, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and declaring that he had well-nigh lost himself in his vain endeavours to find the smuggler.

“How in all the world did you manage to let him go?” he demanded somewhat sharply of Oliver.

“Why, Charlie,” replied his friend, with a laugh, “you know I have not been trained to the duties of a policeman, and it has always been said that Jim Cuttance was a slippery eel. However, he’s gone now, so we had better have the others placed in safe custody as soon as possible.”

Saying this he passed his arm through that of old Mr Hitchin, and soon after the smugglers were duly incarcerated in the lock-up of Penzance.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Exhibits the Managing Director and the Secretary of Wheal Dooem in Confidential Circumstances, and Introduces the Subject of “Locals.”

About this time that energetic promoter of mining operations, Mr George Augustus Clearemout, found it necessary to revisit Cornwall.

He was seated in an easy-chair in a snug little back-office, or board-room, in one of the airiest little streets of the City of London, when this necessity became apparent to him. Mr Clearemout did not appear to have much to do at that particular time, for he contented himself with tapping the arm of his easy-chair with the knuckles of his right hand, while he twirled his gold watch-key with his left, and smiled occasionally.

To judge from appearances it seemed that things in general were prospering with George Augustus. Everything about him was new, and, we might almost say, gorgeous. His coat and vest and pantaloons had a look and a cut about them that told of an extremely fashionable tailor, and a correspondingly fashionable price. His rings, of which he wore several, were massive, one of them being a diamond ring of considerable value. His boots were faultlessly made, quite new, and polished so highly that it dazzled one to look at them, while his linen, of which he displayed a large quantity on the breast, was as white as snow—not London snow, of course! Altogether Mr G.A. Clearemout was a most imposing personage.

“Come in,” he said, in a voice that sounded like the deep soft whisper of a trombone.

The individual who had occasioned the command by tapping at the door, opened it just enough to admit his head, which he thrust into the room. It was a shaggy red head belonging to a lad of apparently eighteen; its chief characteristics being a prolonged nose and a retracted chin, with a gash for a mouth, and two blue holes for eyes.

“Please, sir, Mr Muddle,” said the youth.

“Admit Mr Muddle.”

The head disappeared, and immediately after a gentleman sauntered into the room, and flung himself lazily into the empty armchair which stood at the fireplace vis-à-vis to the one in which Mr Clearemout sat, explaining that he would not have been so ceremonious had he not fancied that his friend was engaged with some one on business.

“How are you, Jack?” said George Augustus.

“Pretty bobbish,” replied Jack. (He was the same Jack whom we have already introduced as being Mr Clearemout’s friend and kindred spirit.)

“Any news?” inquired Mr Clearemout.

“No, nothing moving,” said Jack languidly.

“H’m, I see it is time to stir now, Jack, for the wheel of fortune is apt to get stiff and creaky if we don’t grease her now and then and give her a jog. Here is a little pot of grease which I have been concocting and intend to lay on immediately.”

He took a slip of paper from a large pocket-book which lay at his elbow on the new green cloth-covered table, and handed it to his friend, who slowly opened and read it in a slovenly way, mumbling the most of it as he went on:—

“‘Wheal Dooem, in St. Just, Cornwall—mumble—m—m—in 10,000 shares. An old mine, m—m—every reason to believe—m—m—splendid lodes visible from—m—m. Depth of Adit fifty fathoms—m—depth below Adit ninety fathoms. Pumps, whims, engines, etcetera, in good working order—m—little expense—Landowners, Messrs—m—Manager at the Mine, Captain Trembleforem—m—thirteen men, four females, and two boys—m—water—wheels—stamps—m—Managing Director, George Augustus Clearemout, Esquire, 99 New Gull Street, London—m—Secretary, John Muddle, Esquire—ahem—’”

“But, I say, it won’t do to publish anything of this sort just yet, you know,” said Secretary Jack in a remonstrative tone, “for there’s nothing doing at all, I believe.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the managing director, “there is a good deal doing. I have written to St. Just appointing the local manager, and it is probable that things are really under way by this time; besides, I shall set out for Cornwall to-morrow to superintend matters, leaving my able secretary in charge here in the meantime, and when he hears from me this paper may be completed and advertised.”

“I say, it looks awful real-like, don’t it?” said Jack, with a grin. “Only fancy if it should turn out to be a good mine after all—what a lark that would be! and it might, you know, for it was a real one once, wasn’t it? And if you set a few fellows to sink the what-d’ye-call-’ems and drive the thingumbobs, it is possible they may come upon tin and copper, or something of that sort—wouldn’t it be jolly?”

“Of course it would, and that is the very thing that gives zest to it. It’s a speculation, not a swindle by any means, and admirably suits our easy consciences. But, I say, Jack, you must break yourself off talking slang. It will never do to have the secretary of the Great Wheal Dooem Mining Company talk like a street boy. Besides, I hate slang even in a blackguard—not to mention a black-leg—so you must give it up, Jack, you really must, else you’ll ruin the concern at the very beginning.”

Secretary Jack started into animation at this.

“Why, George,” he said, drawing himself up, “I can throw it off when I please. Look here—suppose yourself an inquiring speculator—ahem! I assure you, sir, that the prospects of this mine are most brilliant, and the discoveries that have been made in it since we commenced operations are incredible—absolutely incredible, sir. Some of the lodes (that’s the word, isn’t it?) are immensely rich, and upwards of a hundred feet thick, while the part that runs under the sea, or is to run under the sea, at a depth of three thousand fathoms, is probably as rich in copper ore as the celebrated Botallack, whose majestic headland, bristling with machinery, overhangs the raging billows of the wide Atlantic, etcetera, etcetera. O George, it’s a great lark entirely!”

“You’ll have to learn your lesson a little better, else you’ll make a great mess of it,” said Clearemout.

“A muddle of it—according to my name and destiny, George,” said the secretary; “a muddle of it, and a fortune by it.”

Here the secretary threw himself back in the easy-chair, and grinned at the opposite wall, where his eye fell on a large picture, which changed the grin into a stare of surprise.

“What have we here, George,” he said, rising, and fitting a gold glass in his eye—“not a portrait of Wheal Dooem, is it?”

“You have guessed right,” replied the other. “I made a few sketches on the spot, and got a celebrated artist to put them together, which he has done, you see, with considerable effect. Here, in the foreground, you observe,” continued the managing director, taking up a new white pointer, “stands Wheal Dooem, on a prominent crag overlooking the Atlantic, with Gurnard’s Head just beyond. Farther over, we have the celebrated Levant Mine, and the famous Botallack, and the great Wheal Owles, and a crowd of other more or less noted mines, with Cape Cornwall, and the Land’s End, and Tolpedenpenwith in the middle-distance, and the celebrated Logan Rock behind them, while we have Mounts Bay, with the beautiful town of Penzance, and St. Michael’s Mount, and the Lizard in the background, with France in the remote distance.”

“Dear, dear me! quite a geographical study, I declare,” exclaimed Secretary Jack, examining the painting with some care. “Can you really see all these places at once from Wheal Dooem?”

“Not exactly from Wheal Dooem, Jack, but if you were to go up in a balloon a few hundred yards above the spot where it stands, you might see ’em all on a very clear day, if your eyes were good. The fact is, that I regard this picture as a triumph of art, exhibiting powerfully what is by artists termed ‘bringing together’ and great ‘breadth,’ united with exceedingly minute detail. The colouring too, is high—very high indeed, and the chiaroscuro is perfect—”

“Ha!” interposed Jack, “all the chiar being on the surface, and the oscuro down in the mine, eh?”

“Exactly so,” replied Clearemout. “It is a splendid picture. The artist regards it as his chef d’oeuvre, and you must explain it to all who come to the office, as well as those magnificent geological sections rolled-up in the corner, which it would be well, by the way, to have hung up without delay. They arrived only this morning. And now, Jack, having explained these matters, I will leave you, to study them at your leisure, while I prepare for my journey to Cornwall, where, by the way, I have my eye upon a sweet little girl, whose uncle, I believe, has lots of tin, both in the real and figurative sense of the word. Something may come of it—who knows?”

Next morning saw the managing director on the road, and in due time he found his way by coach, kittereen, and gig to St. Just, where, as before, he was hospitably received by old Mr Donnithorne.

That gentleman’s buoyancy of spirit, however, was not quite so great as it had been a few months before, but that did not much affect the spirits of Clearemout, who found good Mrs Donnithorne as motherly, and Rose Ellis as sweet, as ever.

It happened at this time that Oliver Trembath had occasion to go to London about some matter relating to his deceased mother’s affairs, so the managing director had the field all to himself. He therefore spent his time agreeably in looking after the affairs of Wheal Dooem during the day, and making love to Rose Ellis in the evening.

Poor Rose was by no means a flirt, but she was an innocent, straightforward girl, ignorant of many of the world’s ways, and of a trusting disposition. She found the conversation of Mr Clearemout agreeable, and did not attempt to conceal the fact. Mr Clearemout’s vanity induced him to set this down to a tender feeling, although Rose never consciously gave him, by word or look, the slightest reason to come to such a conclusion.

One forenoon Mr Clearemout was sitting in Mr Donnithorne’s dining-room conversing with Rose and Mrs Donnithorne, when the old gentleman entered and sat down beside them.

“I had almost forgotten the original object of my visit this morning,” said the managing director, with a smile, and a glance at Rose; “the fact is that I am in want of a man to work at Wheal Dooem, a steady, trustworthy man, who would be fit to take charge—become a sort of overseer; can you recommend one?”

Mr Donnithorne paused for a moment to reflect, but Mrs Donnithorne deeming reflection quite unnecessary, at once replied,—“Why, there are many such men in St. Just. There’s John Cock, as good a man as you could find in all the parish, and David Trevarrow, and James Penrose—he’s a first-rate man; You remember him, my dear?” (turning to her worse half)—“one of our locals, you know.”

“Yes, my dear, I remember him perfectly.—You could not, Mr Clearemout, get a better man, I should say.”

“I think you observed, madam,” said Mr Clearemout, “that this man is a ‘local.’ Pray, what is a local?”

Rose gave one of her little laughs at this point, and her worthy aunt exclaimed,—“La! Mr Clearemout, don’t you know what a local preacher is?”

“Oh! a preacher? Connected with the Methodist body, I presume?”

“Yes, and a first-rate man, I assure you.”

“But,” said Mr Clearemout, with a smile, “I want a miner, not a preacher.”

“Well, he is a miner, and a good one too—”

“Allow me to explain, my dear,” said Mr Donnithorne, interrupting his spouse. “You may not be aware, sir, that many of our miners are men of considerable mental ability, and some of them possess such power of speech, and so earnest a spirit, that the Wesleyan body have appointed them to the office of local preaching. They do not become ministers, however, nor are they liable to be sent out of the district like them. They don’t give up their ordinary calling, but are appointed to preach in the various chapels of the district in which they reside, and thus we accomplish an amount of work which could not possibly be overtaken by the ordinary ministry.”

“Indeed! but are they not untrained men, liable to teach erroneous doctrine?” asked Mr Clearemout.

“They are not altogether untrained men,” replied Mr Donnithorne. “They are subjected to a searching examination, and must give full proof of their Christianity, knowledge, and ability before being appointed.”

“And good, excellent Christian men many of them are,” observed Mrs Donnithorne, with much fervour.

“Quite true,” said her husband. “This James Penrose is one of our best local preachers, and sometimes officiates in our principal chapel. I confess, however, that those who have the management of this matter are not always very judicious in their appointments. Some of our young men are sorely tempted to show off their acquirements, and preach themselves instead of the gospel, and there are one or two whom I could mention whose hearts are all right, but whose brains are so muddled and empty that they are utterly unfit to teach their fellows. We must not, however, look for perfection in this world, Mr Clearemout. A little chaff will always remain among the wheat. There is no system without some imperfection, and I am convinced that upon the whole our system of appointing local preachers is a first-rate one. At all events it works well, which is one of the best proofs of its excellence.”

“Perhaps so,” said Mr Clearemout, with the air of a man who did not choose to express an opinion on the subject; “nevertheless I had rather have a man who was not a local preacher.”

“You can see and hear him, and judge for yourself,” said Mr Donnithorne; “for he is, I believe, to preach in our chapel to-morrow, and if you will accept of a seat in our pew it will afford my wife and myself much—”

“Thank you,” interrupted Mr Clearemout; “I shall be very glad to take advantage of your kind offer. Service, you say, begins at—”

“Ten precisely,” said Mr Donnithorne.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Shows the Miner in his Sunday Garb, and Astonishes Clearemout, besides Relating some Incidents of an Accident.

The sun rose bright and hot on Sunday morning, but the little birds were up before the great luminary, singing their morning hymn with noisy delight. It was a peaceful day. The wind was at rest and the sea was calm. In the ancient town of St. Just it was peculiarly peaceful, for the numerous and untiring “stamps”—which all the week had continued their clang and clatter, morning, noon, and night, without intermission—found rest on that hallowed day, and the great engines ceased to bow their massive heads, with the exception of those that worked the pumps. Even these, however, were required to do as little work as was compatible with the due drainage of the mines, and as their huge pulsations were intermittent—few and far between—they did not succeed in disturbing the universal serenity of the morning.

If there are in this country men who, more than any other, need repose, we should say they are the miners of Cornwall, for their week’s work is exhausting far beyond that of most other labourers in the kingdom. Perhaps the herculean men employed in malleable-iron works toil as severely, but, besides the cheering consciousness of being well paid for their labour, these men exert their powers in the midst of sunlight and fresh air, while the miners toil in bad air, and get little pay in hard times. Sunday is indeed to them the Sabbath-day—it is literally what that word signifies, a day of much-required rest for body, soul, and spirit.

Pity that the good old word which God gave us is not more universally used among Christians! Would it not have been better that the translation Rest-day had been adopted, so that even ignorant men might have understood its true signification, than that we should have saddled it with a heathen name, to be an apple of discord in all generations? However, Sunday it is, so Sunday it will stand, we suppose, as long as the world lasts. After all, despite its faulty origin, that word is invested with old and hallowed associations in the minds of many, so we enter our protest against the folly of our forefathers very humbly, beseeching those who are prone to become nettled on this subject to excuse our audacity!

Well, as we have said, the Sunday morning to which we refer was peaceful; so would have been Maggot’s household had Maggot’s youngest baby never been born; but, having been born, that robust cherub asserted his right to freedom of action more violently than ever did the most rabid Radical or tyrannical Tory. He “swarmed” about the house, and kicked and yelled his uttermost, to the great distress of poor little Grace, whose anxiety to get him ready for chapel was gradually becoming feverish. But baby Maggot had as much objection to go to chapel as his wicked father, who was at that time enjoying a pipe on the cliffs, and intended to leave his family to the escort of David Trevarrow. Fortunately, baby gave in about half-past nine, so that little Grace had him washed and dressed, and on his way to chapel in pretty good time, all things considered.

No one who entered the Wesleyan Chapel of St. Just that morning for the first time could have imagined that a large proportion of the well-dressed people who filled the pews were miners and balmaidens. Some of the latter were elegantly, we might almost say gorgeously, attired, insomuch that, but for their hands and speech, they might almost have passed for ladies of fashion. The very latest thing in bonnets, and the newest mantles, were to be seen on their pretty heads and shapely shoulders.

As we have said before, and now repeat, this circumstance arose from the frequency of the visits of the individual styled “Johnny Fortnight,” whose great aim and end in life is to supply miners, chiefly the females among them, with the necessaries, and unnecessaries, of wearing apparel.

When the managing director entered Mr Donnithorne’s pew and sat down beside his buxom hostess, he felt, but of course was much too well bred to express astonishment; for his host had told him that a large number of the people who attended the chapel were miners, and for a time he failed to see any of the class whom he had hitherto been accustomed to associate with rusty-red and torn garbs, and dirty hands and faces. But he soon observed that many of the stalwart, serious-looking men with black coats and white linen, had strong, muscular hands, with hard-looking knuckles, which, in some instances, exhibited old or recent cuts and bruises.

It was a new sight for the managing director to behold the large and apparently well-off families filing into the pews, for, to say truth, Mr Clearemout was not much in the habit of attending church, and he had never before entered a Methodist chapel. He watched with much curiosity the gradual filling of the seats, and the grave, quiet demeanour of the people. Especially interesting was it when Maggot’s family came in and sat down, with the baby Maggot in charge of little Grace. Mr Clearemout had met Maggot, and had seen his family; but interest gave place to astonishment when Mrs Penrose walked into the church, backed by her sixteen children, the eldest males among whom were miners, and the eldest females tin-dressers, while the little males and females aspired to be miners and tin-dressers in the course of time.

“That’s Penrose’s family,” whispered Mr Donnithorne to his guest.

“What! the local’s family?”

Mr Donnithorne nodded.

Soon after, a tall, gentlemanly man ascended the pulpit.

The managing director was disappointed. He had come there to hear a miner preach, and behold, a clergyman!

“Who is he?” inquired Clearemout.

But Mr Donnithorne did not answer. He was looking up the hymn for Mrs D, who, being short-sighted, claimed exemption from the duty of “looking up” anything. Besides, he was a kind, good man at heart—though rather fond of smuggling and given to the bottle, according to Oliver Trembath’s account of him—and liked to pay his wife little attentions.

But there were still greater novelties in store for the London man that morning. It was new to him to hear John Wesley’s beautiful hymns sung to equally beautiful tunes, which were not, however, unfamiliar to his ear, and sung with a degree of fervour that quite drowned his own voice, powerful and deep though it was. It was a new and impressive thing to hear the thrilling, earnest tones of the preacher as he offered up an eloquent extempore prayer—to the petitions in which many of the people in the congregation gave utterance at times to startlingly fervent and loud responses—not in set phraseology, but in words that were called forth by the nature of each petition, such as “Glory to God,” “Amen,” “Thanks be to Him”—showing that the worshippers followed and sympathised with their spokesman, thus making his prayer their own. But the newest thing of all was to hear the preacher deliver an eloquent, earnest, able, and well-digested sermon, without book or note, in the same natural tone of voice with which a man might address his fellow in the street—a style of address which riveted the attention of the hearers, induced them to expect that he had really something important to say to them, and that he thoroughly believed in the truth of what he said.

“A powerful man,” observed the managing director as they went out; “your clergyman, I suppose?”

“No, sir,” replied Mr Donnithorne with a chuckle, “our minister is preaching elsewhere to-day. That was James Penrose.”

“What! the miner?” exclaimed Clearemout in astonishment.

“Ay, the local preacher too.”

“Why, the man spoke like Demosthenes, and quoted Bacon, Locke, Milton, and I know not whom all—you amaze me,” said Mr Clearemout. “Surely all your local preachers are not equal to this one.”

“Alas, no! some of the young ones are indeed able enough to spout poetry and quote old authors, and too fond they are of doing so; nevertheless, as I have said to you before, most of the local preachers are sober-minded, sterling Christian men, and a few of them have eminent capabilities. Had Penrose been a younger man, he would probably have entered the ministry, but being above forty, with an uncommonly large family, he thinks it his duty to remain as he is, and do as much good as he can.”

“But surely he might find employment better suited to his talents?” said Clearemout.

“There is not much scope in St. Just,” replied Mr Donnithorne, with a smile, “and it is a serious thing for a man in his circumstances to change his abode and vocation. No, no, I think he is right to remain a miner.”

“Well, I confess that I admire his talents,” returned Clearemout, “but I still think that an ordinary miner would suit me better.”

“Well, I know of one who will suit you admirably. He is common enough to look at, and if you will accompany me into the mine to-morrow I’ll introduce you to him. I’m not fond of descending the ladders nowadays, though I could do it very well when a youth, but as the man I speak of works in one of the levels near the surface, I’ll be glad to go down with you, and Captain Dan shall lead us.”

True to his word, the old gentleman met Mr Clearemout the following morning at nine o’clock, and accompanied him down into the mine.

Their descent was unmarked by anything particular at first. They wore the usual suit of underground clothing, and each carried a lighted candle attached to his hat. After descending about thirty fathoms they left the main shaft and traversed the windings of a level until they came to a place where the sound of voices and hammers indicated that the miners were working. In a few seconds they reached the end of the level.

Here two men were “driving” the level, and another—a very tall, powerful man—was standing in a hole driven up slanting-ways into the roof, and cutting the rock above his head. His attitude and aspect were extremely picturesque, standing as he did on a raised platform with his legs firmly planted, his muscular arms raised above him to cut the rock overhead, and the candle so placed as to cause his figure to appear almost black and unnaturally gigantic.

“Stay a minute, Captain Dan,” said Mr Donnithorne. “That, Mr Clearemout, is the man I spoke of—what think you of his personal appearance?”

Clearemout did not reply for a few minutes, but stood silently watching the man as he continued to wield his heavy hammer with powerful strokes—delivering each with a species of gasp which indicated not exhaustion, but the stern vigour with which it was given.

“He’ll do,” said Clearemout in a decided tone.

“Hallo! James,” shouted Mr Donnithorne.

“Hallo! sir,” answered the man looking back over his shoulder.

“There’s a gentleman here who wants to speak to you.”

The miner flung down his tools, which clattered loudly on the hard rock, as he leaped from his perch with the agility of one whose muscles are all in full and constant exercise.

“What! not the local—”

Before the managing director could finish his sentence Mr Donnithorne introduced him to James Penrose, and left the two for a time to talk together.

It need scarcely be added that Clearemout was quite willing to avail himself of the services of the “local,” but the local did not meet his proposals so readily as he would have wished. Penrose was a cautious man, and said he would call on Mr Clearemout in the evening after he had had time to consider the matter.

With this reply the other was fain to rest satisfied, and shortly after he returned to the bottom of the shaft with his friends, leaving the hardy miner to pursue his work.

At the bottom of the shaft they were accosted by a sturdy little man, who told them that a large piece of timber was being sent down the shaft, and it would be advisable to wait until it reached the bottom.

“Is it on the way, Spankey?” asked Captain Dan.

“Iss, sur, if it haven’t walked into the thirty-fathom level in passin’.”

Spankey was a humorous individual addicted to joking.

“Are you married, Spankey?” asked Clearemout, looking down with a grin at the dirty little fellow beside him.

“Iss, sur. Had, two wives, an’ the third wan is waitin’ for me, ’spose.”

“Any children, Spankey?”

“Iss, six, countin’ the wan that died before it could spaik.”

At this point the beam was heard coming down. In a few seconds it made its appearance, and was hauled a little to one side by Spankey, who proceeded to unwind the chain that had supported it.

“I’ll give ’em the signal, Captain Dan, to haul up the chain before thee do go on the ladders.”

The signal was given accordingly, and the engine immediately began to draw up the chain by which the beam had been lowered.

This chain had a hook at one end of it, and, as ill-luck would have it, the hook caught Spankey by the right leg of his trousers, and whisked him off his feet. Almost before those beside him could conceive what had happened, the unfortunate man went up the shaft feet foremost, with a succession of dreadful yells, in the midst of which could be heard a fearful rending of strong linen.

Fortunately for Spankey, his nether garments were not only strong, but new, so that when the rend came to the seam at the foot, it held on, else had that facetious miner come down the shaft much faster than he went up, and left his brains at the bottom as a memorial of the shocking event!

With palpitating hearts, Captain Dan, Clearemout, and old Donnithorne ran up the ladders as fast as they could. In a few minutes they reached the thirty-fathom level, and here, to their great relief, they found Spankey supported in the arms of stout Joe Tonkin.

That worthy, true to his promise to Oliver Trembath, had gone to work in Botallack Mine, and had that very day commenced operations in the thirty-fathom level referred to. Hearing the terrible screams of Spankey, he rushed to the end of the level just as the unfortunate man was passing it. The risk was great, but Tonkin was accustomed to risks, and prompt to act. He flung his arms round Spankey, drew him forcibly into the level, and held on for life. There was a terrible rend; the leg of the trousers gave way at the hip, and went flapping up to grass, leaving the horrified miner behind.

“Not gone dead yet, sur, but goin’ fast,” was Spankey’s pathetic reply to Captain Dan’s anxious inquiries.

It was found, however, that, beyond the fright, the man had received no damage whatever.

The only other noteworthy fact in reference to this incident is, that when Captain Dan and his companions reached the surface, they were met by the lander, who, with a face as pale as a ghost, held up the torn garment. Great was this man’s relief, and loud the fit of laughter with which he expressed it, when Spankey, issuing from the mouth of the shaft, presented his naked limb, and claimed the leg of his trousers!

Chapter Twenty Six.

Tells of a Discovery and a Disaster.

That afternoon another accident occurred in the mine, which was of a much more serious nature than the one just recorded, and which interfered somewhat with the plans of the managing director of the Great Wheal Dooem Mining Company.

Not long after his interview with Clearemout, James Penrose finished a blast-hole, and called to Zackey Maggot to fetch the fuse.

Zackey had been working for a week past in connection with Penrose, and, at the time he was called, was engaged in his wonted occupation of pounding “tamping” wherewith to fill the hole.

Wherever Zackey chanced to be at work, he always made himself as comfortable as circumstances would admit of. At the present time he had discovered a little hollow or recess in the wall of the level, which he had converted into a private chamber for the nonce.

There was a piece of flat rock on the floor of this recess, which Zackey used as his anvil, and in front of which he kneeled. At his side was a candle, stuck against the wall, where it poured a flood of light on objects in its immediate neighbourhood, and threw the boy’s magnified shadow over the floor and against the opposite wall of the level. Above his head was a small shelf, which he had ingeniously fixed in a narrow part of the cell, and on this lay a few candles, a stone bottle of water, a blasting fuse, and part of his lunch, which he had been unable to consume, wrapped in a piece of paper. A small wooden box on the floor, and a couple of pick-hilts, leaning against the wall, completed the furniture of this subterranean grotto.

Zackey, besides being a searcher after metals, possessed an unusual amount of metal in himself. He was one of those earnest, hard-working, strong-hearted boys who pass into a state of full manhood, do the work of men, and are looked upon as being men, before they have passed out of their “teens.” The boy’s manhood, which was even at that early period of his life beginning to show itself, consisted not in his looks or his gait, although both were creditable, but in his firmness of purpose and force of character. What Zackey undertook to do he always did. He never left any work in a half-finished state, and he always employed time diligently.

In the mine he commenced to labour the moment he entered, and he never ceased, except during a short period for “kroust,” until it was time to shoulder his tools, and mount to the regions of light. Above ground, he was as ready to skylark as the most volatile of his companions, but underground he was a pattern of perseverance—a true Cornish miner in miniature. His energy of character was doubtless due to his reckless father, but his steadiness was the result of “Uncle Davy’s” counsel and example.

“Are you coming, Zackey?” shouted Penrose, from the end of the level.

“Iss, I’m comin’,” replied the boy, taking the fuse from the shelf, and hastening towards his companion.

Penrose had a peculiar and pleased expression on his countenance, which Zackey observed at once.

“What do ’ee grizzle like that for?” inquired the boy.

“I’ve come on a splendid bunch of copper, Zackey,” replied the man; “you and I shall make money soon. Run away to your work, lad, and come back when you hear the shot go off.”

Zackey expressed a hope that the prophecy might come true, and returned to his cell, where he continued pounding diligently—thinking the while of rich ore and a rapid fortune.

There was more reason in these thoughts than one might suppose, for Cornish miners experience variety of fortune. Sometimes a man will labour for weeks and months in unproductive ground, following up a small vein in the hope of its leading into a good lode, and making so little by his hard toil that on pay day of each month he is compelled to ask his employer for “subsist”—or a small advance of money—to enable him to live and go on with his work. Often he is obliged to give up in despair, and change to a more promising part of the mine, or to go to another mine altogether; but, not unfrequently, he is rewarded for his perseverance by coming at last to a rich “lode,” or mass, or “bunch” of copper or tin ore, out of which he will rend, in a single month, as much as will entitle him to thirty or forty, or even a hundred pounds, next pay day.

Such pieces of good fortune are not of rare occurrence. Many of the substantial new cottages to be seen in St. Just at the present day have been built by miners who became suddenly fortunate in this way, so that, although the miner of Cornwall always works hard, and often suffers severe privation, he works on with a well-grounded expectation of a sudden burst of temporal sunshine in his otherwise hard lot.

Zackey Maggot was dreaming of some such gleam of good fortune, and patiently pounding away at the tamping, when he heard the explosion of the blast. At the same moment a loud cry rang through the underground caverns. It was one of those terrible, unmistakable cries which chill the blood and thrill the hearts of those who hear them, telling of some awful catastrophe.

The boy leaped up and ran swiftly towards the end of the level, where he called to his companion, but received no answer. The smoke which filled the place was so dense that he could not see, and could scarcely breathe. He ran forward, however, and stumbled over the prostrate form of Penrose. Zackey guessed correctly what had occurred, for the accident was, and alas! still is, too common in the mines. The shot had apparently missed fire. Penrose had gone forward to examine it, and it exploded in his face.

To lift his companion was beyond Zackey’s power, to leave him lying in such dense smoke for any length of time would, he knew, ensure his suffocation, so he attempted to drag him away, but the man was too heavy for him. In his extremity the poor boy uttered a wild cry for help, but he shouted in vain, for there was no one else at work in the level. But Zackey was not the boy to give way to despair, or to act thoughtlessly, or in wild haste in this emergency. He suddenly recollected that there was a rope somewhere about the level. He sought for and found it. Fastening an end of it round the body of the man, under the armpits, he so arranged that the knot of the loop should reach a few inches beyond his head, and on this part of the loop he spread a coat, which thus formed a support to the head, and prevented it being dragged along the ground. While engaged in this operation the poor boy was well-nigh suffocated with smoke, and had to run back once to where the air was purer in order to catch a breath or two. Then, returning, he seized the rope, passed it over his shoulder, and bending forward with all his might and main dragged the man slowly but steadily along the floor of the level to a place where the air was comparatively pure.

Leaving him there he quickly fixed a candle in his hat, and carrying another in his hand, to avoid the risk of being left in darkness by an accidental stumble or gust of air, Zackey darted swiftly along the level and ran up the ladders at his utmost speed. Panting for breath, and with eyes almost starting from their sockets, he rushed into the engine-house, and told the man in charge what had occurred; then he dashed away to the counting-house and gave the alarm there, so that, in a very few minutes, a number of men descended the shaft and gathered round the prostrate miner. The doctor who had taken Oliver Trembath’s place during his absence was soon in attendance, and found that although no bones had been broken, Penrose’s face was badly injured, how deep the injury extended could not at that time be ascertained, but he feared that his eyes had been altogether destroyed.

After the application of some cordial the unfortunate man began to revive, and the first words he uttered were, “Praise the Lord”—evidently in reference to his life having been spared.

“Is that you, Zackey?” he inquired after a few moments.

“No, it is the doctor, my man. Do you feel much pain in your head?” he asked as he knelt beside him.

“Not much; there is a stunned feeling about it, but little pain. You’d better light a candle.”

“There are candles burning round you,” said the doctor. “Do you not see them? There is one close to your face at this moment.”

Penrose made no answer on hearing this, but an expression of deep gravity seemed to settle on the blackened features.

“We must get him up as soon as possible,” said the doctor, turning to Captain Dan, who stood at his elbow.

“We’re all ready, sir,” replied the captain, who had quietly procured ropes and a blanket, while the doctor was examining the wounds.

With great labour and difficulty the injured man was half hauled, half carried, and pushed up the shaft, and laid on the grass.

“Is the sun shining?” he asked in a low voice.

“Iss, it do shine right in thee face, Jim,” said one of the miners, brushing away a tear with the back of his hand.

Again the gravity of Penrose’s countenance appeared to deepen, but he uttered no other word; so they brought an old door and laid him on it. Six strong men raised it gently on their shoulders, and, with slow steps and downcast faces, they carried the wounded miner home.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Indicates that “We little know what Great Things from Little Things may rise.”

Soon after this accident to James Penrose, the current of events at the mines was diverted from its course by several incidents, which, like the obstructing rocks in a rapid, created some eddies and whirlpools in the lives of those personages with whom this chronicle has to do.

As the beginning of a mighty inundation is oft-times an insignificant-looking leak, and as the cause of a series of great events is not unfrequently a trifling incident, so the noteworthy circumstances which we have still to lay before our readers were brought about by a very small matter—by a baby—the baby Maggot!

One morning that cherubical creature opened its eyes at a much earlier hour than usual, and stared at the ceiling of its father’s cottage. The sun was rising, and sent its unobstructed rays through the window of Maggot’s cottage, where it danced on the ceiling as if its sole purpose in rising had been to amuse the Maggot baby. If so, it was pre-eminently successful in its attempts, for the baby lay and smiled for a long time in silent ecstasy.

Of course, we do not mean to say that the sun itself, or its direct rays, actually danced. No, it was too dignified a luminary for that, but its rays went straight at a small looking-glass which was suspended on the wall opposite to the window, and this being hung so as to slope forward, projected the rays obliquely into a tub of water which was destined for family washing purposes; and from its gently moving surface they were transmitted to the ceiling, where, as aforesaid, they danced, to the immense delight of Maggot junior.

The door of the cottage had been carelessly closed the previous night when the family retired to rest, and a chink of it was open, through which a light draught of summer air came in. This will account for the ripple on the water, which (as every observant reader will note) ought, according to the laws of gravitation, to have lain perfectly still.

The inconstancy of baby Maggot’s nature was presently exhibited in his becoming tired of the sun, and the restlessness of his disposition displayed itself in his frantic efforts to get out of bed. Being boxed in with a board, this was not an easy matter, but the urchin’s limbs were powerful, and he finally got over the obstruction, sufficiently far to lose his balance, and fall with a sounding flop on the floor.

It is interesting to notice how soon deceit creeps into the hearts of some children! Of course the urchin fell sitting-wise—babies always do so, as surely as cats fall on their feet. In ordinary circumstances he would have intimated the painful mishap with a dreadful yell; but on this particular occasion young Maggot was bent on mischief. Of what sort, he probably had no idea, but there must have been a latent feeling of an intention to be “bad” in some way or other, because, on reaching the ground, he pursed his mouth, opened his eyes very wide, and looked cautiously round to make sure that the noise had awakened no one.

His father, he observed, with a feeling of relief, was absent from home—not a matter of uncommon occurrence, for that worthy man’s avocations often called him out at untimeous hours. Mrs Maggot was in bed snoring, and wrinkling up her nose in consequence of a fly having perched itself obstinately on the point thereof. Zackey, with the red earth of the mine still streaking his manly countenance, was rolled-up like a ball in his own bed in a dark recess of the room, and little Grace Maggot could be seen in the dim perspective of a closet, also sound asleep, in her own neat little bed, with her hair streaming over the pillow, and the “chet” reposing happily on her neck.

But that easily satisfied chet had long ago had more than enough of rest. Its repose was light, and the sound of baby Maggot falling out of bed caused it to rise, yawn, arch its back and tail, and prepare itself for the mingled joys and torments of the opening day. Observing that the urchin rose and staggered with a gleeful expression towards the door, the volatile chet made a dash at him sidewise, and gave him such a fright that he fell over the door step into the road.

Again was that tender babe’s deceitfulness of character displayed, for, instead of howling, as he would have done on other occasions, he exercised severe self-restraint, made light of a bruised shin, and, gathering himself up, made off as fast as his fat legs could carry him.

There was something deeply interesting—worthy of the study of a philosopher—in the subsequent actions of that precocious urchin. His powers in the way of walking were not much greater than those of a very tipsy man, and he swayed his arms about a good deal to maintain his balance, especially at the outset of the journey, when he imagined that he heard the maternal voice in anger and the maternal footsteps in pursuit in every puff of wind, grunt of pig, or bark of early-rising cur. His entire soul was engrossed in the one grand, vital, absorbing idea of escape! By degrees, as distance from the paternal roof increased, his fluttering spirit grew calmer and his gait more steady, and the flush of victory gathered on his brow and sparkled in his eye, as the conviction was pressed home upon him that, for the first time in his life, he was free! free as the wind of heaven to go where he pleased—to do what he liked—to be as bad as possible, without let or hindrance!

Not that baby Maggot had any stronger desire to be absolutely wicked than most other children of his years; but, having learnt from experience that the attempt to gratify any of his desires was usually checked and termed “bad,” he naturally felt that a state of delight so intense as that to which he had at last attained, must necessarily be the very quintessence of iniquity. Being resolved to go through with it at all hazards, he felt proportionately wild and reckless. Such a state of commotion was there in his heaving bosom, owing to contradictory and conflicting elements, that he felt at one moment inclined to lie down and shout for joy, and the next, to sink into the earth with terror.

Time, which proverbially works wonderful changes, at length subdued the urchin to a condition of calm goodness and felicity, that would have rejoiced his mother’s heart, had it only been brought on in ordinary circumstances at home.

There is a piece of waste ground lying between St. Just and the sea—a sort of common, covered with heath and furze—on which the ancient Britons have left their indelible mark, in the shape of pits and hollows and trenches, with their relative mounds and hillocks. Here, in the days of old, our worthy but illiterate forefathers had grubbed and dug and turned up every square foot of the soil, like a colony of gigantic rabbits, in order to supply the precious metal of the country to the Phoenicians, Jews, and Greeks.

The ground on this common is so riddled with holes of all sizes and shapes, utterly unguarded by any kind of fence, that it requires care on the part of the pedestrian who traverses the place even in daylight. Hence the mothers of St. Just are naturally anxious that the younger members of their families should not go near the common, and the younger members are as naturally anxious that they should visit it.

Thither, in the course of time—for it was not far distant—the baby Maggot naturally trended; proceeding on the principle of “short stages and long rests.” Never in his life—so he thought—had he seen such bright and beautiful flowers, such green grass, and such lovely yellow sand, as that which appeared here and there at the mouths of the holes and old shafts, or such a delicious balmy and sweet-scented breeze as that which came off the Atlantic and swept across the common. No wonder that his eyes drank in the beautiful sights, for they had seen little of earth hitherto, save the four walls of his father’s cottage and the dead garden wall in front of it; no wonder that his nostrils dilated to receive the sweet odours, for they had up to that date lived upon air which had to cross a noisome and stagnant pool of filth before it entered his father’s dwelling; and no wonder that his ears thrilled to hear the carol of the birds, for they had previously been accustomed chiefly to the voices of poultry and pigs, and to the caterwauling of the “chet.”

But as every joy has its alloy, so our youthful traveller’s feelings began to be modified by a gnawing sensation of hunger, as his usual hour for breakfast approached. Still he wandered on manfully, looking into various dark and deep holes with much interest and a good deal of awe. Some of the old shafts were so deep that no bottom could be seen; others were partially filled up, and varied from five to twenty feet in depth. Some were nearly perpendicular, others were sloped and irregular in form; but all were more or less fringed with gorse bushes in full bloom. In a few cases the old pits were concealed by these bushes.

It is almost unnecessary to say that baby Maggot’s progress, on that eventful morn, was—unknown to himself—a series of narrow escapes from beginning to end—no not exactly to the end, for his last adventure could scarcely be deemed an escape. He was standing on the edge of a hole, which was partially concealed by bushes. Endeavouring to peer into it he lost his balance and fell forward. His ready hands grasped the gorse and received innumerable punctures, which drew forth a loud cry. Head foremost he went in, and head foremost he went down full ten feet, when a small bush caught him, and lowered him gently to the ground, but the spot on which he was landed was steep; it sloped towards the bottom of the hole, which turned inwards and became a sort of cavern. Struggling to regain his footing, he slipped and rolled violently to the bottom, where he lay for a few minutes either stunned or too much astonished to move. Then he recovered a little and began to whimper. After which he felt so much better that he arose and attempted to get out of the hole, but slipped and fell back again, whereupon he set up a hideous roar which continued without intermission for a quarter of an hour, when he fell sound asleep, and remained in happy unconsciousness for several hours.

Meanwhile the Maggot family was, as may well be believed, thrown into a state of tremendous agitation. Mrs Maggot, on making the discovery that baby had succeeded in scaling the barricade, huddled on her garments and roused her progeny to assist in the search. At first she was not alarmed, believing that she should certainly find the self-willed urchin near the house, perhaps in the cottage of the Penroses. But when the cottages in the immediate neighbourhood had been called at, and all the known places of danger round the house examined, without success, the poor woman became frantic with terror, and roused the whole neighbourhood. Every place of possible and impossible concealment was searched, and at last the unhappy mother allowed the terrible thought to enter her mind that baby had actually accomplished the unheard-of feat of reaching the dreaded common, and was perhaps at that moment lying maimed or dead at the bottom of an ancient British shaft!

Immediately a body of volunteers, consisting of men, women, and children, and headed by Mrs Maggot, hastened to the common to institute a thorough search; but they searched in vain, for the holes were innumerable, and the one in which the baby lay was well concealed by bushes. Besides, the search was somewhat wildly and hastily made, so that some spots were over-searched, while others were almost overlooked.

All that day did Mrs Maggot and her friends wander to and fro over the common, and never, since the days when Phoenician galleys were moored by St. Michael’s Mount, did the eyes of human beings pry so earnestly into these pits and holes. Had tin been their object, they could not have been more eager. Evening came, night drew on apace, and at last the forlorn mother sat down in the centre of a furze bush, and began to weep. But her friends comforted her. They urged her to go home and “’ave a dish o’ tay” to strengthen her for the renewal of the search by torch-light. They assured her that the child could easily exist longer than a day without food, and they reminded her that her baby was an exceptional baby, a peculiar baby—like its father, uncommonly strong, and, like its mother, unusually obstinate. The latter sentiment, however, was thought, not expressed.

Under the influence of these assurances and persuasions, Mrs Maggot went home, and, for a short time, the common was deserted.

Now it chanced, curiously enough, that at this identical point of time, Maggot senior was enjoying a pipe and a glass of grog in a celebrated kiddle-e-wink, with his friend Joe Tonkin. This kiddle-e-wink, or low public-house, was known as Un (or Aunt) Jilly’s brandy-shop at Bosarne. It was a favourite resort of smugglers, and many a gallon of spirit, free of duty, had been consumed on the premises.

Maggot and his friend were alone in the house at the time, and their conversation had taken a dolorous turn, for many things had occurred of late to disturb the equanimity of the friends. Several ventures in the smuggling way had proved unsuccessful, and the mines did not offer a tempting prospect just then. There had, no doubt, been one or two hopeful veins opened up, and some good “pitches” had been wrought, but these were only small successes, and the luck had not fallen to either of themselves. The recent discovery of a good bunch by poor Penrose had not been fully appreciated, for the wounded man had as yet said nothing about it, and little Zackey had either forgotten all about it in the excitement of the accident, or was keeping his own counsel.

Maggot talked gloomily about the advisability of emigration to America, as he sent clouds of tobacco smoke up Un Jilly’s chimney, and Tonkin said he would try the mines for a short time, and if things didn’t improve he would go to sea. He did not, however, look at things in quite the same light with his friend. Perhaps he was of a more hopeful disposition, perhaps had met with fewer disappointments. At all events, he so wrought on Maggot’s mind that he half induced him to deny his smuggling propensities for a time, and try legitimate work in the mines. Not that Joe Tonkin wanted to reform him by any means, but he was himself a little out of humour with his old profession, and sought to set his friend against it also.

“Try your luck in Botallack,” said Joe Tonkin, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, preparatory to quitting the place, “that’s my advice to ’ee, booy.”

“I’ve half a mind to,” replied Maggot, rising; “if that theere cargo I run on Saturday do go the way the last did, I’ll ha’ done with it, so I will. Good-hevenin’, Un Jilly.”

“Good-hevenin’, an’ don’t ’ee go tumblin’ down the owld shafts,” said the worthy hostess, observing that her potent brandy had rendered the gait of the men unsteady.

They laughed as they received the caution, and walked together towards St. Just.

“Lev us go see if the toobs are all safe,” said Maggot, on reaching the common.

Tonkin agreed, and they turned aside into a narrow track, which led across the waste land, where the search for the baby had been so diligently carried on all that day.

Night had set in, as we have said, and the searchers had gone up to the town to partake of much-needed refreshment, and obtain torches, so that the place was bleak and silent, as well as dark, when the friends crossed it, but they knew every foot of the ground so thoroughly, that there was no fear of their stumbling into old holes. Maggot led the way, and he walked straight to the old shaft where his hopeful son lay.

There were three noteworthy points of coincidence here to which we would draw attention. It was just because this old shaft was so well concealed that Maggot had chosen it as a place in which to hide his tubs of smuggled brandy; it was owing to the same reason that the town’s-people had failed to discover it while searching for the baby; and it was—at least we think it must have been—just because of the same reason that baby Maggot had found it, for that amiable child had a peculiar talent, a sort of vocation, for ferreting out things and places hidden and secret, especially if forbidden.

Having succeeded in falling into the hole, the urchin naturally discovered his father’s tubs. After crying himself to sleep as before mentioned, and again awakening, his curiosity in respect to these tubs afforded him amusement, and kept him quiet for a time; perhaps the fact that one of the tubs had leaked and filled the lower part of the old shaft with spirituous fumes, may account for the baby continuing to keep quiet, and falling into a sleep which lasted the greater part of the day; at all events, it is certain that he did not howl, as might have been expected of him in the circumstances. Towards evening, however, he began to move about among the tubs, and to sigh and whimper in a subdued way, for his stomach, unused to such prolonged fasting, felt very uncomfortable. When darkness came on baby Maggot became alarmed, but, just about the time of his father’s approach, the moon shone out and cast a cheering ray down the shaft, which relieved his mind a little.

“Joe,” said Maggot in a whisper, and with a serious look, “some one have bin here.”

“D’ee think so?” said Tonkin.

“Iss I do; the bushes are broken a bit. Hush! what’s that?”

The two men paused and looked at each other with awe depicted on their faces, while they listened intently, but, in the words of the touching old song, “the beating of their own hearts was all the sound they heard.”

“It wor the wind,” said Maggot.

“Iss, that’s what it wor,” replied Tonkin; “come, lev us go down. The wind can’t do no harm to we.”

But although he proposed to advance he did not move, and Maggot did not seem inclined to lead the way, for just then something like a sigh came from below, and a dark cloud passed over the moon.

It is no uncommon thing to find that men who are physically brave as lions become nervous as children when anything bordering on what they deem supernatural meets them. Maggot was about the most reckless man in the parish of St. Just, and Tonkin was not far behind him in the quality of courage, yet these two stood there with palpitating hearts undecided what to do.

Ashamed of being thought afraid of anything, Maggot at last cleared his throat, and, in a husky voice, said,—“Come, then, lev us go down.”

So saying he slid down the shaft, closely followed by Tonkin, who was nearly as much afraid to be left alone on the bleak moor as he was to enter the old mine.

Now, while the friends were consulting with palpitating hearts above, baby Maggot, wide-awake and trembling with terror, listened with bated breath below, and when the two men came scrambling down the sides of the shaft his heart seemed to fill up his breast and throat, and his blood began to creep in his veins. Maggot could see nothing in the gloomy interior as he advanced, but baby could see his father’s dark form clearly. Still, no sound escaped from him, for horror had bereft him of power. Just then the dark cloud passed off the moon, and a bright beam shone full on the upper half of the baby’s face as he peeped over the edge of one of the tubs. Maggot saw two glaring eyeballs, and felt frozen alive instantly. Tonkin, looking over his comrade’s shoulder, also saw the eyes, and was petrified on the spot. Suddenly baby Maggot found his voice and uttered a most awful yell. Maggot senior found his limbs, and turned to fly. So did Tonkin, but he slipped and fell at the first step. Maggot fell over him. Both rose and dashed up the shaft, scraping elbows, shins, and knuckles as they went, and, followed by a torrent of hideous cries, that sounded in their ears like the screaming of fiends, they gained the surface, and, without exchanging a word, fled in different directions on the wings of terror!

Maggot did not halt until he burst into his house, and flung himself into his own chair by the chimney corner, whence he gazed on what was calculated to alarm as well as to perplex him. This was the spectacle of his own wife taking tea in floods of tears, and being encouraged in her difficult task by Mrs Penrose and a few sympathising friends.

With some difficulty he got them to explain this mystery.

“What! baby gone lost?” he exclaimed; “where away?”

When it was told him what had occurred, Maggot’s eyes gradually opened, and his lips gradually closed, until the latter produced a low whistle.

“I think that I do knaw where the cheeld is,” he said; “come along, an’ I’ll show un to ’ee.”

So saying, the wily smith, assuming an air of importance and profound wisdom, arose and led his wife and her friends, with a large band of men who had prepared torches, straight to the old shaft. Going down, but sternly forbidding any one to follow he speedily returned with the baby in his arms, to the surprise of all, and to the unutterable joy of the child’s mother.

In one sense, however, the result was disastrous. Curious persons were there who could not rest until they had investigated the matter further, and the tubs were not only discovered, but carried off by those who had no title to them whatever! The misfortune created such a tumult of indignation in the breast of Maggot, that he was heard in his wrath to declare he “would have nothin’ more to do with un, but would go into the bal the next settin’ day.”

This was the commencement of that series of events which, as we have stated at the beginning of this chapter, were brought about by that wonderful baby—the baby Maggot.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Describes Setting-Day at the Mine, etcetera.

That very evening, while Maggot was smoking his pipe by the fireside, his son Zackey referred to the bunch of copper which Penrose had discovered in the mine. After a short conversation, Maggot senior went to the wounded man to talk about it.

“’Twas a keenly lode, did ’ee say?” asked Maggot, after he had inquired as to the health of his friend.

“Yes, and as I shall not be able to work there again,” said Penrose sadly, “I would advise you to try it. Zackey is entitled to get the benefit of the discovery, for he was with me at the time, and, but for his aid, dear boy, I should have been suffocated.”

Maggot said no more on that occasion about the mine, being a man of few words, but, after conversing a short time with the wounded man, and ascertaining that no hope was held out to him of the recovery of his sight, he went his way to the forge to work and meditate.

Setting-day came—being the first Saturday in the month, and no work was done on that day in Botallack, for the men were all above ground to have their “pitches” for the next month fixed, and to receive their wages—setting-day being also pay day.

Some time before the business of the day commenced, the miners began to assemble in considerable numbers in the neighbourhood of the account-house. Very different was their appearance on that occasion from the rusty-red fellows who were wont to toil in the dark chambers far down in the depths below the spot where they stood. Their underground dresses were laid aside, and they now appeared in the costume of well-off tradesmen. There was a free-and-easy swing about the movements of most of these men that must have been the result of their occupation, which brings every muscle of the body into play, and does not—as is too much the case in some trades—over-tax the powers of a certain set of muscles to the detriment of others.

Some there were, however, even among the young men, whose hollow cheeks and bloodless lips, accompanied with a short cough, told of evil resulting from bad air and frequent chills; while, on the other hand, a few old men were to be seen with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks which indicated constitutions of iron. Not a few were mere lads, whose broad shoulders and deep chests and resolute wills enabled them to claim the title, and do the work, of men.

There were some among them, both young and old, who showed traces of having suffered in their dangerous employment. Several were minus an eye, and one or two were nearly blind, owing to blast-holes exploding in their faces. One man in particular, a tall and very powerful fellow, had a visage which was quite blue, and one of his eyes was closed—the blue colour resulting from unburnt grains of powder having been blown into his flesh. He had been tattooed, in fact, by a summary and effective process. This man’s family history was peculiar. His father, also a miner, had lived in a lonely cottage on a moor near St. Just, and worked in Balaswidden Mine. One night he was carried home and laid at his wife’s feet, dead—almost dashed to pieces by a fall. Not long afterwards the son was carried to the same cottage with his right eye destroyed. Some time later a brother dislocated his foot twice within the year in the mine; and a few months after that another brother fell from a beam, descended about twenty-four feet perpendicularly, where he struck the side of the mine with his head, and had six or seven of his teeth knocked out; glancing off to one side, he fell twenty feet more on the hard rock, where he was picked up insensible. This man recovered, however, under the careful nursing of his oft and sorely tried mother.

Maggot was present on this setting-day, with a new cap and a new blue cloth coat, looking altogether a surprisingly respectable character. A good deal of undertoned chaffing commenced when he appeared.

“Hallo!” exclaimed one, “goin’ to become an honest man, Maggot?”

“Thinkin’ ’bout it,” replied the smith, with a good-humoured smile.

“Why, if I didn’t knaw that the old wuman’s alive,” said another, “I’d say he was agoin’ to get married again!”

“Never fear,” exclaimed a third, “Maggot’s far too ’cute a cunger to be caught twice.”

“I say, my dear man,” asked another, “have ’ee bin takin’ a waalk ’pon the clifts lately?”

“Iss, aw iss,” replied the smith with much gravity.

“Did ’ee find any more daws ’pon clift?” asked the other, with a leer.

There was a general laugh at this, but Maggot replied with good-humour,—“No, Billy, no—took ’em all away last time. But I’m towld there’s some more eggs in the nest, so thee’ll have a chance some day, booy.”

“I hope the daws ain’t the worse of their ducking?” asked Billy, with an expression of anxious interest.

“Aw, my dear,” said Maggot, looking very sad, and shaking his head slowly, “didn’t ’ee hear the noos?”

“No, not I.”

“They did catch the noo complaint the doctor do spaik of—bronkeetis I think it is—and although I did tie ’em up wi’ flannel round their necks, an’ water-gruel, besides ’ot bottles to their feet, they’re all gone dead. I mean to have ’em buried on Monday. Will ’ee come to the berryin, Billy?”

“P’raps I will,” replied Billy, “but see that the gravedigger do berry ’em deep, else he’ll catch a blowin’ up like the gravedigger did in Cambourne last week.”

“What was that, booy? Let us hear about it, Billy,” exclaimed several voices.

“Well, this is the way of it,” said Billy: “the owld gravedigger in Cambourne was standin’ about, after mittin’ was over, a-readin’ of the tombstones, for he’d got a good edjication, had owld Tom. His name was Tom—the same man as put a straw rope to the bell which the cows did eat away, so that he cudn’t ring the people to mittin’. Well, when he was studdyin’ the morials on the stones out comes Captain Rowe. He was wan o’ the churchwardens, or somethin’ o’ that sort, but I don’t knaw nothin’ ’bout the church, so I ain’t sure—an’ he calls owld Tom into the vestry.

“‘Now look here, Tom,’ says the captain, very stern, ‘they tell me thee ’rt gettin’ lazy, Tom, an’ that thee do dig the graves only four fut deep. Now, Tom, I was over to St. Just t’other day to a berryin’, and I see that they do dig their graves six fut or more deeper than you do. That won’t do, Tom, I tell ’ee. What’s the meanin’ of it?’

“This came somewhat suddent on owld Tom, but he wor noways put out.

“‘Well, you do see, Cap’n Rowe,’ says he, ‘I do it apurpose, for I do look at the thing in two lights.’”

“‘How so?’ asked the captain.

“‘Why, the people of St. Just only think of the berryin’, but I do think of the resurrection; the consekince is that they do dig too deep, an’ afore the St. Just folk are well out of their graves, ours will be a braave way up to heaven!’”

The laugh with which this anecdote was received had scarcely subsided when the upper half of one of the account-house windows opened, and the fine-looking head and shoulders of old Mr Cornish appeared.

The manager laid an open book on the window-sill, and from this elevated position, as from a pulpit, he read out the names, positions, etcetera, of the various “pitches” that were to be “sett” for the following month. One of the mine captains stood at his elbow to give any required information—he and his three brother captains being the men who had gone all over the mine during the previous month, examined the work, measured what had been done by each man or “pare” of men, knew the capabilities of all the miners, and fixed the portion that ought to be offered to each for acceptance or refusal.

The men assembled in a cluster round the window, and looked up while Mr Cornish read off as follows:—

“John Thomas’s pitch at back of the hundred and five. By two men. To extend from the end of tram-hole, four fathom west, and from back of level, five fathom above.”

For the enlightenment of the reader, we may paraphrase the above sentence thus:—

“The pitch or portion of rock wrought last month by John Thomas is now offered anew—in the first place, to John Thomas himself if he chooses to continue working it at our rate of pay, or, if he declines, to any other man who pleases to offer for it. The pitch is in the back (or roof) of the level, which lies one hundred and five fathoms deep. It must be wrought by two men, and must be excavated lengthwise to an extent of four fathoms in a westerly direction from a spot called the tram-hole. In an upward direction, it may be excavated from the roof of the level to an extent of five fathoms.”

John Thomas, being present, at once offered “ten shillings,” by which he meant that, knowing the labour to be undergone, and the probable value of the ore that would have to be excavated, he thought it worth while to continue at that piece of work, or that “pitch,” if the manager would give him ten shillings for every twenty shillings’ worth of mineral sent to the surface by him; but the captain also knew the ground and the labour that would be required, and his estimate was that eight shillings would be quite sufficient remuneration, a fact which was announced by Mr Cornish simply uttering the words, “At eight shillings.”

“Put her down, s’pose,” said John Thomas after a moment’s consideration.

Perhaps John knew that eight shillings was really sufficient, although he wanted ten. At all events he knew that it was against the rules to dispute the point at that time, as it delayed business; that if he did not accept the offer, another man might do so; and that he might not get so good a pitch if he were to change.

The pitch was therefore sett to John Thomas, and another read off:— “Jim Hocking’s pitch at back of the hundred and ten. By one man. To extend,” etcetera.

“Won’t have nothin’ to do with her,” said Jim Hocking.

Jim had evidently found the work too hard, and was dissatisfied with the remuneration, so he declined, resolving to try his chance in a more promising part of the mine.

“Will any one offer for this pitch?” inquired Mr Cornish.

Eight and six shillings were sums immediately named by men who thought the pitch looked more promising than Jim did.

“Any one offer more for this pitch?” asked the manager, taking up a pebble from a little pile that lay at his elbow, and casting it into the air.

While that pebble was in its flight, any one might offer for the pitch, but the instant it touched the ground, the bargain was held to be concluded with the last bidder.

A man named Oats, who had been in a hesitating state of mind, here exclaimed “Five shillings” (that is, offered to work the pitch for five shillings on every twenty shillings’ worth sent to grass); next instant the stone fell, and the pitch was sett to Oats.

Poor James Penrose’s pitch was the next sett.

“James Penrose’s late pitch,” read the manager, giving the details of it in terms somewhat similar to those already sett, and stating that the required “pare,” or force to be put on it, was two men and a boy.

“Put me down for it,” said Maggot.

“Have you got your pare?” asked Mr Cornish.

“Iss, sur.”

“Their names?”

“David Trevarrow and my son Zackey.”

The pitch was allocated in due form at the rate of fifteen shillings per twenty shillings’ worth of mineral sent up—this large sum being given because it was not known to be an unusually good pitch—Penrose having been too ill to speak of his discovery since his accident, and the captain having failed to notice it. When a place is poor looking, a higher sum is given to the miner to induce him to work it. When it is rich, a lower sum is given, because he can make more out of it.

Thus the work went on, the sums named varying according to the nature of the ground, and each man saying “Naw,” or “Put me down,” or “That won’t do,” or “I won’t have her,” according to circumstances.

While this was going on at the window, another and perhaps more interesting scene was taking place in the office. This apartment presented a singular appearances. There was a large table in the centre of it, which, with every available inch of surface on a side-table, and on a board at the window, was completely covered with banknotes and piles of gold, silver, and copper. Each pile was placed on a little square piece of paper containing the account-current for the month of the man or men to whom it belonged. Very few men laboured singly. Many worked in couples, and some in bands of three, five, or more. So much hard cash gave the place a wealthy appearance, and in truth there was a goodly sum spread out, amounting to several hundreds of pounds.

The piles varied very much in size, and conveyed a rough outline of the financial history of the men they belonged to. Some large heaps of silver, with a few coppers and a pile of sovereigns more than an inch high, lying on two or more five-pound notes indicated successful labour. Nevertheless, the evidence was not absolutely conclusive, because the large piles had in most cases to be divided between several men who had banded together; but the little square account-papers, with a couple of crowns on them, told of hard work and little pay, while yonder square with two shillings in the centre of it betokened utter failure, only to be excelled by another square, on which lay nothing.

You will probably exclaim in your heart, reader, “What! do miners sometimes work for a month, and receive only two shillings, or nothing as wages?”

Ay, sometimes; but it is their own seeking if they do; it is not forced upon them.

There are three classes of miners—those who work on the surface, dressing ore, etcetera, who are paid a weekly wage; those who work on “tribute,” and those who work at “tut-work.” Of the first we say nothing, except that they consist chiefly of balmaidens and children—the former receiving about 18 shillings a month, and the latter from 8 shillings to 20 shillings, according to age and capacity.

In regard to “tributers” and “tut-workers,” we may remark that the work of both is identical in one respect—namely, that of hewing, picking, boring, and blasting the hard rock. In this matter they share equal toils and dangers, but they are not subjected to the same remunerative vicissitudes.

When a man works on “tribute” he receives so many shillings for every twenty shillings’ worth of ore that he raises during the month, as already explained. If his “pitch” turns out to be rich in ore, his earnings are proportionably high; if it be poor, he remains poor also. Sometimes a part of the mineral lode becomes so poor that it will not pay for working, and has to be abandoned. So little as a shilling may be the result of a “tributer’s” work for a month at one time, while at another time he may get a good pitch, and make 100 pounds or 200 pounds in the same period.

The “tutman” (or piecework man), on the other hand, cuts out the rock at so much per fathom, and obtains wages at the rate of from 2 pounds, 10 shillings to 3 pounds a month. He can never hope to make a fortune, but so long as health and strength last, he may count on steady work and wages. Of course there is a great deal of the work in a mine which is not directly remunerative, such as “sinking” shafts, opening up and “driving” (or lengthening) levels, and sinking “winzes.” On such work tutmen are employed.

The man who works on “tribute” is a speculator; he who chooses “tut-work” is a steady labourer. The tributer experiences all the excitement of uncertainty, and enjoys the pleasures of hope. He knows something, too, about “hope deferred;” also can tell of hope disappointed; has his wits sharpened, and, generally, is a smart fellow. The tut-worker knows nothing of this, his pay being safe and regular, though small. Many quiet-going, plodding men prefer and stick to tut-work.

In and about the counting-room the men who had settled the matter of their next month’s work were assembled. These—the cashier having previously made all ready—were paid in a prompt and businesslike manner.

First, there came forward a middle-aged man. It was scarcely necessary for him to speak, for the cashier knew every man on the mine by name, and also how much was due to him, and the hundreds of little square accounts-current were so arranged that he could lay his hands on any one in an instant. Nevertheless, being a hearty and amiable man, he generally had a word to say to every one.

“How’s your son, Matthew?” he inquired of the middle-aged man, putting the square paper with its contents into his hand.

“He’s braave, sir. The doctor do say he’ll be about again in a week.”

Matthew crumpled up his account-current—notes, gold, silver, copper and all—in his huge brown hand, and, thrusting the whole into his breeches pocket, said “Thank ’ee,” and walked away.

Next, there came forward a young man with one eye, an explosion having shut up the other one for ever. He received his money along with that of the three men who worked in the same “pare” with him. He crumpled it up in the same reckless way as Matthew had done, also thrust it into his pocket, and walked off with an independent swagger. Truly, in the sweat, not only of his brow, but, of every pore in his body, had he earned it, and he was entitled to swagger a little just then. There was little enough room or inducement to do so down in the mine! After this young man a little boy came forward saying that his “faither” had sent him for his money.

It was observable that the boys and lads among those who presented themselves in the counting-room, were, as a rule, hearty and hopeful. With them it was as with the young in all walks of life. Everything looked bright and promising. The young men were stern, yet free-and-easy—as though they had already found life a pretty tough battle, but felt quite equal to it. And so they were, every one of them! With tough sinews, hard muscles, and indomitable energy, they were assuredly equal to any work that man could undertake; and many of them, having the fear of God in their hearts, were fitted to endure manfully the trials of life as well. The elderly men were sedate, and had careworn faces; they knew what it was to suffer. Many of them had carried little ones to the grave; they had often seen strong men like themselves go forth in the morning hale and hearty, and be carried to their homes at evening with blinded eyes or shattered limbs. Life had lost its gloss to them, but it had not lost its charms. There were loving hearts to work for, and a glorious end for which to live, or, if need be, to die—so, although their countenances were sedate they were not sad. The old men—of whom there were but two or three—were jolly old souls. They seemed to have successfully defied the tear and wear of life, to have outlived its sorrows, and renewed their youth. Certainly they had not reached their second childhood, for they stepped forth and held out their hands for their pay as steadily as the best of the young ones.

When about one-half of the number had been paid, a woman in widow’s weeds came forward to take up the pay due to her son—her “wretched Harry,” as she styled him. All that was due was seven-and-sixpence. It was inexpressibly sad to see her retire with this small sum—the last that her unsettled boy was entitled to draw from the mines. He had worked previously in the neighbouring mine, Wheal Owles, and had gone to Botallack the month before. He was now off to sea, leaving his mother, who to some extent depended on him, to look out for herself.

The next who came forward was a blind man. He had worked long in the mine—so long that he could find his way through the labyrinth of levels as easily in his blind state as he did formerly with his eyesight. When his eyes were destroyed (in the usual way, by the explosion of a hole), he was only off work during the period of convalescence. Afterwards he returned to his familiar haunts underground; and although he could no longer labour in the old way, he was quite able to work a windlass, and draw up the bucket at a winze. For this he now pocketed two pounds sterling, and walked off as vigorously as if he had possessed both his eyes!

Among others, a wife appeared to claim her husband’s pay, and she was followed by Zackey Maggot, who came to receive his own and Penrose’s money.

“How does Penrose get on?” inquired the cashier, as he handed over the sum due.

“Slowly, sur,” said Zackey.

“It is a bad case,” said one of the captains, who sat close by; “the doctor thinks there is little or no chance for his eyesight.”

Poor Zackey received his pay and retired without any demonstration of his wonted buoyancy of spirit, for he was fond of Penrose, almost as much so as he was of uncle David Trevarrow.

The varied fortune experienced in the mine was exhibited in one or two instances on this occasion. One man and a boy, working together, had, in their own phraseology, “got a sturt”—they had come unexpectedly on a piece of rich ground, which yielded so much tin that at the end of the month they received 25 pounds between them. The man had been receiving “subsist,” that is, drawing advances monthly for nearly a year, and, having a wife and children to support, had almost lost heart. It was said that he had even contemplated suicide, but this little piece of good fortune enabled him to pay off his debt and left something over. Another man and boy had 20 pounds to receive. On the other hand, one man had only 2 shillings due to him, while a couple of men who had worked in poor ground found themselves 2 shillings in debt, and had to ask for “subsist.”

Some time previous to this, two men had discovered a “bunch of copper,” and in the course of two months they cleared 260 pounds. At a later period a man in Levant Mine, who was one of the Wesleyan local preachers, cleared 200 pounds within a year. He gave a hundred pounds to his mother, and with the other hundred went off to seek his fortune in Australia!

After all the men had been paid, those who wished for “subsist,” or advances, were desired to come forward. About a dozen of them did so, and among these were representatives of all classes—the diligent and strong, the old and feeble, and the young. Of course, in mining operations as in other work, the weak, lazy, and idle will ever be up to the lips in trouble, and in need of help. But in mining the best of men may be obliged to demand assistance, because, when tributers work on hopefully day after day and week after week on bad ground, they must have advances to enable them to persevere—not being able to subsist on air! This is no hardship, the mine being at all times open to their inspection, and they are allowed to select their own ground. Hence the demand for “subsist” is not necessarily a sign of absolute but only of temporary poverty. The managers make large or small advances according to their knowledge of the men.

There was a good deal of chaffing at this point in the proceedings—the lazy men giving occasion for a slight administration of rebuke, and the able men affording scope for good-humoured pleasantry and badinage.

In Botallack, at the present time, about forty or fifty men per month find it necessary to ask for “subsist.”

Before the wages were paid, several small deductions had to be made. First, there was sixpence to be deducted from each man for “the club.” This club consisted of those who chose to pay sixpence a month to a fund for the temporary support of those who were damaged by accidents in the mine. A similar sum per month was deducted from each man for “the doctor,” who was bound, in consideration of this, to attend the miners free of charge. In addition to this a shilling was deducted from each man, to be given to the widow and family of a comrade who had died that month. At the present time from 18 pounds to 20 pounds are raised in this way when a death occurs, to be given to the friends of the deceased. It should be remarked that these deductions are made with the consent of the men. Any one may refuse to give to those objects, but, if he do so, he or his will lose the benefit in the event of his disablement or death.

Men who are totally disabled receive a pension from the club fund. Not long ago a miner, blind of one eye, left another mine and engaged in Botallack. Before his first month was out he exploded a blast-hole in his face, which destroyed the other eye. From that day he received a pension of 1 pound a month, which will continue till his death—or, at least as long as Botallack shall flourish—and that miner may be seen daily going through the streets of St. Just with his little daughter, in a cart, shouting “Pilchards, fresh pilcha-a-rds, breem, pullock, fresh pullock, pil-cha-a-rds”—at the top of his stentorian voice—a living example of the value of “the club,” and of the principle of insurance!

At length the business of the day came to a close. The wages were paid, the men’s work for another month was fixed, the cases of difficulty and distress were heard and alleviated, and then the managers and agents wound up the day by dining together in the account-house, the most noteworthy point in the event being the fact that the dinner was eaten off plates made of pure Botallack tin.

Once a quarter this dinner, styled the “account-dinner,” is partaken of by any of the shareholders who may wish to be present, on which occasion the manager and agents lay before the company the condition and prospects of the mine, and a quarterly dividend (if any) is paid. There is a matter-of-fact and Spartan-like air about this feast which commands respect. The room in which it is held is uncarpeted, and its walls are graced by no higher works of art than the plans and sections of the mine. The food is excellent and substantial, but simple. There is abundance of it, but there are no courses—either preliminary or successive—no soup or fish to annoy one who wants meat; no ridiculous entremêts to tantalise one who wants something solid; no puddings, pies, or tarts to tempt men to gluttony. All set to work at the same time, and enjoy their meal together, which is more than can be said of most dinners. All is grandly simple, like the celebrated mine on which the whole is founded.

But there is one luxury at this feast which it would be unpardonable not to mention—namely the punch. Whoever tastes this beverage can never forget it! Description were useless to convey an idea of it. Imagination were impotent to form a conception of it. Taste alone will avail, so that our readers must either go to Cornwall to drink it, or for ever remain unsatisfied. We can only remark, in reference to it, that it is potent as well as pleasant, and that it is also dangerous, being of an insinuating nature, so that those who partake freely have a tendency to wish for more, and are apt to dream (not unreasonably, but too wildly) of Botallack tin being transformed into silver and gold.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Details, among other Things, a Deed of Heroism.

To work went Maggot and Trevarrow and Zackey on their new pitch next day like true Britons. Indeed, we question whether true Britons of the ancient time ever did go to work with half the energy or perseverance of the men of the present day. Those men of old were mere grubbers on the surface. They knew nothing of deep levels under the ocean. However, to do them justice, they made wonderfully extensive tunnels in mother earth, with implements much inferior to those now in use.

But, be that as it may, our trio went to work “with a will.” Maggot was keen to get up as much of the rich mineral as possible during the month—knowing that he would not get the place next month on such good terms. Trevarrow, besides having no objections to make money when he could for its own sake, was anxious to have a little to spare to James Penrose, whose large family found it pinching work to subsist on the poor fellow’s allowance from the club. As to Zackey, he was ready for anything where Uncle Davy was leader. So these three resolved to work night and day. Maggot took his turn in the daytime and slept at night; Trevarrow slept in the daytime and worked at night; while the boy worked as long as he could at whatever time suited him best.

As they advanced on the lode it became larger and richer, and in a day or two it assumed such proportions as to throw the fortunate workers into a state of great excitement, and they tore out and blasted away the precious mineral like Titans.

One day, about kroust-time, having fired two holes, they came out of the “end” in which they wrought and sat down to lunch while the smoke was clearing away.

“’Tes a brave lode,” said Maggot.

“It is,” responded Trevarrow, taking a long draught of water from the canteen.

“What shall us do?” said Maggot; “go to grass to slaip, or slaip in the bal?”

“In the bal, if you do like it,” said Trevarrow.

So it was agreed that the men should sleep in the mine on boards, or on any dry part of the level, in order to save the time and energy lost in ascending and descending the long ladders, and thus make the most of their opportunity. It was further resolved that Zackey should be sent up for dry clothes, and bring them their meals regularly. Trevarrow did not forget to have his Bible brought to him, for he was too serious a man to shut his eyes to the danger of a sudden run of good fortune, and thought that the best way to guard against evil would be to devote nearly all his short periods of leisure time to the reading of “the Word.”

You may be sure that Maggot afterwards laughed at him for this, but he did not concern himself much about it at the time, because he was usually too hungry to talk at meal-times, and too sleepy to do so after work was over.

They were still busily discussing the matter of remaining in the mine all night, when they heard the kibble descending the shaft, near the bottom of which they sat, and next moment a man came to the ground with considerable violence.

“Why, Frankey, is that thee, booy?” said Maggot, starting up to assist him.

“Aw dear, iss; I’m gone dead a’most! aw dear! aw dear!”

“Why, whatever brought ’ee here?” said Trevarrow.

“The kibble, sure,” replied the man, exhibiting his knuckles, which were cut and bleeding a good deal. “I did come by the chain, anyhow.”

This was indeed true. Frankey, as his mates called him, was at that time the “lander” in charge of the kibbles at the surface. It was his duty to receive each kibble as it was drawn up to the mouth of the shaft full of ore, empty it, and send it down again. Several coils of chain passing round the large drum of a great horse-windlass, called by the miners a “whim,” was the means by which the kibbles were hoisted and lowered. The chain was so arranged that one kibble was lowered by it while the other was being drawn up. Frankey had emptied one of the kibbles, and had given the signal to the boy attending the horse to “lower away,” when he inadvertently stepped into the shaft. With ready presence of mind the man caught the chain and clung to it, but the boy, being prevented by a pile of rubbish from seeing what had occurred, eased him down, supposing him to be the kibble!

This “easing down” a great number of fathoms was by no means an easy process, as those know well who have seen a pair of kibbles go banging up and down a shaft. It was all that poor Frankey could do to keep his head from being smashed against rocks and beams; but, by energetic use of arms and legs, he did so, and reached the bottom of the shaft without further damage than a little skin rubbed off his knees and elbows, and a few cuts on his hands. The man thought so little of it, indeed, that he at once returned to grass by the ladder-way, to the unutterable surprise and no little consternation of the boy who had “eased him down.”

The air at the “end” of the level in which Maggot and Trevarrow worked was very bad, and, for some time past, men had been engaged in sinking a winze from the level above to connect the two, and send in a supply of fresh air by creating a new channel of circulation. This winze was almost completed, but one of the men employed at it had suddenly become unwell that day, and no other had been appointed to the work. As it was a matter of great importance to have fresh air, now that they had resolved to remain day and night in the mine for some time, Maggot and Trevarrow determined to complete the work, believing that one or two shots would do it. Accordingly, they mounted to the level above, and were lowered one at a time to the bottom of the unfinished winze by a windlass, which was turned by the man whose comrade had become unwell.

For nearly two hours they laboured diligently, scarce taking time to wipe the perspiration from their heated brows. At the end of that time the hole was sufficiently deep to blast, so Maggot called out,—“Zackey, my son, fetch the fuse and powder.” The boy was quickly lowered with these materials, and then drawn up.

Meanwhile Maggot proceeded to charge the hole, and his comrade sat down to rest. He put in the powder and tamping, and asked the other to hand him the tamping-bar.

“Zackey has forgot it,” said Trevarrow, looking round.

“It don’t matter; hand me the borer.”

“No, I won’t,” said Trevarrow decidedly, as he grasped the iron tool in question. “Ho! Zackey booy, throw down the tampin’-bar.”

This was done, and the operation of filling the hole continued, while Trevarrow commented somewhat severely on his companion’s recklessness.

“That’s just how the most o’ the reckless men in the bal do get blaw’d up,” he said; “they’re always picking away at the holes, and tamping with iron tools; why, thee might as well put a lighted match down the muzzle of a loaded gun as tamp with an iron borer.”

“Come, now,” said Maggot, looking up from his work with a leer, “it warn’t that as made old Kimber nearly blow hisself up last week.”

“No, but it was carelessness, anyhow,” retorted Trevarrow; “and lucky for him that he was a smart man, else he’d bin gone dead by this time.”

Maggot soon completed the filling of the hole, and then perpetrated as reckless a deed as any of his mining comrades had ever been guilty of. Trevarrow was preparing to ascend by the windlass, intending to leave his comrade to light the fuse and come up after him. Meanwhile Maggot found that the fuse was too long. He discovered this after it was fixed in the hole, and, unobserved by his companion, proceeded to cut it by means of an iron tool and a flat stone. Fire was struck at the last blow by the meeting of the iron and the stone, and the fuse ignited. To extinguish it was impossible; to cut it in the same way, without striking fire, was equally so. Of course there was plenty of time to ascend by the windlass, but only one at a time could do so. The men knew this, and looked at each other with terrible meaning in their eyes as they rushed at the bucket, and shouted to the man above to haul them up. He attempted to do so, but in vain. He had not strength to haul up two at once. One could escape, both could not, and to delay would be death to both. In this extremity David Trevarrow looked at his comrade, and said calmly,—“Escape, my brother; a minute more and I shall be in heaven.”

He stepped back while he spoke—the bucket went rapidly upwards, and Trevarrow, sitting down in the bottom of the shaft, covered his eyes with a piece of rock and awaited the issue.

The rumbling explosion immediately followed, and the shaft was filled with smoke and flame and hurling stones. One of these latter, shooting upwards, struck and cut the ascending miner on his forehead as he looked down to observe the fate of his self-sacrificing comrade!

Maggot was saved, but he was of too bold and kindly a nature to remain for a moment inactive after the explosion was over. At once he descended, and, groping about among the débris, soon found his friend—alive, and almost unhurt! A mass of rock had arched him over—or, rather, the hand of God, as if by miracle, had delivered the Christian miner.

After he was got up in safety to the level above they asked him why he had been so ready to give up his life to save his friend.

“Why,” said David quietly, “I did think upon his wife and the child’n, and little Grace seemed to say to me, ‘Take care o’ faither’—besides, there are none to weep if I was taken away, so the Lord gave me grace to do it.”

That night there were glad and grateful hearts in Maggot’s cottage—and never in this world was a more flat and emphatic contradiction given to any statement, than that which was given to David Trevarrow’s assertion—“There are none to weep if I was taken away.”

(A short but beautiful account of the above incident will be found in a little volume of poems, entitled Lays from the Mine, the Moor, and the Mountain, written by John Harris, a Cornish miner.)

Chapter Thirty.

Reveals some Astonishing Facts and their Consequences.

Sorrow and trouble now began to descend upon Mr Thomas Donnithorne like a thick cloud.

Reduced from a state of affluence to one bordering on absolute poverty, the old man’s naturally buoyant spirit almost gave way, and it needed all the attentions and the cheering influence of his good wife and sweet Rose Ellis to keep him from going (as he often half-jestingly threatened) to the end of Cape Cornwall and jumping into the sea.

“It’s all over with me, Oliver,” said he one morning, after the return of his nephew from London. “A young fellow like you may face up against such difficulties, but what is an old man to do? I can’t begin the world over again; and as for the shares I have in the various mines, they’re not worth the paper they’re writ upon.”

“But things may take a turn,” suggested Oliver; “this is not the first time the mines have been in a poor condition, and the price of tin low. When things get very bad they are likely to get better, you know. Even now there seems to be some talk among the miners of an improved state of things. I met Maggot yesterday, and he was boasting of having found a monstrous bunch, which, according to him, is to be the making of all our fortunes.”

Mr Donnithorne shook his head.

“Maggot’s geese are always swans,” he said; “no, no, Oliver, I have lost all hope of improvement. There are so many of these deceptive mines around us just now—some already gone down, and some going—that the public are losing confidence in us, and, somewhat unfairly, judging that, because a few among us are scoundrels, we are altogether a bad lot.”

“What do you think of Mr Clearemout’s new mine?” asked Oliver.

“I believe it to be a genuine one,” said the old gentleman, turning a somewhat sharp glance on his nephew. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I doubt it,” replied Oliver.

“You are too sceptical,” said Mr Donnithorne almost testily; “too much given to judging things at first sight.”

“Nay, uncle; you are unfair. Had I judged of you at first sight, I should have thought you a—”

“Well, what? a smuggling old brandy-loving rascal—eh? and not far wrong after all.”

“At all events,” said Oliver, laughing, “I have lived to form a better opinion of you than that. But, in reference to Clearemout, I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that the work doing at the new mine is very like a sham, for they have only two men and a boy working her, with a captain to superintend; and it is said, for I made inquiries while in London, that thirty thousand pounds have been called up from the shareholders, and there are several highly paid directors, with an office-staff in the City drawing large salaries.”

“Nonsense, Oliver,” said Mr Donnithorne more testily than before; “you know very well that things must have a beginning, and that caution is necessary at first in all speculations. Besides, I feel convinced that Mr Clearemout is a most respectable man, and an uncommonly clever fellow to boot. It is quite plain that you don’t like him—that’s what prejudices you, Oliver. You’re jealous of the impression he has made on the people here.”

This last remark was made jestingly, but it caused the young doctor to wince, having hit nearer the truth than the old gentleman had any idea of, for although Oliver envied not the handsome stranger’s popularity, he was, almost unknown to himself, very jealous of the impression he seemed to have made on Rose Ellis.

A feeling of shame induced him to change the subject of conversation, with a laughing observation that he hoped such an unworthy motive did not influence him.

Now, while this conversation was going on in the parlour of Mr Donnithorne’s cottage, another dialogue was taking place in a small wooden erection at the end of the garden, which bore the dignified name of “Rose’s Bower.” The parties concerned in it were George Augustus Clearemout and Rose Ellis.

A day or two previous to the conversation to which we are about to draw attention, the managing director had undergone a change in his sentiments and intentions. When he first saw Rose he thought her an uncommonly sweet and pretty girl. A short acquaintance with her convinced him that she was even sweeter and prettier than at first he had thought her. This, coupled with the discovery that her uncle was very rich, and that he meant to leave a large portion of his wealth, if not all of it, to Rose, decided Clearemout, and he resolved to marry her. Afterwards he became aware of the fact that old Mr Donnithorne had met with losses, but he was ignorant of their extent, and still deemed it worth while to carry out his intentions.

George Augustus had been a “managing director” in various ways from his earliest infancy, and had never experienced much opposition to his will, so that he had acquired a habit of settling in his own mind whatever he meant to do, and forthwith doing it. On this occasion he resolved to sacrifice himself to Rose, in consideration of her prospective fortune—cash being, of course, Mr Clearemout’s god.

Great, then, was the managing director’s surprise, and astonishing the condition of his feelings, when, on venturing to express his wishes to Rose, he was kindly, but firmly, rejected! Mr Clearemout was so thunderstruck—having construed the unsophisticated girl’s candour and simplicity of manner into direct encouragement—that he could make no reply, but, with a profound bow, retired hastily from her presence, went to his lodgings, and sat down with his elbows on the table, and his face buried in his large hands, the fingers of which appeared to be crushing in his forehead, as if to stifle the thoughts that burned there. After sitting thus for half an hour he suddenly rose, with his face somewhat paler, and his lips a little more firmly compressed than usual.

It was an epoch in his existence. The man who had so often and so successfully deceived others had made the wonderful discovery that he had deceived himself. He had imagined that money was his sole object in wishing to marry Rose. He now discovered that love, or something like it, had so much to do with his wishes that he resolved to have her without money, and also without her consent.

Something within the man told him that Rose’s refusal was an unalterable one. He did not think it worth while to waste time in a second attempt. His plans, though hastily formed, required a good deal of preliminary arrangement, so he commenced to carry them out with the single exclamation, “I’ll do it!” accompanied with a blow from his heavy fist on the table, which, being a weak lodging-house one, was split from end to end. But the managing director had a soul above furniture at that moment. He hastily put on his hat and strode out of the house.

Making good use of a good horse, he paid sundry mysterious visits to various smuggling characters, to all of whom he was particularly agreeable and liberal in the bestowal of portions of the thirty thousand pounds with which a too confiding public had intrusted him. Among other places, he went to a cottage on a moor between St. Just and Penzance, and had a confidential interview with a man named Hicks, who was noted for his capacity to adapt himself to circumstances (when well paid) without being troubled by conscientious scruples. This man had a son who had once suffered from a broken collar-bone, and whose ears were particularly sharp. He chanced to overhear the conversation at the interview referred to, and dutifully reported the same to his mother, who happened to be a great gossip, and knew much about the private affairs of nearly everybody living within six miles of her. The good woman resolved to make some use of her information, but Mr Clearemout left the cottage in ignorance, of course, of her resolution.

Having transacted these little pieces of business, the managing director returned home, and, on the day following, sought and obtained an interview with Rose Ellis in her bower.

Recollecting the subject of their last conversation, Rose blushed, as much with indignation as confusion, at being intruded upon, but Mr Clearemout at once dispersed her angry feelings by assuring her in tones of deferential urbanity that he would not have presumed to intrude upon her but for the fact that he was about to quit Cornwall without delay, and he wished to talk with her for only a few minutes on business connected with Mr Donnithorne.

There was something so manly and straightforward in his tone and manner that she could not choose but allow him to sit down beside her, although she did falter out something about the propriety of talking on her uncle’s business affairs with Mr Donnithorne himself.

“Your observation is most just,” said Mr Clearemout earnestly; “but you are aware that your uncle’s nature is a delicate, sensitive one, and I feel that he would shrink from proposals coming from me, that he might listen to if made to him through you. I need not conceal from you, Miss Ellis, that I am acquainted with the losses which your uncle has recently sustained, and no one can appreciate more keenly than I do the harshness with which the world, in its ignorance of details, is apt to judge of the circumstances which brought about this sad state of things. I cannot help feeling deeply the kindness which has been shown me by Mr Donnithorne during my residence here, and I would, if I could, show him some kindness in return.”

Mr Clearemout paused here a few moments as if to reflect. He resolved to assume that Mr Donnithorne’s losses were ruinous, little imagining that in this assumption he was so very near the truth! Rose felt grateful to him for the kind and delicate way in which he referred to her uncle’s altered circumstances.

“Of course,” continued the managing director, “I need not say to you, that his independent spirit would never permit him to accept of assistance in the form which would be most immediately beneficial to him. Indeed, I could not bring myself to offer money even as a loan. But it happens that I have the power, just now, of disposing of the shares which he has taken in Wheal Dooem Mine at a very large profit; and as my hope of the success of that enterprise is very small, I—”

“Very small!” echoed Rose in surprise. “You astonish me, Mr Clearemout. Did I not hear you, only a few nights ago, say that you had the utmost confidence in the success of your undertaking?”

“Most true,” replied the managing director with a smile; “but in the world of business a few hours work wonderful changes, sometimes, in one’s opinion of things—witness the vacillations and variations ‘on ’Change’—if I may venture to allude before a lady to such an incomprehensible subject.”

Rose felt her vigorous little spirit rise, and she was about to return a smart reply in defence of woman’s intelligence even in business matters, but the recollection of the altered relative position in which they now stood restrained her.

“Yes,” continued Mr Clearemout, with a sigh, “the confidence which I felt in Wheal Dooem has been much shaken of late, and the sooner your uncle sells out the better.”

“But would it be right,” said Rose earnestly, “to sell our shares at a high profit if things be as you say?”

“Quite right,” replied Clearemout, with a bland smile of honesty; “I believe the mine to be a bad speculation; my friend, we shall suppose, believes it to be a good one. Believing as I do, I choose to sell out; believing as he does, he chooses to buy in. The simplest thing in the world, Miss Ellis. Done every day with eyes open, I assure you; but it is not every day that a chance occurs so opportunely as the present, and I felt it to be a duty to give my friend the benefit of my knowledge before quitting this place—for ever!”

There was something so kind and touching in the tone of the managing director that Rose was quite drawn towards him, and felt as if she had actually done him an unkindness in refusing him.

“But,” continued her companion, “I can do nothing, Miss Ellis, without your assistance.”

“You shall have it,” said Rose earnestly; “for I would do anything that a woman might venture, to benefit my dear, dear uncle, and I feel assured that you would not ask me to do anything wrong or unwomanly.”

“I would not indeed,” answered Clearemout with emotion; “but the world is apt to misjudge in matters of delicacy. To ask you to meet me on the cliffs near Priest’s Cove, close to Cape Cornwall, to-night, would appear wrong in the eyes of the world.”

“And with justice,” said Rose quickly, with a look of mingled dignity and surprise.

“Nevertheless, this is absolutely needful, if we would accomplish the object in view. A friend, whom I know to be desirous of purchasing shares in the mine is to pass round the cape in his yacht this evening. The idea of offering these shares to him had not occurred to me when I wrote to say that I would meet him there. He cannot come up here, I know, but the stroke of a pen, with one of the family to witness it, will be sufficient.”

It was a bold stroke of fancy in the managing director to put the matter in such a ridiculously unbusinesslike light, but he counted much on Rose’s ignorance. As for poor Rose herself, she, knew not what to say or do at first, but when Clearemout heaved a sigh, and, with an expression of deep sadness on his countenance, rose to take leave, she allowed a generous impulse to sway her.

“Your answer, then, is—No,” said Clearemout, with deep pathos in his tone.

Now, it chanced that at this critical point in the conversation, Oliver Trembath, having left the cottage, walked over the grass towards a small gate, near which the bower stood. He unavoidably heard the question, and also the quick, earnest reply,—“My answer, Mr Clearemout, is—Yes. I will meet you this evening on the cliff.”

She frankly gave him her hand as she spoke, and he gallantly pressed it to his lips, an act which took Rose by surprise, and caused her to pull it away suddenly. She then turned and ran out at the side of the bower to seek the solitude of her own apartment, while Clearemout left it by the other side, and stood face to face with the spellbound Oliver.

To say that both gentlemen turned pale as their eyes met would not give an adequate idea of their appearance. Oliver’s heart, as well as his body, when he heard the question and reply, stood still as if he had been paralysed. This, then, he thought, was the end of all his hopes—hopes hardly admitted to himself, and never revealed to Rose, except in unstudied looks and tones. For a few moments his face grew absolutely livid, while he glared at his rival.

On the other hand, Mr Clearemout, believing that the whole of his conversation had been overheard, supposed that he had discovered all his villainy to one who was thoroughly able, as well as willing, to thwart him. For a moment he felt an almost irresistible impulse to spring on and slay his enemy; his face became dark with suppressed emotion; and it is quite possible that in the fury of his disappointed malice he might have attempted violence,—had not Oliver spoken. His voice was husky as he said,—“Chance, sir—unfortunate, miserable chance—led me to overhear the last few words that passed between you and—”

He paused, unable to say more. Instantly the truth flashed across Clearemout’s quick mind. He drew himself up boldly, and the blood returned to his face as he replied,—“If so, sir, you cannot but be aware that the lady’s choice is free, and that your aspect and attitude towards me are unworthy of a gentleman.”

A wonderful influence for weal or woe oft-times results from the selection of a phrase or a word. Had Clearemout charged Oliver with insolence or presumption, he would certainly have struck him to the ground; but the words “unworthy of a gentleman” created a revulsion in his feelings. Thought is swifter than light. He saw himself in the position of a disappointed man scowling on a successful rival who had done him no injury.

“Thank you, Clearemout. Your rebuke is merited,” he said bitterly; and, turning on his heel, he bounded over the low stone wall of the garden, and hastened away.

Whither he went he knew not. A fierce fire seemed to rage in his breast and burn in his brain. At first he walked at full speed, but as he cleared the town he ran—ran as he had never run before. For the time being he was absolutely mad. Over marsh and moor he sped, clearing all obstacles with a bound, and making straight for the Land’s End, with no definite purpose in view, for, after a time, he appeared to change his intention, if he had any. He turned sharp to the left, and ran straight to Penzance, never pausing in his mad career until he neared the town. The few labourers he chanced to pass on the way gazed after him in surprise, but he heeded not. At the cottage on the moor where he had bandaged the shoulder of the little boy a woman’s voice called loudly, anxiously after him, but he paid no attention. At last he came to a full stop, and, pressing both hands tightly over his forehead, made a terrible effort to collect his thoughts. He was partially successful, and, with somewhat of his wonted composure, walked rapidly into the town.

Chapter Thirty One.

Describes a Marred Plot, and tells of Retributive Justice.

Meanwhile the gossiping woman of the cottage on the moor, whose grateful heart had never forgotten the little kindness done to her boy by the young doctor, and who knew that the doctor loved Rose Ellis, more surely, perhaps, than Rose did herself, went off in a state of deep anxiety to St. Just, and, by dint of diligent inquiries and piecing of things together, coupled with her knowledge of Clearemout’s intentions, came to a pretty correct conclusion as to the state of affairs.

She then went to the abode of young Charles Tregarthen, whom she knew to be Oliver’s friend, and unbosomed herself. Charlie repaid her with more than thanks, and almost hugged her in his gratitude for her prompt activity.

“And now, Mrs Hicks,” said he, “you shall see how we will thwart this scoundrel. As for Oliver Trembath, I cannot imagine what could take him into Penzance in the wild state that you describe. Of course this affair has to do with it, and he evidently has learned something of this, and must have misunderstood the matter, else assuredly he had not been absent at such a time. But why go to Penzance? However, he will clear up the mystery ere long, no doubt. Meanwhile we shall proceed to thwart your schemes, good Mr Clearemout!”

So saying, Charlie Tregarthen set about laying his counter-plans. He also, as the managing director had done, visited several men, some of whom were miners and some smugglers, and arranged a meeting that evening near Cape Cornwall.

When evening drew on apace, four separate parties converged towards Priest’s Cove. First, a boat crept along shore propelled by four men and steered by Jim Cuttance. Secondly, six stout men crept stealthily down to the cove, led by Charlie Tregarthen, with Maggot as his second in command. Thirdly, Rose Ellis wended her way to the rendezvous with trembling step and beating heart; and, fourthly, George Augustus Clearemout moved in the same direction.

But the managing director moved faster than the others, having a longer way to travel, for, having had to pay a last visit to Wheal Dooem, he rode thence to St. Just. On the way he was particularly interested in a water-wheel which worked a pump, beside which a man in mining costume was seated smoking his pipe.

“Good-evening,” said Clearemout, reining up.

“Good-hevenin’, sur.”

“What does that pump?” asked the managing director, pointing to the wheel.

“That, sur?” said the miner, drawing a few whiffs from his pipe; “why, that do pump gold out o’ the Londoners, that do.”

The managing director chuckled very much, and said, “Indeed!”

“Iss, sur,” continued the miner, pointing to Wheal Dooem, “an’ that wan theere, up over hill, do the same thing.”

The managing director chuckled much more at this, and displayed his teeth largely as he nodded to the man and rode on.

Before his arrival at the rendezvous, the boat was run ashore not far from the spot where Tregarthen and his men were concealed. As soon as the men had landed, Charlie walked down to them alone and accosted their leader.

“Well, Cuttance, you’re a pretty fellow to put your finger in such a dirty pie as this.”

Cuttance had seen the approach of Tregarthen with surprise and some alarm.

“Well, sur,” said he, without any of the bold expression that usually characterised him, “what can a man do when he’s to be well paid for the job? I do confess that I don’t half like it, but, after all, what have we got to do weth the opinions of owld aunts or uncles? If a gurl do choose to go off wi’ the man she likes, that’s no matter to we, an’ if I be well paid for lendin’ a hand, why shouldn’t I? But it do puzzle me, Mr Tregarthen, to guess how yow did come to knaw of it.”

“That don’t signify,” said Tregarthen sternly. “Do you know who the girl is?”

“I don’t knaw, an’ I don’t care,” said Jim doggedly.

“What would you say if I told you it was Miss Rose Ellis?” said Charlie.

“I’d say thee was a liard,” replied Cuttance.

“Then I do tell you so.”

“Thee don’t mean that!” exclaimed the smuggler, with a blaze of amazement and wrath in his face.

“Indeed I do.”

“Whew!” whistled Jim, “then that do explain the reason why that smooth-tongued feller said he would car’ her to the boat close veiled up for fear the men should see her.”

A rapid consultation was now held by the two as to the proper mode of proceeding. Cuttance counselled an immediate capture of the culprit, and pitching him off the end of Cape Cornwall; but Tregarthen advised that they should wait until Clearemout seized his victim, otherwise they could not convict him, because he would deny any intention of evil against Rose, and pretend that some other girl, who had been scared away by their impetuosity, was concerned, for they might depend on it he’d get up a plausible story and defeat them.

Tregarthen’s plan was finally agreed to, and he returned to his men and explained matters.

Soon afterwards the managing director appeared coming down the road.

“Is all right?” he inquired of Cuttance, who went forward to meet him.

“All right, sur.”

“Go down to the boat then and wait,” he said, turning away.

Ere long he was joined by Rose, with whom he entered into conversation, leading her over the cape so as to get out of sight of the men, but young Tregarthen crept among the rocks and never for a moment lost sight of them. He saw Clearemout suddenly place a kerchief on Rose’s mouth, and, despite the poor girl’s struggles, tie it firmly so as to prevent her screaming, then he threw a large shawl over her, and catching her in his arms bore her swiftly towards the boat.

Tregarthen sprang up and confronted him.

Clearemout, astonished and maddened by this unexpected interference, shouted,—“Stand aside, sir! You have no interest in this matter, or right to interfere.”

Charlie made no reply, but sprang on him like a tiger. Clearemout dropped his burden and grappled with the youth, who threw him in an instant, big though he was, for Tregarthen was a practised wrestler, and the managing director was not. His great strength, however, enabled him to get on his knees, and there is no saying how the struggle might have terminated had not Cuttance come forward, and, putting his hard hands round Clearemout’s throat, caused that gentleman’s face to grow black, and his tongue and eyes to protrude. Having thus induced him to submit, he eased off the necklace, and assisted him to rise, while the men of both parties crowded round.

“Now, then, boys,” cried Jim Cuttance, “bear a hand, one and all, and into the say with him.”

The managing director was at once knocked off his legs, and borne shoulder-high down to the beach by as many hands as could lay hold of him. Here they paused:—

“All together, boys—one—two—ho!”

At the word the unfortunate man was shot, by strong and willing arms, into the air like a bombshell, and fell into the water with a splash that was not unlike an explosion.

Clearemout was a good swimmer. When he came to the surface he raised himself, and, clearing the water from his eyes, glanced round. Even in that extremity the quickness and self-possession of the man did not forsake him. He perceived, at a glance, that the boat which, in the excitement of the capture, had been left by all the men, had floated off with the receding tide, and now lay a short distance from the shore.

At once he struck out for it. There was a shout of consternation and a rush to the water’s edge. Maggot shot far ahead of the others, plunged into the sea, and swam off. Observing this, and knowing well the courage and daring of the man, the rest stopped on the shore to witness the result.

Clearemout reached the boat first, but, owing to exhaustion, was unable to raise himself into it. Maggot soon came up and grasped him by the throat, both men managed to get their arms over the gunwale, but in their struggle upset the boat and were separated. Clearemout then made for the shore with the intention of giving himself up, and Maggot followed, but he was not equal in swimming to the managing director, whose long steady strokes easily took him beyond the reach of his pursuer. He reached the shore, and stalked slowly out of the water. At the same moment Maggot sank and disappeared.

The consternation of his comrades was so great that in the confusion their prisoner was unheeded. Some sprang into the sea and dived after Maggot; others swam to the boat, intending to right it and get the boat-hooks.

Suddenly those who had remained on the beach observed something creep out of the sea near to some rocks a little to the right of the place where they stood. They ran towards it.

“Hallo! is that you, old Maggot?” they cried.

It was indeed the valiant smith himself! How he got there no one ever knew, nor could himself tell. It was conjectured that he must have become partially exhausted, and, after sinking, had crept along the bottom to the shore! However, be that as it may, there he was, lying with his arm lovingly round a rock, and the first thing he said on looking up was,—“Aw! my dear men, has any of ’ee got a chaw of baccy about ’ee?”

This was of course received with a shout of laughter, and unlimited offers of quids while they assisted him to rise.

Meanwhile Tregarthen was attending to Rose, who had swooned when Clearemout dropped her. He also kept a watch over the prisoner, who, however, showed no intention of attempting to escape, but sat on a stone with his face buried in his hands.

The men soon turned their attention to him again, and some of the more violent were advancing to seize him, with many terrible threats of further vengeance, when Rose ran between them, and entreated them to spare him.

Tregarthen seconded the proposal, and urged that as he had got pretty severe punishment already, they should set him free. This being agreed to, Charlie turned to the managing director, and said, with a look of pity, “You may go, sir, but, be assured, it is not for your own sake that we let you off. You know pretty well what the result would be if we chose to deliver you up to justice; we care more, however, for the feelings of this lady—whose name would be unavoidably and disagreeably brought before the public at the trial—than we care for your getting your merited reward. But, mark me, if you ever open your lips on the subject, you shall not escape us.”

“Iss,” added Jim Cuttance, “ann remember, you chucklehead, that if you do write or utter wan word ’bout it, after gettin’ back to London, there are here twelve Cornish men who will never rest till they have flayed thee alive!”

“You need have no fear,” said Clearemout with a bitter smile, as he turned and walked away, followed by a groan from the whole party.

“Now, lads,” said Cuttance after he was gone, “not wan word of this must ever be breathed, and we’ll howld ’ee responsible, David Hicks, for t’ wife’s tongue; dost a hear?”

This was agreed to by all, and, to the credit of these honest smugglers, and of Mrs Hicks, be it said, that not a syllable about the incident was ever heard of in the parish of St. Just from that day to this!

Chapter Thirty Two.

Touches on Love and on Pilchard Fishing.

There can be no doubt that “Fortune favours the brave,” and Maggot was one of those braves whom, about this time, she took special delight in favouring.

Wild and apparently reckless though he was, Maggot had long cherished an ambitious hope, and had for some time past been laying by money for the purpose of accomplishing his object, which was the procuring of a seine-net and boats for the pilchard fishery. The recent successes he had met with in Botallack enabled him to achieve his aim more rapidly than he had anticipated, and on the day following that in which Clearemout received his deserts, he went to Penberth Cove to see that all was in readiness, for pilchards had recently appeared off the coast in small shoals.

That same day Oliver Trembath, having spent a night of misery in Penzance, made up his mind to return to St. Just and face his fate like a man; but he found it so difficult to carry this resolve into effect that he diverged from the highroad—as he had done on his first memorable visit to that region—and, without knowing very well why, sauntered in a very unenviable frame of mind towards Penberth Cove.

Old Mr Donnithorne possessed a pretty villa near the cove, to which he was wont to migrate when Mrs D felt a desire for change of air, and in which he frequently entertained large parties of friends in the summer season. In his heart poor Mr Donnithorne had condemned this villa “to the hammer,” but the improved appearance of things in the mines had induced him to suspend the execution of the sentence. News of the appearance of pilchards, and a desire to give Rose a change after her late adventure, induced Mr Donnithorne to hire a phaeton (he had recently parted with his own) and drive over to Penberth.

Arrived there, he sauntered down to the cove to look after his nets—for he dabbled in pilchard fishing as well as in other matters—and Rose went off to have a quiet, solitary walk.

Thus it came to pass that she and Oliver Trembath suddenly met in a lonely part of the road between Penberth and Penzance. Ah, those sudden and unexpected meetings! How pleasant they are, and how well every one who has had them remembers them!

“Miss Ellis!” exclaimed Oliver in surprise.

“Mr Trembath!” exclaimed Rose in amazement.

You see, reader, how polite they were, but you can neither see nor conceive how great was the effort made by each to conceal the tumult that agitated the breast and flushed the countenance, while the tongue was thus ably controlled. It did not last long, however. Oliver, being thrown off his guard, asked a number of confused questions, and Rose, in her somewhat irrelevant replies, happened to make some reference to “that villain Clearemout.”

“Villain?” echoed Oliver in undisguised amazement.

“The villain,” repeated Rose, with a flushed face and flashing eye.

“What? why? how?—really, excuse me, Miss Ellis—I—I—the villain—Clearemout—you don’t—”

There is no saying how many more ridiculous exclamations Oliver might have made had not Rose suddenly said,—“Surely, Mr Trembath, you have heard of his villainy?”

“No, never; not a word. Pray do tell me, Miss Ellis.”

Rose at once related the circumstances of her late adventure, with much indignation in her tone and many a blush on her brow.

Before she had half done, Oliver’s powers of restraint gave way.

“Then you never loved him?” he exclaimed.

“Loved him, sir! I do not understand—”

“Forgive me, Rose; I mean—I didn’t imagine—that is to say—oh! Rose, can it be—is it possible—my dear girl!”

He seized her hand at this point, and—but really, reader, why should we go on? Is it not something like a violation of good taste to be too particular here? Is it not sufficient to say that old Mr Donnithorne came suddenly, and of course unexpectedly, on them at that critical juncture, rendering it necessary for Rose to burst away and hide her blushing face on her uncle’s shoulder, while Oliver, utterly overwhelmed, turned and walked (we won’t say fled) at full speed in the direction of the cove.

Here he found things in a condition that was admirably suited to the state of his feelings. The fishermen of the cove were in a state of wild excitement, for an enormous shoal of pilchards had been enclosed in the seine-nets, and Maggot with his men, as well as the people employed by Mr Donnithorne, were as much over head and ears in fishing as Oliver was in love. Do you ask, “Why all this excitement?” We will tell you.

The pilchard fishing is to the Cornish fisherman what the harvest is to the husbandman, but this harvest of the sea is not the result of prolonged labour, care, and wisdom. It comes to him in a night. It may last only a few days, or weeks. Sometimes it fails altogether. During these days of sunshine he must toil with unwonted energy. There is no rest for him while the season lasts if he would not miss his opportunity. The pilchard is a little fish resembling a small herring. It visits the southern coasts of England in autumn and winter, and the shoals are so enormous as to defy calculation or description. When they arrive on the coast, “huers”—sharp-sighted men—are stationed on the cliffs to direct the boatmen when to go out and where to shoot their seine-nets. When these are shot, millions of pilchards are often enclosed in a single net.

To give an idea of the numbers of fish and the extent of the fishing, in a few words, we may state the fact that, in 1834, one shoal of great depth, and nearly a mile broad, extended from Hayle River to St. Ives, a distance of two and a half miles. A seine was shot into this mass, and 3,600 hogsheads were carried to the curing cellars. As there are 3,000 pilchards in each hogshead, the catch amounted to nearly eleven million fish! The value of these might be 3 pounds a hogshead, and the clear profit about 1 pound a hogshead, so that it is no wonder we hear of fortunes having been made in a few hauls of the pilchard seines. At the same time, losses are sometimes very heavy, owing to gales arising and breaking or carrying away the nets. Such facts, combined with the uncertainty of the arrival or continuance of the fish on any particular part of the coast, tend to induce that spirit of eager, anxious excitement to which we have referred as being so congenial to Oliver Trembath’s state of mind at the time of which we write.

On the beach the young doctor found Maggot and his men launching their boats, and of course he lent them a hand.

“Pilchards been seen?” he inquired.

“Iss, iss, doctor,” was the smith’s curt reply; “jump in, an’ go ’long with us.”

Oliver accepted the invitation, and was rowed towards a part of the bay where the sea appeared to be boiling. The boat was a large one, attended by several others of smaller dimensions. The boiling spot being reached, Maggot, whose whole being was in a blaze of enthusiasm, leaped up and seized the end of a seine-net—three hundred fathoms long by fourteen deep—which he began to throw overboard with the utmost energy, while the boat was rowed swiftly round the mass of fish. David Trevarrow assisted him, and in less than four minutes the whole net was in the sea. One of the other boats, meanwhile, had fastened another net to the first, and, rowing in an opposite direction from it, progressed in a circular course, dropping its net as it went, until the two met—and thus an immense shoal of pilchards were enclosed.

The nets being floated on the surface with corks, and their lower ends sunk to the bottom with leads, the fish were thus securely imprisoned. But the security was not great; a gale might arise which would sweep away the whole concern, or the pilchards might take a fancy to make a dash in one particular direction, in the event of which they would certainly burst the net, and no human power could save a single fin. In order to prevent this, the men in the smaller boats rowed round the seine, beat the sea with their oars, hallooed, and otherwise exerted themselves to keep the fish in the centre of the enclosure. Meanwhile a little boat entered within the circle, having a small net, named a “tuck-net,” which was spread round the seine, inside, and gradually drawn together, until the fish were raised towards the surface in a solid, sweltering mass. The excitement at this point became tremendous. Thousands of silvery fish leaped, vaulted, and fluttered in a seething mass on the sea. Maggot roared and yelled his orders like a Stentor. Even mild David Trevarrow lost self-command, and shouted vociferously.

“Hand the basket!” cried Maggot.

A large basket, with a rope attached to one handle, was produced. Maggot seized the other handle, and thrust it down among the wriggling pilchards. Trevarrow hauled on the rope, lifted the basket out of the sea, and a cataract of living silver was shot into the boat, accompanied by a mighty cheer. Basketful after basketful followed, until the men stood leg-deep in fish.

“Hold on a bit!” cried Maggot, as, with rolled-up sleeves, dishevelled hair, and glaring eyes, he threw one leg over the side of the boat, the more easily to continue his work.

“Have a care,” cried Oliver at that moment, stretching out his hand; but he was too late. The excitable smith had overbalanced himself, and was already head and shoulders deep down among the pilchards, which sprang high over him, as if in triumph!

To catch him by the legs, and pull him back into the boat, was the work of a moment, but the proceedings were not interrupted by the mishap. A laugh greeted the smith as he was turned head up, and immediately he braced himself to his arduous labour with renewed energy.

The boat filled, it was rowed to the shore, and here was received by eager and noisy men, women, and children, by whom the precious contents were carried to the “cellars,” or salting-houses, where they were packed in the neatest possible piles, layer on layer, heads and tails, with a sprinkling of salt between.

Maggot’s family had followed him to Penberth. Mrs M was there, busy as a bee—so was Zackey, so was little Grace, and so was the baby. They all worked like Trojans, the only difference between baby Maggot and the others being, that, while they did as much work as in them lay, he undid as much as possible; was in every one’s way; fell over and into everything, including the sea, and, generally, fulfilled his mission of mischief-maker with credit. The chet was there too! Baby Maggot had decreed that it should accompany him, so there it was, living on pilchards, and dragging out its harassed existence in the usual way. What between salt food, and play, kicks, cuffs, capers, and gluttony, its aspect at that time was more demoniacal, perhaps, than that of any other chet between John o’ Groat’s and the Land’s End.

Volumes would scarcely contain all that might be written about this wonderful scene, but enough has been said to indicate the process whereby Maggot secured and salted some hundreds of thousands of pilchards. The enclosing of the fish was the result of a few minutes’ work, but the salting and packing were not ended for many days. The result, however, was that the lucky smith sent many hogsheads of pilchards the way of most Cornish fish—namely, to the Mediterranean, for consumption by Roman Catholics, and in due course he received the proceeds, to the extent of three thousand pounds.

Thus did Maggot auspiciously begin the making of his fortune—which was originated and finally completed by his successful mining operations at Botallack.

And let it be observed here, that he was neither the first nor the last poor man who became prosperous and wealthy by similar means. There are men, not a few, now alive in Cornwall, who began with hammer and pick, and who now can afford to drink in champagne, out of a golden flagon, the good old Cornish toast—“Fish, tin, and copper.”

Chapter Thirty Three.

The Last.

Many others as well as Maggot made money by the pilchards at that time. All round the coast of Cornwall millions of these little fish were taken, salted, and exported. No fewer than one thousand hogsheads were taken at St. Ives in the first three seine-nets cast into the sea. In Mounts Bay, Fowey Bay, Mevagissey, and other fishing grounds, immense quantities were caught, and the total catch of the county was little if at all short of thirty thousand hogsheads.

Among others, old Mr Donnithorne was so successful that his broken fortunes were almost re-established; and a small sum which our friend Oliver Trembath had ventured to invest in the fishing was more than quadrupled before the end of the year.

But this was not all. At the next Botallack account-dinner, Mr Cornish gladdened the hearts of the adventurers by telling them that the lodes which had been “promising” for such a length of time had at last got the length of “performance,” and that he had now the pleasure of announcing a large dividend, which he paid there and then.

A considerable share of this fell to old Mr Donnithorne, who, in the enthusiasm of the occasion, observed confidentially to Captain Dan that he was convinced “honesty was the best policy after all”—a sentiment which the captain heartily agreed with, although he failed to detect the precise connection between it and the old gentleman’s sudden influx of good fortune. But, then, the captain did not drink Botallack punch, while old Mr Donnithorne did, which may to some extent account for the difference in their powers of vision.

Captain Dan, however, possessed wonderful powers of vision in reference to the underground workings of Botallack, which were displayed to advantage—and to the great gratification of the shareholders—when, at the request of Mr Cornish, he stood up and gave a detailed and graphic account of the prospects of the mine; telling them that the appearance of the lodes in several parts of the mine was very promising indeed, and that some ground was returning a rich harvest for the labour that had been bestowed on it; that in the 105, which was driving north by six men, they had taken down the copper for fourteen fathoms long, nearly the whole of which had turned out to be worth 100 pounds per fathom; that a splice had been formed in the lode about two fathoms behind the present end, which had disordered it, but he was glad to say it was again improving, and was at that time about fifteen inches wide of rich copper, and, as far as he could judge, they were going through to the top part of the “bunch” of copper; that these facts, he thought, were very satisfactory, but that it was still more gratifying to know that the lode on the bottom of the 105 was far more valuable than that in the back; that in the “Crowns,” especially in the various levels under the sea, the lodes were not only “promising,” but performing great things, two men and a boy (he referred to Maggot, Trevarrow, and Zackey here) having broken an immense quantity of copper during the last quarter, which was paying splendidly.

At this point, Mr Grenfell, who sat on Mr Cornish’s right hand, exclaimed, “Hear! hear!” and a little bald-headed man, with a red nose and blue spectacles, near the foot of the table, echoed “Hear!” with genuine enthusiasm (for he had been bordering on bankruptcy for some months past), and swigged off a full glass of punch without winking.

Thus encouraged, Captain Dan went on to remark that there were six men driving in Wheal Hazzard (which statement caused a “stranger” who chanced to be at the dinner to observe, in an undertone, that he was not aware they had horses or vehicles of any kind in the mines!), that one cross-cut was also being driven, and three winzes were sinking, and one rise—several of which were opening up tin of first-rate quality, while in the Narrow shaft, Chicornish, Higher Mine, and Wheal Cock, a great deal to the same effect was being done—all of which we leave to the imagination of the reader, merely remarking that however incomprehensible these things may appear to him (or her), they created feelings of profound joy in the assembled guests, especially in the breast of the almost bankrupt one with the bald, red, and blue headpiece.

Mr Cornish afterwards congratulated the adventurers on the success of the mine, and the splendid prospects which were opening up to them—prospects which, he had no doubt, would be fully realised ere long. He referred also to the condition of the miners of the neighbourhood, and alluded to the fact that the neighbouring mines, Wheal Owles and Levant, were also in a flourishing condition; a matter, he said, for which they had reason to be profoundly thankful, for the distress in the district had been severe and prolonged. The manager’s voice deepened at this point, and he spoke with pathos, for he had a kindly heart, and his thoughts were at the moment with many a poor miner, in whose little cottages the effects of gaunt poverty could be traced in scanty furniture, meagre fare, and careworn brows. He remembered, too, that only the week before he had seen poor blind John Batten carried to his grave, and had heard the sobs of the bereaved widow, as she attempted to tell him how the brave man had forgotten himself to the very last, when he put his wasted hand on her head, and said, “I’m goin’ to leave thee, Mary, for a time; but cheer up, dear lass, I’ll be with Jesus soon, an’ have my sight restored, and look wance more ’pon the faces of the dear boys, an’ ’pon your own sweet face too, dear lass, when we meet again in heaven.”

There was one of the miners and shareholders of Botallack who did not die, but who lived to enjoy the fruit of his labour and the sunshine of prosperity. James Penrose recovered—not only his health, but also, in some degree, his sight. One of his eyes had indeed been entirely destroyed by the explosion which had so nearly killed him, but the other was partially restored. A long period elapsed, however, ere he was able to go about. Then he found his circumstances so much improved that it was not necessary to resume work underground. Botallack, in which all his savings had been invested, continued steadily to improve, and from the income derived from this source alone he was enabled to live without labouring. But Penrose was not the man to sit down in idleness. Wesley never had a more earnest follower than this miner of St. Just. Thenceforth he devoted himself to preaching, teaching, and doing good as his hand found opportunity, and, being an active man as well as conscientious, he laboured to the end of his days in the service of his Lord more energetically than he had ever toiled in the mines.

Penrose and David Trevarrow had always been staunch friends. After the accident to the former, they became more closely united than before. Trevarrow did not give up underground work; he possessed no shares in any of the mines, but, in common with the rest of the mining community, he benefited by the sunshine of prosperity that became so bright at that period, and found leisure, when above ground, to join his friend in his labours of love.

They both agreed to make an earnest effort to convince Maggot and John Cock of the error of their ways—with what amount of success it is not easy to state, for these worthies were made of stubborn metal, that required a furnace of unusually fierce heat to melt it. However, we are warranted in concluding that some good was done, from the fact that both of them gave up smuggling, and, in various other ways, showed indication of an improved state of mind. Maggot especially gave a signal and unexpected proof of a softened spirit, when, one Sunday morning, as he was getting ready for chapel, he said to his wife that it was “high time to send that little chucklehead the baby to Sunday school, for he was no better than a small heathen!” The “baby,” be it observed, was about six years old at the time when this speech was made, and his protégé the “chet” was a great-grandmother, with innumerable chets of her own. It is right to add that, in accordance with this opinion of his father, the baby was carried off to school that very morning by Zackey and Grace, the first having grown to be a strapping youth, and the other a lovely girl, for whose sake there were scores of young miners in St. Just who would gladly have walked ten miles on their bare knees, or dived head foremost into Wheal Hazzard shaft, or jumped over the cliffs into Zawn Buzzangein, or done any other insane act or desperate deed, if, by so doing, they could have caused one thrill of pleasure to pass through her dear little heart!

It is not necessary, we should think, to say that in the midst of so much sunshine Oliver Trembath and Rose Ellis thought it advisable to “make hay.” Old Mr Donnithorne and his excellent wife (of whose goodness and wisdom, by the way, he became more and more convinced every day of his life) saw no objection whatever to this hay-making—so the young couple were wed at the Wesleyan Chapel of St. Just—Charlie Tregarthen, of course, being groomsman—and the only vehicle in the town was hired to drive them over to Penberth Cove and bliss!

As to George Augustus Clearemout, Esquire—that able managing director, despite his ducking at St. Just, continued to fill his chair and to fulfil his destiny in the airy little street in London, where, for many years, he represented Wheal Dooem, and “did” a too confiding public. In this work he was ably assisted by Secretary Jack Muddle, who became quite celebrated as a clear expounder and explainer of veins, lodes, ores, cross-cuts, shafts, levels, winzes, minerals, metals, and mines—insomuch that he was regarded by many of the confiding public who frequented his office as a more thoroughly learned and scientific man than George Augustus himself. It is interesting, how ever, to have to record the curious fact that the too confiding public changed their opinion at last on this head, and came to regard Secretary Jack as a humbug, and the managing director as a scoundrel. Unfortunately this change of opinion did not take place until the whole of the too confiding public (the T.C.P., as Clearemout styled them) had lost large sums of money, and a few of them become bankrupt. When affairs had reached this crisis, one of the T.C.P.—an irascible old gentleman, whose fiery nature seemed to have singed all the hair off his head, leaving it completely bald—went down to Cornwall in a passion to sift the thing for himself. There he found the Great Wheal Dooem pump-engine going full swing, day and night, under the superintendence of one man, while the vast works underground (on which depended the “enormous” dividends promised to and expected by the T.C.P.) were carried on by another man and a boy. On making this discovery the fiery old gentleman with the denuded head left Cornwall—still in a passion—and exploded in the face of a meeting of the members of the T.C.P., who immediately exploded in each other’s faces, and appointed an indignation committee to go and explode, with unexampled fury, in the faces of the managing director and Secretary Jack. But these knowing gentlemen, being aware that the explosion was coming, had wisely betaken themselves to the retirement and seclusion of the Continent.

Without troubling the reader with further particulars, we may say, in conclusion, that the result was the stoppage of Wheal Dooem mining operations, and the summary dismissal of the two men and the boy. At the present day the ruins of that great concern may be seen standing on the wild sea-cliffs of west Cornwall, solitary, gaunt, and grey, with the iron “bob” of the pump-engine motionless and pointing up obliquely to the sky, as if the giant arm of the mine were upraised to protest for ever against the villainy and the too confiding folly that had left it standing there—a monument of wasted and misdirected energy—a caution to all speculators—a deserted mine—in the language of miners, a “knacked bal.”

There are many such “knacked bals” in Cornwall, with their iron “bobs”—horizontal, depressed, or raised aloft, according to the attitude in which they expired—holding forth similar firm, silent, and perpetual protests and cautions. Many Wheal Dooems (which having accomplished their ends may now be termed Wheal Donems) are to be seen all over the country on gorse-clad hills and on bold headlands; but, alongside of these, may be seen their venerable ancestors, still alive and working; subject, indeed, at times, to fits of depression, when, as their indomitable and unconquerable managers will tell you, “the price of tin is low,” and subject also to seasons of revival, when they are getting a “little better price for tin,” but still working on with untiring persistency whether the price of tin be high or low.

Chief among these, our chosen type, Botallack, may be seen bristling on the grey cliffs of the “far west” with the Atlantic winds and spray revelling amongst its machinery, and the thunder of its stamps giving constant token that hundreds of stout-hearted, strong-limbed Cornishmen are still hewing out tin and copper from its gloomy depths, as they did in days gone by, and as they will, doubtless, continue to do in time to come—steadily, sternly, manfully doing their work of sinking and extending the mine deeper down under the sod and further out under the sea.

The End.

ENDNOTES

NOTE 1. It may be well here to inform the reader that the finding of the jewels as here described, and the consequences which followed, are founded on fact.

NOTE 2. The packmen are so styled because of their visits being paid fortnightly.

NOTE 3. Reader, allow us to remark that this is a fact. Indeed, we may say here, once for all, that all the important statements and incidents in this tale are facts, or founded on facts, with considerable modification, but without intentional exaggeration.

NOTE 4. It has been stated to us recently by a volunteer officer, that at battalion parade, when companies were equalised in numbers, the companies formed by the men of St. Just required about four paces more space to stand upon than the other volunteers. No one who visits a St. Just miner at his underground toil will require to ask the reason why.

Chapter One.

How the Fight Began.

One’s own fireside is, to all well-regulated minds, a pleasant subject of contemplation when one is absent, and a source of deep gratification when present.

Especially may this be said to be the case in a cold, raw night in November, when mankind has a tendency to become chronically cross out of doors, and nature, generally, looks lugubrious; for, just in proportion as the exterior world grows miserably chill, the world “at home,” with its blazing gas, its drawn curtains, its crackling fires, and its beaming smiles, becomes doubly comfortable and cosy.

Even James Auberly, pompous, stern, and ungenial though he was, appeared to entertain some such thoughts, as he sat by his own fireside, one such night, in his elegant mansion in Beverly Square, Euston Road, London; and smiled grimly over the top of the Times newspaper at the fire.

Mr Auberly always smiled—when he condescended to smile—grimly. He seldom laughed; when he did so he did it grimly too. In fact, he was a grim man altogether; a gaunt, cadaverous, tall, careworn, middle-aged man—also a great one. There could be no question as to that; for, besides being possessed of wealth, which, in the opinion of some minds, constitutes greatness, he was chairman of a railway company, and might have changed situations with the charwoman who attended the head office of the same without much difference being felt. He was also a director of several other companies, which, fortunately for them, did not appear to require much direction in the conduct of their affairs.

Mr Auberly was also leader of the fashion, in his own circle, and an oracle among his own parasites; but, strange to say, he was nobody whatever in any other sphere. Cabmen, it is true, appeared to have an immense respect for him on first acquaintance, for his gold rings and chains bespoke wealth, and he was a man of commanding presence, but their respect never outlived a first engagement. Cabmen seldom touched their hats to Mr Auberly on receiving their fare; they often parted from him with a smile as grim as his own, and once a peculiarly daring member of the fraternity was heard blandly to request him to step again into the cab, and he would drive him the “nine hundred and ninety-ninth part of an inch that was still doo on the odd sixpence.” That generous man even went further, and, when his fare walked away without making a reply, he shouted after him that “if he’d only do ’im the honour to come back, he’d throw in a inch an’ a half extra for nothink.” But Mr Auberly was inexorable.

“Louisa, dear,” said Mr Auberly, recovering from the grim smile which had indicated his appreciation of his own fireside, “pour me out another cup of coffee, and then you had better run away to bed. It is getting late.”

“Yes, papa,” replied a little dark-eyed, dark-haired girl, laying down her book and jumping up to obey the command.

It may be added that she was also dark-dressed, for Mr Auberly had become a widower and his child motherless only six months before.

While Louisa was pouring out the coffee, her father rose and turned his back to the fire.

It was really interesting, almost awe-inspiring, to behold Mr Auberly rise; he was so very tall, and so exceedingly straight. So remarkably perpendicular was he, so rigidly upright, that a hearty but somewhat rude sea-captain, with whom he once had business transactions, said to his mate on one occasion that he believed Mr Auberly must have been born with a handspike lashed to his backbone. Yes, he was wonderfully upright, and it would have been downright madness to have doubted the uprightness of the spirit which dwelt in such a body; so nobody did doubt it, of course, except a few jaundiced and sceptical folk, who never could be got to believe anything.

“Good-night, my love,” said Mr Auberly, as the child placed the coffee beside his chair, and then advanced, somewhat timidly, and held up her cheek to be kissed.

The upright man stooped, and there was a shade less of grimness in his smile as his lips touched his daughter’s pale cheek.

Louisa, or, to use the name by which she was better known in the house, Loo, had clasped her hands tightly together while she was in the act of receiving this tribute of parental affection, as if she were struggling to crush down some feeling, but the feeling, whatever it was, would not be crushed down; it rose up and asserted itself by causing Loo to burst into a passionate flood of tears, throw her arms round her father’s neck, and hold him tight there while she kissed his cheek all over.

“Tut, tut, child!” exclaimed Mr Auberly, endeavouring to re-arrange the stiff collar and cravat, which had been sadly disordered; “you must really try to get over these—there, don’t be cast down,” he added, in a kinder tone, patting Loo’s head. “Good-night, dear; run away to bed now, and be a good girl.”

Loo smiled faintly through her tears as she looked up at her father, who had again become upright, said “Good-night,” and ran from the room with a degree of energy that might have been the result of exuberant spirits, though possibly it was caused by some other feeling.

Mr Auberly sat for some time, dividing his attentions pretty equally between the paper, the fire, and the coffee, until he recollected having received a letter that day which he had forgotten to answer, whereupon he rose and sat down before his writing-table to reply.

The letter was from a poor widow, a sister-in-law of his own, who had disgraced herself for ever—at least in Mr Auberly’s eyes—by having married a waterman. Mr Auberly shut his eyes obstinately to the fact that the said waterman had, by the sheer force of intelligence, good conduct, courage, and perseverance, raised himself to the command of an East Indiaman. It is astonishing how firmly some people can shut their eyes—sew them up, as it were, and plaster them over—to some things, and how easily they can open them to others! Mr Auberly’s eyes were open only to the fact that his sister-in-law had married a waterman, and that that was an unpardonable sin, for which she was for ever banished from the sunshine of his presence.

The widow’s letter set forth that since her husband’s death she had been in somewhat poor circumstances—though not in absolute poverty—for which she expressed herself thankful; that she did not write to ask for money, but that she had a young son—a boy of about twelve—whom she was very anxious to get into a mercantile house of some sort, and, knowing his great influence, etcetera, etcetera, she hoped that, forgetting, if not forgiving, the past, now that her husband was dead, he would kindly do what he could, etcetera, etcetera.

To this Mr Auberly replied that it was impossible to forgive the past, but he would do his best to forget it, and also to procure a situation for her son (though certainly not in his own office), on one consideration, namely, that she, the widow, should forget the past also—including his own, Mr Auberly’s, existence (as she had once before promised to do), and that she should never inform her son, or any other member of her family—if there happened to be any others members of it—of the relationship existing between them, nor apply to him by visit or by letter for any further favours. In the event of her agreeing to this arrangement, she might send her son to his residence in Beverly Square, on Thursday next, between eleven and twelve.

Just as he concluded this letter a footman entered softly and laid a three-cornered note on the table.

“Stay, Hopkins, I want you,” said Mr Auberly, as he opened the note and ran his eye over it.

Hopkins, who was clad in blue velvet and white stockings, stood like a mute beside his master’s chair. He was very tall and very thin, and very red in the nose.

“Is the young woman waiting, Hopkins?”

“Yes, sir; she’s in the lobby.”

“Send her up.”

In a few seconds Hopkins reopened the door, and looked down with majestic condescension on a smart young girl whom he ushered into the room.

“That will do; you may go—stay, post this letter. Come here, young woman.”

The young woman, who was evidently a respectable servant-girl, approached with some timidity.

“Your name is Matty Merryon, I understand (yes, sir), at least so your late mistress, Miss Tippet, informs me. Pray, what does Matty stand for?”

“Martha, sir.”

“Well, Martha, Miss Tippet gives you a very good character—which is well, because I intend you to be servant to my child—her maid; but Miss Tippet qualifies her remarks by saying that you are a little careless in some things. What things are you careless in?”

“La! sir—”

“You must not say ‘La!’ my girl,” interrupted Mr Auberly with a frown, “nor use exclamations of any kind in my presence; what are the ‘some things’ referred to?”

“Sure I don’t know, sir,” said the abashed Matty. “I s’pose there’s a-many things I ain’t very good at; but, please, sir, I don’t mean to do nothin’ wrong, sir, I don’t indeed; an’ I’ll try to serve you well, sir, if it wor only to plaaze my missis, as I’m leavin’ against my will, for I love my—”

“There, that will do,” said Mr Auberly somewhat sternly, as the girl appeared to be getting excited.

“Ring that bell; now, go downstairs and Hopkins will introduce you to my housekeeper, who will explain your duties to you.”

Hopkins entered and solemnly marched Martha Merryon to the regions below.

Mr Auberly locked away his papers, pulled out his watch, wound it up, and then, lighting a bedroom candle, proceeded with much gravity upstairs.

He was a very stately-looking man, and strikingly dignified as he walked upstairs to his bedroom—slowly and deliberately, as though he were marching at his own funeral to the tune of something even deader than the “Dead March in Saul.”

It is almost a violation of propriety to think of Mr Auberly doing such a very undignified thing as “going to bed!” Yet truth requires us to tell that he did it; that he undressed himself as other mortals do; that he clothed himself in the wonted ghostly garment; and that, when his head was last seen—in the act of closing the curtains around him—there was a conical white cap on it, tied with a string below the chin, and ornamented on the top with a little tassel, which waggled as though it were bidding a triumphant and final adieu to human dignity!

Half an hour later, Mrs Rose, the housekeeper, a matronly, good-looking woman, with very red cheeks, was busy in the study explaining to Matty Merryon her duties. She had already shown her all over the house, and was now at the concluding lesson.

“Look here now, Merryon,” began the housekeeper.

“Oh, please don’t call me Merryon—I ain’t used to it. Call me Matty, do now!”

“Very well, Matty,” continued Mrs Rose, with a smile, “I’ve no objection; you Irish are a strange race! Now, look here. This is master’s study, and mind, he’s very partikler, dreadful partikler.”

She paused and looked at her pupil, as if desirous of impressing this point deeply on her memory.

“He don’t like his papers or books touched; not even dusted! So you’ll be careful not to dust ’em, nor to touch ’em even so much as with your little finger, for he likes to find ’em in the mornin’ just as he left ’em at night.”

“Yes, Mrs Rose,” said Matty, who was evidently giving up her whole soul to the instruction that was being imparted.

“Now,” continued the housekeeper, “the arranging of this room will be your last piece of work at night. You’ll just come in, rake out the grate, carry off the ashes, lay the noo fire, put the matches handy on the chimney-piece, look round to see that all’s right, and then turn off the gas. The master is a early riser, and lights the fire his-self of a mornin’.”

“Yes, ’m,” said Matty, with a courtesy.

“Now, go and do it,” said Mrs Rose, “that I may see you understand it. Begin with the grate an’ the ashes.”

Matty, who was in truth an experienced maid-of-all-work, began with alacrity to discharge the duties of her new station. She carried off the ashes, and returned with the materials for next day’s fire in a shovel. Here she gave a slight indication of her so-called carelessness (awkwardness would have been more appropriate) by letting two or three pieces of stick and a bit of coal fall on the carpet, in her passage across the room.

“Be careful, Matty,” said Mrs Rose gently. “It’s all owin’ to haste. Take your time, an’ you won’t do such things.”

Matty apologised, picked up the materials, and laid the fire. Then she took her apron and approached the writing-table, evidently with the intention of taking the dust off the corners, but not by any means intending to touch the books or papers.

“Stop!” cried Mrs Rose sternly.

Matty stopped with a guilty look.

“Not a touch,” said Mrs Rose.

“Not even the edges, nor the legs?” inquired the pupil.

“Neither edges nor legs,” said the instructor.

“Sure it could do no harm.”

“Matty,” said Mrs Rose solemnly, “the great thing that your countrywomen have to learn is obedience.”

“Thank ’ee, ’m,” said Matty, who, being overawed by the housekeeper’s solemnity, felt confused, and was uncertain whether the reference to her countrywomen was complimentary or the reverse.

“Now,” continued Mrs Rose, “the matches.”

Matty placed the box of matches on the chimney-piece.

“Very well; now you’ve got to look round to see that all’s right.”

Matty looked round on the dark portraits that covered the walls (supposed to be ancestors), on the shelves of books, great and small, new and old (supposed to be read); on the vases, statuettes, chairs, tables, desks, curtains, papers, etcetera, etcetera, and, being utterly ignorant of what constituted right and what wrong in reference to such things, finally turned her eyes on Mrs Rose with an innocent smile.

“Don’t you see that the shutters are neither shut nor barred, Matty?”

She had not seen this, but she at once went and closed and barred them, in which operation she learned, first, that the bars refused to receive their respective “catches,” with unyielding obstinacy for some time; and, second, that they suddenly gave in without rhyme or reason and pinched her fingers severely.

“Now then, what next?” inquired Mrs Rose.

“Put out the gas,” suggested Matty.

“And leave yourself in the dark,” said the housekeeper, in a tone of playful irony.

“Ah! sure, didn’t I forgit the candle!”

In order to rectify this oversight, Matty laid the unlighted candle which she had brought with her to the room on the writing-table, and going to the chimney-piece, returned with the match-box.

“Be careful now, Matty,” said Mrs Rose earnestly. “There’s nothink I’ve such a fear of as fire. You can’t be too careful.”

This remark made Matty, who was of an anxious temperament, extremely nervous. She struck the match hesitatingly, and lighted the candle shakily. Of course it would not light (candles never do on such occasions), and a long red-hot end of burnt wood projected from the point of the match.

“Don’t let the burnt end drop into the wastepaper basket!” exclaimed Mrs Rose, in an unfortunate moment.

“Where?” exclaimed Matty with a start that sent the red-hot end into the centre of a mass of papers.

“There, just at your feet; don’t be so nervous, girl!” cried Mrs Rose.

Matty, in her anxiety not to drop the match, at once dropped it into the waste-paper basket, which was instantly alight. A stamp of the foot might have extinguished it, but this did not occur to either of the domestics. The housekeeper, who was a courageous woman, seized the basket in both hands and rushed with it to the fireplace, thereby fanning the flame into a blaze and endangering her dress and curls. She succeeded, however, in cramming the basket and its contents into the grate; then the two, with the aid of poker, tongs, and shovel, crushed and beat out the fire.

“There! I said you’d do it,” gasped Mrs Rose, as she flung herself, panting, into Mr Auberly’s easy-chair; “this comes of bein’ in a hurry.”

“I was always unfort’nit,” sighed Matty, still holding the shovel and keeping her eye on the grate, as if ready to make a furious attack on the smallest spark that should venture to show itself.

“Come, now, we’ll go to bed,” said Mrs Rose, rising, “but first look well round to see that all is safe.”

A thorough and most careful investigation was made of the basket, the grate, and the carpet surrounding the fireplace, but nothing beyond the smell of the burnt papers could be discovered, so the instructor and pupil put out the gas, shut the door, and retired to the servants’-hall, where Hopkins, the cook, the housemaid, and a small maid-of-all-work awaited their arrival—supper being already on the table.

Here Mrs Rose entertained the company with a graphic—not to say exaggerated—account of the “small fire” in the study, and wound up with an eloquent appeal to all to “beware of fire,” and an assurance that there was nothing on the face of the whole earth that she had a greater horror of.

Meanwhile the “little spark” among the papers—forgotten in the excitement of the succeeding blaze of the waste-paper basket—continued to do its slow but certain work. Having fallen on the cloth between two bundles, it smouldered until it reached a cotton pen-wiper, which received it rather greedily in its embrace. This pen-wiper lay in contact with some old letters which were dry and tindery in their nature, and, being piled closely together in a heap, afforded enlarged accommodation, for the “spark,” which in about half an hour became quite worthy of being termed a “swell.”

After that things went on like—“like a house on fire”—if we may venture to use that too often misapplied expression, in reference to the elegant mansion in Beverly Square on that raw November night.

Chapter Two.

Another Little “Spark.”

Whistling is a fine, free, manly description of music, which costs little and expresses much.

In all its phases, whistling is an interesting subject of study; whether we regard its aptitude for expressing personal independence, recklessness, and jollity; its antiquity—having begun no doubt with Adam—or its modes of production; as, when created grandly by the whistling gale, or exasperatingly by the locomotive, or gushingly by the lark, or sweetly by the little birds that “warble in the flowering thorn.”

The peculiar phase of this time-honoured music to which we wish to draw the reader’s attention at present, is that which was exemplified one November night (the same November night of which mention has been made in the previous chapter) by a small boy who, in his progress through the streets of London, was arrested suddenly under the shadow of St. Paul’s by the bright glare and the tempting fare of a pastry-cook’s window.

Being hungry, the small boy, thrusting his cold hands deep into his empty trouser-pockets, turned his fat little face and round blue eyes full on the window, and stared at the tarts and pies like a famishing owl. Being poor—so poor that he possessed not the smallest coin of the realm—he stared in vain; and, being light of heart as well as stout of limb, he relieved his feelings by whistling at the food with inexpressible energy.

The air selected by the young musician was Jim Crow—a sable melody high in public favour at that time—the familiar strains of which he delivered with shrill and tuneful precision, which intensified as he continued to gaze, until they rose above the din of cabs, vans, and ’busses; above the house-tops, above the walls of the great cathedral, and finally awakened the echoes of its roof, which, coming out, from the crevices and cornices where they usually slept, went dancing upwards on the dome, and played around the golden cross that glimmered like a ghost in the dark wintry sky.

The music also awakened the interest of a tall policeman whose beat that night chanced to be St. Paul’s Churchyard. That sedate guardian of the night, observing that the small boy slightly impeded the thoroughfare, sauntered up to him, and just as he reached that point in the chorus where Mr Crow is supposed to wheel and turn himself about, spun him round and gave him a gentle rap on the head with his knuckles, at the same time advising him to move on.

“Oh!” exclaimed the small boy, looking up with an expression of deep concern on his countenance, as he backed off the pavement, “I hope I didn’t hurt you, bobby; I really didn’t mean to; but accidents will happen, you know, an’ if you won’t keep your knuckles out of a feller’s way, why—”

“Come,” muttered the policeman, “shut up your potato-trap for fear you catch cold. Your mother wants you; she’s got some pap ready for you.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the small boy, with his head a little on one side, as though he were critically inspecting the portrait of some curious animal, “a prophet it is—a blue-coated prophet in brass buttons, all but choked with a leather stock—if not conceit. A horacle, six fut two in its stockin’s. I say, bobby, whoever brought you up carried you up much too high, both in body and notions. Wot wouldn’t they give for ’im in the Guards, or the hoss-marines, if he was only eight inches wider across the shoulders!”

Seeing that the policeman passed slowly and gravely on without condescending to take further notice of him, the small boy bade him an affectionate farewell; said that he would not forget to mention him favourably at head-quarters, and then continued his progress through the crowded streets at a smart pace, whistling Jim Crow at the top of his shrill pipe.

The small boy had a long walk before him; but neither his limbs, spirits, nor lips grew weary by the way. Indeed, his energies seemed to increase with every step, if one might judge from the easy swagger of his gait, and the various little touches of pleasantry in which he indulged from time to time; such as pulling the caps over the eyes of boys smaller than himself, winking at those who were bigger, uttering Indian war-whoops down alleys and lanes that looked as if they could echo, and chaffing all who appeared to be worthy of his attentions. Those eccentricities of humour, however, did not divert his active mind from the frequent and earnest study of the industrial arts, as these were exhibited and exemplified in shop-windows.

“Jolly stuff that, ain’t it?” observed another small boy, in a coat much too long for him, as they met and stopped in front of a chocolate-shop at the top of Holborn Hill, where a steam-engine was perpetually grinding up such quantities of rich brown chocolate, that it seemed quite unreasonable, selfish, and dog-in-the-manger-ish of the young man behind the counter to stand there, and neither eat it himself, nor let anyone else touch it.

“Yes, it’s very jolly stuff,” replied the first small boy, regarding his questioner sternly. “I know you’d like some, wouldn’t you? Go in now an’ buy two pen’orth, and I’ll buy the half from you w’en you come out.”

“Walker!” replied the boy in the long coat.

“Just so; and I’d advise you to become a walker too,” retorted the other; “run away now, your master’s bin askin’ after you for half an hour, I know, and more.”

Without waiting for a reply, the small boy (our small boy) swaggered away whistling louder than ever.

Passing along Holborn, he continued his way into Oxford Street, where the print-shop windows proved irresistibly attractive. They seemed also to have the effect of stimulating his intellectual and conceptive faculties, insomuch that he struck out several new, and, to himself, highly entertaining pieces of pleasantry, one of which consisted of asking a taciturn cabman, in the meekest of voices:

“Please, sir, you couldn’t tell me wot’s o’clock, could you?”

The cabman observed a twinkle in the boy’s eye; saw through him; in a metaphorical sense, and treated him with silent contempt.

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir,” continued the small boy, in the same meek tone, as he turned to move humbly away; “I forgot to remember that cabbies don’t carry no watches, no, nor change neither, they’re much too wide awake for that!”

A sudden motion of the taciturn cabman caused the small boy to dart suddenly to the other side of the crowded street, where he resumed his easy independent air, and his interrupted tune.

“Can you direct me to Nottin’ Hill Gate, missus?” he inquired of an applewoman, on reaching the neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road.

“Straight on as you go, boy,” answered the woman, who was busying herself about her stall.

“Very good indeed,” said the small boy, with a patronising air; “quite correctly answered. You’ve learnt geography, I see.”

“What say?” inquired the woman, who was apparently a little deaf.

“I was askin’ the price o’ your oranges, missus.”

“One penny apiece,” said the woman, taking up one.

“They ain’t biled to make ’em puff out, are they?”

To this the woman vouchsafed no reply.

“Come, missus, don’t be cross; wot’s the price o’ yer apples now?”

“D’you want one?” asked the woman testily.

“Of course I does.”

“Well, then, they’re two a penny.”

“Two a penny!” cried the small boy, with a look of surprise; “why, I’d ’a said they was a penny apiece. Good evenin’, missus; I never buys cheap fruit—cheap and nasty—no, no; good evenin’.”

It seemed as if the current of the small boy’s thoughts had been diverted by this conversation, for he walked for some time with his eyes cast on the ground, and without whistling, but whatever the feelings were that might have been working in his mind, they were speedily put to flight by a facetious butcher, who pulled his hat over his eyes as he passed him.

“Now then, pig-sticker, what d’ye mean by that?” he shouted, but as the butcher walked on without deigning to reply, he let off his indignation by yelling in at the open door of a tobacco-shop and making off at a brisk run.

From this point in his progress, he became still more hilarious and daring in his freaks, and turned aside once or twice into narrow streets, where sounds of shouting or of music promised him fresh excitement.

On turning the corner of one of those streets, he passed a wide doorway, by the side of which was a knob with the word FIRE in conspicuous letters above it, and the word BELL below it. The small boy paused, caught his breath as if a sudden thought had struck him, and glanced round. The street was comparatively quiet; his heart beat high; he seized the bell with both hands, pulled it full out, and bolted!

Now it chanced that one of the firemen of the station happened to be standing close to the door, inside, at the time. He, guessing the meaning of the ring at once, darted out and gave chase.

The small boy fled on the wings of terror, with his blue eyes starting from their sockets. The fireman was tall and heavy, but he was also strong and in his prime, so that a short run brought him up with the fugitive, whom he seized with a grip of iron.

“Now, then, young bottle-imp, what did you mean by that?”

“Oh! please, sir,” gasped the small boy, with a beseeching look, “I couldn’t help it.”

There was such a tone of truthfulness in this “couldn’t” that it tickled the fireman. His mouth relaxed in a quiet smile, and, releasing his intended victim, he returned to the station, while the small boy darted away in the direction of Oxford Street.

He had scarcely reached the end of the street, however, when a man turned the corner at full speed and ran him down—ran him down so completely that he sent him head-over-heels into the kennel, and, passing on, darted at the fire-bell of the station, which he began to pull violently.

The man was tall and dishevelled, partially clad in blue velvet, with stockings which had once been white, but were now covered from garter to toe with mud. One shoe clung to his left foot, the other was fixed by the heel in a grating over a cellar-window in Tottenham Court Road. Without hat or coat, with his shirt-sleeves torn by those unfortunates into whose arms he had wildly rushed, with his hair streaming backwards, his eyes blood-shot, his face pale as marble, and perspiration running down his cheeks, not even his own most intimate friends would have recognised Hopkins—the staid, softspoken, polite, and gentle Hopkins—had they seen him that night pulling like a maniac at the fire-bell.

And, without doubt, Hopkins was a maniac that night—at least he was afflicted with temporary insanity!

Chapter Three.

Fire!!!

“Hallo, that’ll do, man!” cried the same stalwart fireman who had seized the small boy, stepping out and laying his hand on Hopkins’s shoulder, whereabouts is it?

Hopkins heard him not. One idea had burnt itself into the poor man’s brain, and that was the duty that lay on him to ring the alarm-bell! Seeing this, the fireman seized him, and dragged him forcibly—almost lifted him—into the station, round the door of which an eager crowd had already begun to collect.

“Calm yourself,” said the stalwart fireman quietly, as he thrust Hopkins down into a chair. “Consider now. You’ll make us too late if you don’t speak. Where is it?”

“B–B–Fire!” yelled Hopkins, gasping, and glaring round him on the men, who were quietly putting on their helmets.

Hopkins suddenly burst from the grasp of his captor, and, rushing out, seized the bell-handle, which he began to pull more furiously than ever.

“Get her out, Jim,” said the fireman in a low tone to one of his comrades (“her” being the engine); at the same time he went to the door, and again seizing Hopkins, brought him back and forced him into a chair, while he said firmly:

“Now, then, out with it, man; where’s the fire?”

“Yes, yes,” screamed Hopkins, “fire! fire that’s it! B–! B–Beverly!—blazes!—square!—number—Fire!”

“That’ll do,” said the fireman, at once releasing the temporary maniac, and going to a book where he calmly made an entry of the name of the square, the hour of the night, and the nature of the call. Two lines sufficed. Then he rose, put on his helmet, and thrust a small hatchet into his belt, just as the engine was dragged to the door of the station.

There was something absolutely magnificent in this scene which no pen can describe, because more than half its force was conveyed only by the eye and the ear. The strong contrast between human excitement and madness coupled with imbecility, and human calmness and self-possession coupled with vigorous promptitude, was perfect.

Just before poor Hopkins rang his first note of alarm the station had been wrapt in profound silence—the small boy’s interruption having been but a momentary affair. George Dale, the fireman in charge, was seated at a desk in the watch-room (known among firemen as the “lobby”), making an entry in a diary. All the other men—about thirteen in number—had gone to their respective homes and beds in the immediate neighbourhood, with the exception of the two whose turn it was to remain on duty all night. These two (named Baxmore and Corney), with their coats, belts, boots, and caps on, had just lain down on two low tressel couches, and were courting sleep. The helmets of their comrades hung on the walls round the room, with belts and hatchets underneath them. Several pairs of boots also graced the walls, and a small clock, whose gentle tick was the only sound that broke the silence of the night. In an outer room the dim form of a spare engine could be seen through the doorway.

The instant that the bell rang, however, this state of quietude was put to flight. The two men rose from their couches, and Dale stepped to the door. There was no starting up, no haste in their movements, yet there was prompt rapidity. The men, having been sailors, had been trained in the midst of alarms. The questions which were put to Hopkins, as above described, were rapidly uttered. Before they were answered the two men were ready, and at Dale’s order, “Get her out!” they both vanished.

One ran round the corner to the engine-house and “knocked up” the driver in passing. The other ran from door to door of the firemen’s abodes, which were close at hand, and with a loud double-ring summoned the sleepers. Before he got back to help the first with the engine, one and another and another door opened, and a man darted out, buttoning braces or coat as he ran. Each went into the station, seized his helmet, belt, and axe, from his own peg, and in another moment all were armed cap-à-pie. At the same instant that the engine appeared at the door a pair of horses were trotted up. Two men held them; two others fastened the traces; the driver sprang to his seat; the others leaped to their respective places. Each knew what to do, and did it at once. There was no hurry, no loss of time, no excitement; some of the men, even while acting with the utmost vigour and promptitude, were yawning away their drowsiness; and in less than ten minutes from the moment the bell first rang the whip cracked and the fire-engine dashed away from the station amid the cheers of the crowd.

It may be as well to remark here in passing, that the London Fire Brigade had, at the time of which we write, reached a high state of efficiency, although it could not stand comparison with the perfection of system and unity of plan which mark the organisation and conduct of the Brigade of the present day.

Mr Braidwood, the able Superintendent, had for many years been training his men on a system, the original of which he had begun and proved in Edinburgh. Modifying his system to suit the peculiarities of the larger field to which he had been translated, he had brought the “Fire Engine Establishment,” (which belonged at that time to several insurance companies) to a state of efficiency which rendered it a model and a training-school for the rest of the world; and although he had not the advantage of the telegraph or the powerful aid of the land steam fire-engine of the present day, he had men of the same metal as those which compose the force now.

The “Metropolitan Fire Brigade,” as it then existed under the control of the Metropolitan Board of Works, had been carried by its chief, Captain Eyre Massey Shaw, to a condition of efficiency little if at all short of perfection, its only fault being (if we may humbly venture a remark) that it was too small both in numbers of engines and men.

Now, good reader, if you have never seen a London fire-engine go to a fire, you have no conception of what it is; and even if you have seen it, but have not gone with it, still you have no idea of what it is.

To those accustomed to it, no doubt, it may be tame enough—we cannot tell; but to those who mount an engine for the first time and drive through the crowded thoroughfares of London at a wild tearing gallop, it is probably the most exciting drive conceivable. It beats steeple-chasing. It feels like driving to destruction—so wild and so reckless is it. And yet it is not reckless in the strict sense of that word; for there is a stern need-be in the case. Every moment (not to mention minutes or hours) is of the utmost importance in the progress of a fire. Fire smoulders and creeps at first, it may be, but when it has got the mastery, and bursts into flames, it flashes to its work and completes it quickly. At such times, one moment of time lost may involve thousands of pounds—ay, and many human lives! This is well known to those whose profession it is to fight the flames. Hence the union of apparent mad desperation, with cool, quiet self-possession in their proceedings. When firemen can work in silence they do so. No unnecessary word is uttered, no voice is needlessly raised. Like the movements of some beautiful steam-engine, which, with oiled pistons, cranks, and levers, does its unobtrusive work in its own little chamber in comparative stillness, yet with a power that would tear and rend to pieces buildings and machinery, so the firemen sometimes bend to their work quietly, though with mind and muscles strung to the utmost point of tension. At other times, like the roaring locomotive crashing through a tunnel or past a station, their course is a tumultuous rush, amid a storm of shouting and gesticulation.

So was it on the present occasion. Had the fire been distant, they would have had to commence their gallop somewhat leisurely, for fear of breaking down the horses; but it was not far off—not much more than a couple of miles—so they dashed round the corner of their own street at a brisk trot, and swept into Oxford Street. Here they broke into a gallop, and here the noise of their progress began, for the great thoroughfare was crowded with vehicles and pedestrians, many of whom were retiring from the theatres and music-halls, and other places of entertainment.

To pass through such a crowd without coming into collision with anything required not only the most dexterous driving, but rendered it necessary that some of the men on the engine should stand up and shout, or rather roar incessantly, as they whirled along, clearing everything out of their way, and narrowly escaping innumerable crashes by a mere hairbreadth.

The men, as we said before, having been sailors, seemed to shout with the memory of the boatswain strong upon them, for their tones were pitched in the deepest and gruffest bass-key. Sometimes there was a lull for a moment, as a comparatively clear space of a hundred yards or so lay before them; then their voices rose like the roaring of the gale as a stupid or deaf cabman got in their way, or a plethoric ’bus threatened to interrupt their furious passage.

The cross streets were the points where the chief difficulties met them. There the cab and van drivers turned into or crossed the great thoroughfare, all ignorant of the thunderbolt that was rushing on like a fiery meteor, with its lamps casting a glare of light before, and the helmets of its stern charioteers flashing back the rays of street-lamps and windows; for, late though the hour was, all the gin-palaces, and tobacconists’ shops, and many of the restaurants were still open and brightly illuminated.

At the corner of Wells Street, the crowd of cabs and other vehicles was so great that the driver of the engine began to tighten his reins, and Jim Baxmore and Joe Corney raised their voices to a fierce shout. Cabs, ’busses, and pedestrians scattered right and left in a marvellous manner; the driver slackened his reins, cracked his whip, and the horses stretched out again.

In passing Berners Street, a hansom cab swept round the corner, its dashing driver smoking a cigar in sublime self-satisfaction, and looking carelessly right and left for a “fare.” This exquisite almost ran into the engine! There was a terrific howl from all the firemen; the cabby turned his smart horse with a bound to one side, and lost his cigar in the act—in reference to which misfortune he was heartily congratulated by a small member of the Shoe-black Brigade,—while the engine went steadily and sternly on its way.

“There, it shows a light,” observed one of the firemen to Dale, as he pointed to a luminous appearance in the sky away to the north-east.

Dale was already looking in that direction, and made no reply.

As they reached Tottenham Court Road the driver again checked the pace a little; yet even at the reduced speed they passed everything like a whirlwind. The traffic here was so great that it behoved them to be more cautious. Of course, the more need that there was for caution, the more necessity was there for shouting; and the duty of Baxmore and Corney—standing as they did in front of their comrades beside the driver—became severe, but they had good lungs both of them!

At the point where Tottenham Court Road cuts Oxford Street, the accumulation of vehicles of all sorts, from a hand-barrow to a furniture-van, is usually very great. To one unaccustomed to the powers of London drivers, it would have seemed nothing short of madness to drive full tilt into the mass that blocked the streets at this point. But the firemen did it. They reined up a little, it is true, just as a hunter does in gathering his horse together for a rush at a stone wall, but there was nothing like an approach to stopping.

“Hi! Hi!! Hi!!!” roared the firemen, Baxmore and Corney high above the rest. A ’bus lumbered to the left just in time; a hansom sprang to the right, not a moment too soon; a luggage-van bolted into Crown Street; the pedestrians scattered right and left, and the way was clear—no, not quite clear! The engine had to turn at a right angle here into Tottenham Court Road. Round it went on the two off-wheels, and came full swing on a market-gardener and a hot-coffee woman, who were wheeling their respective barrows leisurely side by side, and chatting as they went.

The roar that burst from the firemen was terrific. The driver attempted both to pull up and to turn aside. The market-gardener dropt his barrow and fled. The hot-coffee woman, being of a resolute nature, thrust her barrow by main force on the footpath, and so saved her goods and herself by a hairbreadth, while the barrow of her friend was knocked in pieces. But the effort of the engine-driver to avoid this had well-nigh resulted in serious consequences. In endeavouring to clear the market-gardener he drew so near to the footpath that in another moment a lamp-post would have been carried away, and the wheels of the engine, in all probability, knocked off, had not Joe Corney observed the danger.

With a truly Irish yell Joe seized the rein next him, and pulled the horses round almost at a right angle. The nave of the hind-wheel just shaved the post as it flew by. The whole thing passed so swiftly that before the market-gardener recovered from his consternation the engine was only discernible in the distance by the sparks that flew from its wheels as it held on in its furious way.

All along its course a momentary disturbance of London equanimity was created. Families not yet abed rushed to their front windows, and, looking out, exclaimed, “Ha! the firemen.” Tipplers in gin-palaces ran to the doors and said, “There they go,” “That’s your sort,” “Hurrah, my hearties!” or, “Go it, ye cripples!” according to the different stages of inebriation at which they had arrived; and belated men of business stopped to gaze, and then resumed their way with thoughts and speculations on fire and fire insurance, more or less deep and serious according to temperament. But the disturbance was only temporary. The families retired to their suppers or beds, the tipplers returned to their tipple, the belated speculators to their dreams, and in a few minutes (no doubt) forgot what they had seen, and forgot; perchance, that they had any personal interest in fire raising, or fire extinction, or fire prevention, or fire in any dangerous shape or form whatever, or indulged in the comforting belief, mayhap, that whatever disasters might attend the rest of the London community, they and their houses being endued with the properties of the salamander, nothing in the shape of fire might, could, would, or should kindle upon them. So true is it that, “all men think all men mortal but themselves!”

Do you doubt this, reader? If so, go poll your acquaintance, and tell us how many of them have got rope-ladders, or even ropes, to escape from their houses should they take fire; how many of them have got hand-pumps, or even buckets, placed so as to be handy in case of fire; and how many of them have got their houses and furniture insured against fire.

Meanwhile, the fire-engine held on its way, until it turned into Beverly Square, and pulled short up in front of the blazing mansion of James Auberly, Esquire.

Another engine was already at work there. It had come from a nearer station, of the existence of which Hopkins had been ignorant when he set out on his wild race for help. The men of this engine were already doing their work quietly, but with perceptible effect, pouring incessant streams of water in at the blazing windows, and watching for the slightest lull in the ferocity of the smoke and flame to attack the enemy at closer quarters.

Chapter Four.

A Fierce Fight With The Flames.

When the small boy—whose name, it may be as well to mention, was William (alias Willie) Willders—saw the fire-engine start, as has been already described, his whole soul yearned to follow it, for, in the course of his short life, he had never succeeded in being at the beginning of a fire, although he had often been at the middle and end of one—not a very difficult thing in London, by the way, seeing that there are, on the average, between four and five fires every twenty-four hours!

Willie Willders was of an enquiring disposition. He wanted to know how things were managed at a fire, from the beginning to the end, and he found that the course of true inquiry, like another course we wot of, never did run smooth.

Poor Willie’s heart was with that engine, but his legs were not. They did their best, but they failed, strong and active though they were, to keep up with the horses. So Willie heaved a bursting sigh and slackened his speed—as he had often done before in similar circumstances—resolving to keep it in sight as long as he could, and trust to his eyesight and to the flames “showing a light” for the rest.

Just as he came to this magnanimous resolve, a strapping young gentleman called a passing cab, leaped in, ordered the driver to follow the engine, and offered double fare if he should keep it in view up to the fire.

Willie, being sharp as a needle, at once stepped forward and made as though he would open the door for the gentleman. The youth was already in and the door shut, but he smiled as he shouted to the driver, “All right!” and tossed a copper to Willie, with the remark, “There, you scamp!” The copper fell in the mud, and there Willie left it, as he doubled nimbly behind the vehicle, and laid hold of it.

The cabman did his best to earn his double fare, and thus it came to pass that Willie was in time to see the firemen commencing work.

As the young man leaped from the cab he uttered a cry of surprise and alarm, and rushed towards the crowd of firemen nearest to the burning house without paying his fare. Willie was a little astonished at this, but losing sight of the youth in the crowd, and seeing nothing more of him at that time, he became engrossed in other matters.

There were so many men on the ground, however—for just then a third engine dashed up to the scene of conflagration—that it was difficult for the excited boy to appreciate fully what he saw. He got as close to the engine, however, as the policemen would allow him, and observed that a fire-plug had been already opened, and over it had been placed a canvas cistern of about a yard long by eighteen inches broad, stretched on an iron frame. The cistern was filled with water to overflowing, and the first engine had placed its suction-pipe in it, while from the front of the engine extended the leathern hose that conveyed the water to the burning house.

Willie was deeply interested in this, and was endeavouring to solve certain knotty points in his own mind, when they were suddenly solved for him by a communicative dustman who stood in the crowd close by, and thus expounded the matter to his inquisitive son.

“You see, Tommy, the use o’ the cistern is hobvious. See, here’s ’ow it lies. If an ingin comes up an screwges its suction on to the plug, all the other ingins as comes after it has to stan’ by an’ do nuffin. But by puttin’ the cistern over the plug an’ lettin’ it fill, another ingin or mabbe two more, can ram in its suction and drink away till it’s fit to burst, d’ye see.”

Willie drank in the information with avidity, and then turned his attention to the front of the engine, to which several lengths of hose, each forty feet long, had been attached. Baxmore and Corney were at the extreme end, screwing on the “branch” or nozzle by which the stream of water is directed, and Dale was tumbling a half-drunk and riotous navvy head-over-heels into the crowd, in order to convince him that his services to pump were not wanted—a sufficient number having been procured. A couple of policemen walked this navvy quietly from the scene, as Dale called out:

“Down with her, boys!”

“Pump away, lads!” said one of the firemen, interpreting.

The volunteers bent their backs, and the white clouds of steam that issued from the burning house showed that the second engine was doing its work well.

Immediately after, Dale and his men, with the exception of those required to attend the engine and the “branch,” were ordered to get out the ladders.

He who gave this order was a tall, sinewy man, middle-aged apparently, and of grave demeanour. His dress was similar to that of the other firemen, but there was an air of quiet unobtrusive authority about him, which showed that he was a leader.

“We might get on the roof now, Mr Braidwood,” suggested Dale, touching his helmet as he addressed the well-known chief of the London Fire-Engine Establishment.

“Not yet, Dale, not yet,” said Braidwood; “get inside and see if you can touch the fire through the drawing-room floor. It’s just fallen in.”

Dale and his men at once entered the front door of the building, dragging the branch and hose along with them, and were lost in smoke.

Previous to the arrival of the fire-engines, however, a scene had been enacted which Willie Willders had not witnessed. A fire-escape was first to reach the burning house. This was then, and still is, usually the case, owing to the fact that escapes are far more numerous in London than engines, so that the former, being always close at hand, often accomplish their great work of saving life before the engines make their appearance.

The escape in the immediate neighbourhood of Beverly Square was under the charge of Conductor Samuel Forest, a man who, although young, had already saved many lives, in the service of the Society for the Protection of Life from Fire.

When Forest reached the field of action, Mr James Auberly was seen at an upper window in a state of undignified dishabille, shouting for help, and half suffocated with smoke, with Mrs Rose hanging round his neck on one side and Matty Merryon at the other. Poor Auberly, having tried the staircase on the first alarm, was driven back by smoke, and rushed wildly to the window, where the two domestics, descending in terror from their attic, clung to him and rendered him powerless.

Forest at once pitched his escape—which was just a huge scientifically-constructed ladder, set on wheels. The head of it reached to the windows of the second floor. By pulling a rope attached to a lever, he raised a second ladder of smaller size, which was fitted to the head of the large one. The top of this second ladder was nearly sixty feet from the ground, and it reached the window at which Mr Auberly was still shouting. Forest at once sprang up.

“Leave me; save the women,” gasped Auberly, as a man entered the room, but the dense smoke overpowered him as he spoke, and he fell forward. The women also sank to the ground.

Forest instantly seized Mrs Rose in his powerful arms, and hurrying down the ladder to the top of the escape, put her into the canvas trough or sack which was suspended below the ladder all the way. Down this she slid somewhat violently but safely to the ground, while Forest ran up again and rescued Matty in the same way. Mr Auberly was more difficult to manage, being a heavy man, and his rescuer was almost overpowered by the thick smoke in the midst of which all this was done. He succeeded, however, but fainted on reaching the ground.

It was at this point that the first engine arrived, and only a few minutes elapsed when the second made its appearance, followed by the cab from which the young man leapt with the exclamation of surprise and alarm that had astonished Willie Willders.

Pushing his way to the place where Mr Auberly and the others lay, the youth fell on his knees. “My father!” he exclaimed wildly.

“He’s all right, lad,” said Mr Braidwood, coming up at that moment, and laying his hand kindly on the youth’s shoulder; “he’s only choked with smoke, and will be better in a minute. Any more in the house?” he added quickly.

Young Auberly leaped up with a shout.

“My sister! is she not saved? Are all here?”

He waited not for a reply, but in another moment was on the fire-escape.

“After him, two of you,” said Braidwood, turning to his men.

Two at once obeyed. In fact, they had leaped forward almost before the brief command was uttered. One of these firemen was conspicuous for his height and strength. He was first up the ladder. Close upon him followed Baxmore with a lantern.

Nothing but smoke had yet reached the room into which young Auberly entered, so that he instantly found himself in impenetrable darkness, and was almost choked as well as blinded.

“Have a care, Frank; the floor must be about gone by this time,” said Baxmore, as he ran after his tall comrade.

The man whom he called Frank knew this. He also knew that it was not likely any one had been left in the room from which the master of the house had been rescued, and he thought it probable that his daughter would occupy a room on the same floor with her father. Acting on this supposition, and taking for granted that the room they were about to enter was Mr Auberly’s bedroom, the tall fireman dashed at once through the smoke, and tumbled over the prostrate form of young Auberly.

“Look after him, Baxmore,” he gasped, as he seized the lamp from his comrade’s hand, and darted across the room and out into the passage, where he went crash against a door and burst it open. Here the smoke was not so dense, so that he could breathe, though with difficulty.

One glance showed him where the bed was. He felt it. A female form was lying on it. The light weight and the long hair which swept across his face as he raised it gently but swiftly on his shoulder, told him that it was that of a girl.

At that moment he heard a loud shout from the crowd, which was followed by a crash. Dashing once more across the passage, he saw that a lurid flame was piercing the smoke in the other room. The staircase he knew was impassable; probably gone by that time; but he had not time to think, so he drew the blanket over the girl’s head and bounded towards the window. There was a feeling of softness under his feet, as if the floor were made of pasteboard. He felt it sinking beneath him. Down it went, just as he laid hold of the head of the fire-escape, from which he hung suspended in the midst of the smoke and sparks that rose from the falling ruin.

Strong though the young fireman was, he could not raise himself by one arm, while the other was twined round Louisa Auberly. At that moment, Baxmore, having carried young Auberly down in safety, again ascended and appeared at the window. He seized Frank by the hair of the head.

“Let go my hair, and catch the girl!” shouted Frank.

“All right,” said Baxmore, seizing Loo and lifting her over the window sill.

Frank being thus relieved, swung himself easily on the sill, and grasping Loo once more, descended to the street, where he was met by Mr Auberly, who had recovered from his state of partial suffocation, and who seized his child and hurried with her into a neighbouring house. Thither he was followed by Mrs Rose and Matty, who had also recovered.

During these episodes, the firemen had continued at their work with cool and undistracted attention. And here the value of organisation was strikingly and beautifully brought out; for, while the crowd swayed to and fro, now breathless with anxiety lest the efforts of the bold conductor of the fire-escape should fail; anon wild with excitement and loud in cheers when he succeeded, each fireman paid devoted and exclusive attention to his own prescribed piece of duty, as if nothing else were going on around him, and did it with all his might—well knowing that every other piece of work was done, or point of danger guarded, by a comrade, while the eagle eyes of Mr Braidwood and his not less watchful foremen superintended all, observed and guided, as it were, the field of battle.

And truly, good generalship was required, for the foe was fierce and furious. The “devouring element” rushed onward like a torrent. The house was large and filled with rich furniture, which was luxurious food for the flames as they swept over the walls, twined round the balustrades, swallowed the paintings, devoured the woodwork, and melted the metal in their dread progress. But the foe that met them was, on this occasion, more than a match for the flames. It was a hand-to-hand encounter. The men followed them foot by foot, inch by inch—sometimes almost singeing their beards or being well-nigh choked and blinded by dense volumes of smoke, but, if driven back, always returning to the charge. The heat at times beat on their helmets so fiercely that they were forced to turn their faces aside and half-turn their backs on the foe, but they always kept their weapons—the “branches”—to the front, and continued to discharge upon him tons and tons of aqueous artillery.

“Get up to the windows now; use the escape,” said Mr Braidwood; and as he said this he passed through the doorway of the burning house.

Some of the men rushed up the escape and let down a line, to which one of the branches was made fast.

“Avast pumpin’, number two!” shouted Baxmore from the midst of clouds of smoke that were bursting out from the window.

Number two engine was stopped. Its branch was pulled up and pointed inside straight at the fire; the signal given, “Down with number two!” and a hiss was followed by volumes of steam.

The work of extinction had at last begun in real earnest. As long as they could only stand in the street and throw water in through the windows at haphazard, they might or might not hit the fire—and at all events they could not attack its strong points; but now, Baxmore at one window, and one of the men of the first engine at another, played point-blank into the flames, and, wherever the water hit, they were extinguished. Presently they got inside and began to be able to see through the smoke; a blue glimmer became visible, the branch was pointed, and it was gone. By this time the second floor had partly given way, and fire was creeping down the rafters to the eaves of the house. Baxmore observed this; and pointed the branch straight up. The fire at that part was put out, and a heavy shower of water fell back on the fireman, drenching him to the skin.

The attack had now become general. The firemen swarmed in at the doors and windows the moment that it was possible for a human being to breathe the smoke and live. One of the engines attached two additional lengths of hose, dragged the branch through the first floor to the back of the house, got upon an outhouse, in at a back window, and attacked the foe in rear. On the roof, Frank and Dale were plying their hatchets, their tall figures sharply defined against the wintry sky, and looking more gigantic than usual. The enemy saved them the trouble of cutting through, however, for it suddenly burst upwards, and part of the roof fell in. It would certainly have taken Frank prisoner had not Dale caught him by the collar, and dragged him out of danger. Instantly a branch was pointed downwards, and the foe was beaten back; from above, below, before, and behind, it was now met with deluges of water, which fell on the shoulders of the men in the lower floor in a continuous hot shower, while they stood ankle-deep in hot water.

In ten minutes after this the fire was effectually subdued, the lower floor having been saved, although its contents were severely damaged by water.

It was only necessary now, that one of the engines should remain for a time, to make good the victory. The others rolled up their hose, and prepared to depart. The King Street engine was the first to quit the field of battle. While the men were getting ready, Mr Auberly, muffled in a long cloak, stepped from the crowd and touched Frank, the tall fireman, on the shoulder.

“Sir,” said he in a low voice, “you saved my child. I would show my sense of gratitude. Will you accept of this purse?”

Frank shook his head and a smile played on his smoke-begrimed countenance as he said:

“No, Mr Auberly. I am obliged to you, but I cannot accept of it. I do not want it, and besides, the men of the brigade are not allowed to take money.”

“But you will let me do something for you?” urged Mr Auberly. “Is there nothing that I can do?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Frank. He paused for a moment, and then resumed—“Well, there is something that perhaps you could do, sir. I have a little brother out of employment; if you could get him a situation, sir.”

“I will,” said Mr Auberly with emotion. “Send him to me on Thursday forenoon. He will find me living next door to my—to my late home. I shall stay with a friend there for some time. Good-night.”

“Men of King Street engine get up,” cried Dale. “Stay—what is your name?” said Mr Auberly turning round.

But Frank was gone. He had leaped to his place on the engine and was off at a rattling pace through the now silent and deserted streets of the sleeping city.

Although they drove on at great speed there was no shouting now, for neither ’bus, cab, nor foot-passenger blocked up the way, and the men, begrimed with smoke and charcoal, wet, and weary with two hours of almost uninterrupted labour of a severe as well as dangerous character, sat or stood in their places in perfect silence.

On reaching the fire-station they leaped to the ground, and all went quickly and silently to their neighbouring homes and beds, except the two men on duty. These, changing their coats and boots, lay down on the trestles, and at once fell fast asleep—the engine and horses having been previously housed—and then Dale sat down to make an entry of the event in his day-book.

The whole thing might have been only a vivid dream, so silent was the room and so devoid of any evidence of recent excitement, while the reigning tranquillity was enhanced rather than decreased by the soft breathing of the sleepers, the ticking of the clock, and the scratching of Dale’s pen as he briefly recorded the facts of the fire that night in Beverly Square.

Chapter Five.

Willie Willders in Difficulties.

During the progress of the fire, small Willie Willders was in a state of the wildest, we might almost say hilarious, excitement; he regarded not the loss of property; the fire never struck him in that light. His little body and big spirit rejoiced in the whole affair as a magnificent display of fireworks and heroism.

When the fire burst through the library windows he shouted; when Sam Forest, the conductor of the fire-escape, saved Mr Auberly and the women, he hurrahed; when the tall fireman and Baxmore rescued Louisa Auberly he cheered and cheered again until his shrill voice rose high above the shouting of the crowd. When the floors gave way he screamed with delight, and when the roof fell in he shrieked with ecstasy.

Sundry and persevering were the efforts he made to break through the police by fair means and foul; but, in his energy, he over-reached himself, for he made himself so conspicuous that the police paid special attention to him, and wherever he appeared he was snubbed and thrust back, so that his great desire to get close to the men while they were at work was frustrated.

Willie had a brother who was a fireman, and he wished earnestly that he might recognise him, if present; but he knew that, being attached to the southern district of the City, he was not likely to be there, and even if he were, the men were all so much alike in their uniform, that it was impossible at a distance to distinguish one from another. True it is that his brother was uncommonly tall, and very strong; but as the London firemen were all picked men, many of them were very tall, and all of them were strong.

Not until the last engine left the ground, did Willie Willders think it advisable to tear himself away, and hasten to his home in Notting Hill, where he found his mother sitting up for him in a state of considerable anxiety. She forebore to question him that night, however.

When Willie appeared next morning—or rather, the same morning, for it was nearly four o’clock when he went to bed—he found his mother sitting by the fire knitting a sock.

Mrs Willders was a widow, and was usually to be found seated by the fire, knitting a sock, or darning one, or mending some portion of male attire.

“So you were at a fire last night, Willie?” said the widow.

“Yes, I was,” replied the boy, going up to his mother, and giving her what he styled a “roystering” kiss, which she appeared to like, although she was scarcely able to bear it, being thin and delicately formed, and somewhat weak from bad health.

“No lives lost, I hope, Willie?”

“No; there ain’t often lives lost when Sam Forest, the fire-escape-man, is there. You know Forest, mother, the man that we’ve heard so much of? Ah, it was sitch fun! You’ve no notion! It would have made you split your sides wi’ laughin’ if you’d seen Sam come out o’ the smoke carryin’ the master o’ the house on his shoulder in his shirt and drawers, with only one sock on, an’ his nightcap tied so tight under his chin that they had to cut it off—him in a swound, too, hangin’ as limp as a dead eel on Sam’s shoulder, with his head down one side, an’ his legs down the other. Oh, it was a lark!”

The boy recalled “the lark” to his own mind so vividly, that he had to stop at this point, in order to give vent to an uproarious fit of laughter.

“Was Frank there?” inquired the widow, when the fit subsided.

“Not that I know of, mother; I looked hard for him, but didn’t see him. There was lots o’ men big enough to be him; but I couldn’t get near enough to see for the bobbies. I wonder what them bobbies were made for!” continued Willie, with a look of indignation, as he seated himself at the table, and began to eat a hearty breakfast; “the long lamp-posts! that are always in the way when nobody wants ’em. I do believe they was invented for nothin’ else than to aggravate small boys and snub their inquiring minds.”

“Where was the fire, Willie?”

“In Beverly Square. I say, mother, if that there grocer don’t send us better stuff than this here bacon in future, I’ll—I’ll have to give him up.”

“I can’t afford to get better, dear,” said the widow meekly.

“I know that, mother; but he could afford to give better. However, it’s down now, so it don’t much matter.”

“Did you hear whose house was burned, Willie?”

“A Mr Oberly, or somethin’ like that.”

“Auberly!” exclaimed the widow, with a start.

“Well, p’raps it is Auberly; but whichever it is, he’s got a pretty kettle o’ fish to look after this mornin’. You seem to have heard of him before, mother?”

“Yes, Willie, I—I know him a— at least I have met with him often. You see I was better off once, and used to mingle with— but I need not trouble you with that. On the strength of our former acquaintance, I thought I would write and ask him to get you a situation in an office, and I have got a letter from him, just before you came down to breakfast, saying that he will do what he can, and bidding me send you to him between eleven and twelve to-morrow.”

“Whew!” whistled Willie, “an’ he burnt out o’ house and home, without a coat to his back or a shoe to his foot. It strikes me I’ll have to try to get him a situation.”

“He won’t be found at the house, now, I dare say, my son, so we’ll have to wait a little; but the burning of his house and furniture won’t affect him much, for he’s rich.”

“Humph! p’raps not,” said Willie; “but the burnin’ of his little girl might have—”

“You said that no lives were lost,” cried Mrs Willders, turning pale.

“No more there was, mother; but if it hadn’t bin for one o’ the firemen that jumped in at a blazin’ winder an’ brought her out through fire an’ smoke, she’d have bin a cinder by this time, an’ money wouldn’t have bought the rich man another daughter, I know.”

“True, my son,” observed Mrs Willders, resting her forehead on her hand; then, as if suddenly recollecting something, she looked up and said, “Willie, I want you to go down to the City with these socks to Frank. This is his birthday, and I sat late last night on purpose to get them finished. His station is a long way off, I know, but you’ve nothing else to do, so—”

“Nothin’ else to do, mother!” exclaimed Willie; with an offended look. “Haven’t I got to converse in a friendly way with all the crossin’-sweepers an’ shoeblacks an’ stall-women as I go along, an’ chaff the cabbies, an’ look in at all the shop-windows, and insult the bobbies? I always insult the bobbies. It does me good. I hurt ’em, mentally, as much as I can, an’ I’d hurt ’em bodily if I could. But every dog has his day. When I grow up won’t I pitch into ’em!”

He struck the table with his fist, and, shaking back his curly hair, lifted his blue eyes to his mother’s face with a stern expression, which gradually relaxed into a smile.

“Ah, you needn’t grin, mother, an’ tell me that the ‘policemen’ are a fine set of men, and quite as brave and useful in their way as the firemen. I know all you respectable sort of people think that; but I don’t. They’re my natural enemies, and I hate ’em. Come, mother, give me the socks and let me be off.”

Soon the vigorous urchin was on his way to the City, whistling, as usual, with all his might. As he passed the corner of the British Museum a hand touched him on the shoulder, and its owner said:

“How much are ye paid a week, lad, for kicking up such a row?”

Willie looked round, and his eyes encountered the brass buckle of the waist-belt of a tall, strapping fellow in a blue uniform. Glancing upwards, he beheld the handsome countenance of his brother Frank looking down at him with a quiet smile. He wore no helmet, for except when attending a fire the firemen wear a sailor-like blue cloth cap.

“Hallo, Blazes! is that you?” cried the boy.

“Just so, Willie; goin’ down to Watling Street to attend drill.”

Willie (who had styled his brother “Blazes” ever since he joined the fire brigade) observed that he happened to be going in the same direction to deliver a message from his mother to a relation, which he would not speak about, however, just then, as he wished to tell him of a fire he had been at last night.

“A fire, lad; was it a big one?”

“Ay, that it was; a case o’ burnin’-out almost; and there were lives saved,” said the boy with a look of triumph; “and that’s more than you can say you’ve seen, though you are a fireman.”

“Well, you know I have not been long in the brigade, Willie, and as the escapes often do their work before the engines come up, I’ve not had much chance yet of seeing lives saved. How was it done?”

With glowing eyes and flushed cheeks Willie at once launched out into a vivid description of the scene he had so recently witnessed, and dwelt particularly on the brave deeds of Conductor Forest and the tall fireman. Suddenly he looked up at his brother.

“Why, what are you chucklin’ at, Blazes?”

“Nothing, lad. Was the fireman very tall?”

“That he certainly was—uncommon tall.”

“Something like me?” said Frank.

A gleam of intelligence shot across the boy’s face as he stopped and caught his brother by the sleeve, saying earnestly:

“It wasn’t you, Frank, was it?”

“It was, Willie, and right glad am I to have been in such good luck as to save Miss Auberly.”

Willie grasped his brother’s hand and shook it heartily.

“You’re a brick, Blazes,” said he, “and this is your birthday, an’ I wish you luck an’ long life, my boy. You’ll do me credit yet, if you go on as you’ve begun. Now, I’ll go right away back an’ tell mother. Won’t she be fit to bu’st?”

“But what about your message to the relation in the City?” inquired Frank.

“That relation is yourself, and here’s the message, in the shape of a pair o’ socks from mother; knitted with her own hands; and, by the way, that reminds me—how came you to be at the fire last night? It’s a long way from your station.”

“I’ve been changed recently,” said Frank; “poor Grove was badly hurt about the loins at a fire in New Bond Street last week, and I have been sent to take his place, so I’m at the King Street station now. But I have something more to tell you before you go, lad, so walk with me a bit farther.”

Willie consented, and Frank related to him his conversation with Mr Auberly in reference to himself.

“I thought of asking leave and running out this afternoon to tell you, so it’s as well we have met, as it will—Why, what are you chuckling at, Willie?”

This question was put in consequence of the boy’s eyes twinkling and his cheeks reddening with suppressed merriment.

“Never mind, Blazes. I haven’t time to tell you just now. I’ll tell you some other time. So old Auberly wants to see me to-morrow forenoon?”

“That’s what he said to me,” returned Frank.

“Very good; I’ll go. Adoo, Blazes—farewell.”

So saying, Willie Willders turned round and went off at a run, chuckling violently. He attempted to whistle once or twice, but his mouth refused to retain the necessary formation, so he contented himself with chuckling instead. And it is worthy of record that that small boy was so much engrossed with his own thoughts on this particular occasion that he did not make one observation, bad, good, or indifferent, to any one during his walk home. He even received a question from a boy smaller than himself as to whether “his mother knew he was out,” without making any reply, and passed innumerable policemen without even a thought of vengeance!

“Let me see,” said he, muttering to himself as he paused beside the Marble Arch at Hyde Park, and leaned his head against the railings of that structure; “Mr Auberly has been an’ ordered two boys to be sent to him to-morrow forenoon—ha! he! sk!” (the chuckling got the better of him here)—“very good. An’ my mother has ordered one o’ the boys to go, while a tall fireman has ordered the other. Now, the question is, which o’ the two boys am I—the one or the t’other—ha! sk! ho! Well, of course, both o’ the boys will go; they can’t help it, there’s no gittin’ over that; but, then, which of ’em will git the situation? There’s a scruncher for you, Mr Auberly. You’ll have to fill your house with tar an’ turpentine an’ set fire to it over again ’afore you’ll throw light on that pint. S’pose I should go in for both situations! It might be managed. The first boy could take a well-paid situation as a clerk, an the second boy might go in for night-watchman at a bank.” (Chuckling again interrupted the flow of thought.) “P’raps the two situations might be got in the same place o’ business; that would be handy! Oh! if one o’ the boys could only be a girl, what a lark that would—sk! ha! ha!”

He was interrupted at this point by a shoe-black, who remarked to his companion:

“I say, Bob, ’ere’s a lark. ’Ere’s a feller bin an got out o’ Bedlam, a larfin’ at nothink fit to burst hisself!”

So Willie resumed his walk with a chuckle that fully confirmed the member of the black brigade in his opinion.

He went home chuckling and went to bed chuckling, without informing his mother of the cause of his mirth. Chuckling he arose on the following morning, and, chuckling still, went at noon to Beverly Square, where he discovered Mr Auberly standing, gaunt and forlorn, in the midst of the ruins of his once elegant mansion.

Chapter Six.

“When one is another who is which?”

“Well, boy, what do you want? Have you anything to say to me?”

Mr Auberly turned sharp round on Willie, whose gaze had gone beyond the length of simple curiosity. In fact, he was awe-struck at the sight of such a very tall and very dignified man standing so grimly in the midst of such dreadful devastation.

“Please, sir, I was sent to you, sir, by—”

“Oh, you’re the boy, the son of—that is to say, you were sent to me by your mother,” said Mr Auberly with a frown.

“Well, sir,” replied Willie, hesitating, “I—I—was sent by—by—”

“Ah, I see,” interrupted Mr Auberly with a smile that was meant to be gracious, “you were sent by a fireman; you are not the—the—I mean you’re the other boy.”

Poor Willie, being of a powerfully risible nature, found it hard to contain himself on hearing his own words of the previous evening re-echoed thus unexpectedly. His face became red, and he took refuge in blowing his nose, during which process—having observed the smile on Mr Auberly’s face—he resolved to be “the other boy.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, looking up modestly, “I was sent by a fireman; I am the other boy.”

Mr Auberly smiled again grimly, and said that the fireman was a brave fellow, and that he had saved his daughter’s life, and that he was very glad to do anything that lay in his power for him, and that he understood that Willie was the fireman’s brother; to which the boy replied that he was.

“Well, then, come this way,” continued Mr Auberly, leading Willie into the library of the adjoining house, which his friend had put at his disposal, and seating himself at a writing-table. “You want a situation of some sort—a clerkship, I suppose?”

Willie admitted that his ambition soared to that tremendous height.

“Let me see,” muttered Mr Auberly, taking up a pen and beginning to write; “yes, she will be able to help me. What is your name, boy?”

“Willie, sir.”

“Just so, William; and your surname—your other name?”

“Willders, sir.”

Mr Auberly started, and looked Willie full in the eyes. Willie, feeling that he was playing a sort of double part without being able to avoid it, grew red in the face.

“What did you say, boy?”

“Willders,” replied Willie stoutly.

“Then you’re not the other boy,” said Mr Auberly, laying down his pen, and regarding Willie with a frown.

“Please, sir,” replied Willie, with a look of meekness which was mingled with a feeling of desperation, for his desire to laugh was strong upon him, “please, sir, I don’t rightly know which boy I am.”

Mr Auberly paused for a moment.

“Boy, you’re a fool!”

“Thank ’ee, sir,” said Willie.

This reply went a long way in Mr Auberly’s mind to prove the truth of his assertion.

“Answer me, boy,” said Mr Auberly with an impressive look and tone; “were you sent here by a fireman?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Willie.

“What is his name?”

“Same as mine, sir—Willders.”

“Of course, of course,” said Mr Auberly, a little confused at having put such an unnecessary question. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

This brought the slang phrase, “Does your mother know you’re out?” so forcibly to the boy’s mind, that he felt himself swell internally, and had recourse again to his pocket-handkerchief as a safety-valve.

“Yes, sir,” said he, on recovering his composure; “arter I saw Blazes—Frank, I mean, that’s my brother, sir—I goes right away home to bed. I stops with my mother, sir, an’ she saw me come off here this mornin’, sir. She knows I was comin’ here.”

“Of course; yes, yes, I see,” muttered Mr Auberly, again taking up his pen. “I see; yes, yes; same name—strange coincidence, though; but, after all, there are many of that name in London. I suppose the other boy will be here shortly. Very odd, very odd indeed.”

“Please, sir,” observed Willie, in a gentle tone, “you said I was the other boy, sir.”

Mr Auberly seemed a little annoyed at his muttered words being thus replied to, yet he condescended to explain that there was another boy of the same name whom he expected to see that morning.

“Oh, then there’s another other boy, sir?” said Willie with a look of interest.

“Hold your tongue!” said Mr Auberly in a sharp voice; “you’re a fool, and you’re much too fond of speaking. I advise you to keep your tongue quieter if you wish to get on in life.”

Willie once more sought relief in his pocket-handkerchief, while his patron indited and sealed an epistle, which he addressed to “Miss Tippet, Number 6, Poorthing Lane, Beverly Square.”

“Here, boy, take this to the lady to whom it is addressed—the lane is at the opposite corner of the square—and wait an answer.”

“Am I to bring the answer back to you, sir?” asked Willie with much humility.

“No; the answer is for yourself,” said Mr Auberly testily; “and hark ’ee, boy, you need not trouble me again. That note will get you all you desire.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Willie, making a bow, and preparing to retire; “but please, sir, I don’t very well know, that is to say—ahem!”

“Well, boy?” said the patron sternly.

“Excuse me, sir; I can’t help it, you know; but please, sir, I wish to explain about that other boy—no, that’s me, but the other other boy, you know—”

“Begone, boy!” cried Mr Auberly in a voice so stern that Willie found himself next moment in the street, along which he ran chuckling worse than ever.

A little reflection might have opened Mr Auberly’s eyes to the truth in regard to Willie, but a poor relation was to him a disagreeable subject of contemplation, and he possessed the faculty, in an eminent degree, of dismissing it altogether from his mind. Having care enough on his mind at that time, poor man, he deliberately cast the confusion of the two boys out of his thoughts, and gave himself up to matters more interesting and personal.

We may add here that Mrs Willders was faithful to her promise, and never more addressed her brother-in-law by word or letter. When Willie afterwards told her and Frank of the absurdity of his interview, and of the violent manner in which Mr Auberly had dismissed him when he was going to explain about the “other” boy, his mother thought it best to let things rest as they stood, yet she often wondered in her own quiet way what Mr Auberly would think of her and of the non-appearance of the “other” boy; and she felt convinced that if he only put things together he must come to understand that Willie and Frank were her sons. But Mrs Willders did not know of the before-mentioned happy facility which her kinsman possessed of forgetting poor relations; so, after wondering on for a time, she ceased to wonder or to think about it at all.

Chapter Seven.

Thoughts in regard to Men.

Miss Emelina Tippet was a maiden lady of pleasing countenance and exceedingly uncertain age.

She was a poor member of a poor branch of an aristocratic family, and feeling an unconquerable desire to breathe, if not the pure unadulterated atmosphere of Beverly Square, at least as much of it as was compatible with a very moderate income, she rented a small house in a very dark and dismal lane leading out of that great centre of refinement.

It is true that Beverly Square was not exactly the “West End,” but there are many degrees of West-endiness, so to speak, in the western neighbourhood of London, and this square was, in the opinion of Miss Tippet, the West-endiest place she knew, because there dwelt in it, not only a very genteel and uncommonly rich portion of the community, but several of her own aristocratic, though distant, relations, among whom was Mr Auberly.

The precise distance of the relationship between them had never been defined, and all records bearing on it having been lost in the mists of antiquity, it could not now be ascertained; but Miss Tippet laid claim to the relationship, and as she was an obliging, good-humoured, chatty, and musical lady, Mr Auberly admitted the claim.

Miss Tippet’s only weakness—for she was indeed a most estimable woman—was a tendency to allow rank and position to weigh too much in her esteem. She had also a sensitive abhorrence of everything “low and vulgar,” which would have been, of course, a very proper feeling had she not fallen into the mistake of considering humble birth lowness, and want of polish vulgarity—a mistake which is often (sometimes even wilfully) made by persons who consider themselves much wiser than Miss Tippet, but who are not wise enough to see a distinct shade of true vulgarity in their own sentiments.

The dark, dismal lane, named Poorthing Lane, besides forming an asylum for decayed and would-be aristocrats, and a vestibule, as it were, to Beverly Square, was a convenient retreat for sundry green-grocers and public-house keepers and small trades-people, who supplied the densely-peopled surrounding district, and even some of the inhabitants of Beverly Square itself, with the necessaries of life. It was also a thoroughfare for the gay equipages of the square, which passed through it daily on their way to and from the adjoining stables, thereby endangering the lives of precocious babies who could crawl, but could not walk away from home, as well as affording food for criticism and scandal, not to mention the leaving behind of a species of secondhand odour of gentility such as coachmen and footmen can give forth.

Miss Tippet’s means being small, she rented a proportionately small residence, consisting of two floors, which were the upper portion of a house, whose ground floor was a toy-shop. The owner of the toy-shop, David Boone, was Miss Tippet’s landlord; but not the owner of the tenement. He rented the whole, and sublet the upper portion. Miss Tippet’s parlour windows commanded a near view of the lodging opposite, into every corner and crevice of which she could have seen, had not the windows been encrusted with impenetrable dirt. Her own domestic arrangements were concealed from view by small green venetian blinds, which rose from below, and met the large venetians which descended from above. The good lady’s bedroom windows in the upper floor commanded a near view—much too near—of a stack of chimneys, between which and another stack, farther over, she had a glimpse of part of the gable end of a house, and the topmost bough of a tree in Beverly Square. It was this prospect into paradise, terrestrially speaking, that influenced Miss Tippet in the choice of her abode.

When William Willders reached the small door of Number 6, Poorthing Lane, and raised his hand to knock, the said door opened as if it had been trained to admit visitors of its own accord, and Miss Matty Merryon issued forth, followed by a bright blue-eyed girl of about twelve years of age.

“Well, boy, was ye comin’ here?” inquired Matty, as the lad stepped aside to let them pass.

“Yes, I was. Does Miss Tippet live here?”

“She does, boy, what d’ye want with her?”

“I want to see her, young ’ooman, so you’d better cut away up an’ tell her a gen’lm’n requests a few words private conversation with her.”

The little girl laughed at this speech, and Matty, addressing Willie as a “dirty spalpeen,” said he had better go with her to a shop first, and she’d then take him back and introduce him to Miss Tippet.

“You see I can’t let ye in all be yer lone, cushla; for what would the neighbours say, you know! I’m only goin’ to the toy-shop, an’ won’t kape ye a minit, for Miss Emma don’t take long to her bargains.”

Willie might probably have demurred to this delay; but on hearing that the blue-eyed girl wanted to make purchases, he at once agreed to the proposal, and followed them into the toy-shop.

David Boone, who stepped out of the back-shop to serve them, was, if we may say so, very unlike his trade. A grave, tall, long-legged, long-nosed, raw-boned, melancholy-looking creature such as he, might have been an undertaker, or a mute, or a sexton, or a policeman, or a horse-guardsman, or even a lawyer; but it was the height of impropriety to have made him a toy-shopman, and whoever did it had no notion whatever of the fitness of things. One could not resist the idea that his clumsy legs would certainly upset the slender wooden toys with which the floor and counters were covered, and his fingers seemed made to break things. The figure of Punch which hung from the ceiling appeared inclined to hit him as he passed to and fro, and the pretty little dolls with the sweet pink faces, and very flaxen hair and cerulean eyes were evidently laughing at him.

Nevertheless, David Boone was a kind-hearted man, very fond of children, and extremely unlike, in some respects, what people imagined him at first sight to be.

“Well, Miss Ward, what can I supply you with to-day?” said he blandly.

“Please, Mr Boone, I want a slate and a piece of slate-pencil.” Emma looked up with a sweet smile at the tall shopman, who looked down upon her with grave benignity, as he produced the articles required.

“D’you kape turpentine?” said Matty, as they were about to quit the shop.

Boone started, and said almost testily, “No, I don’t. Why do you ask?”

“Sure, there’s no sin in askin’,” replied Matty in surprise at the man’s changed manner.

“Of course—of course not,” rejoined Boone with a slight look of confusion, as he made a sudden assault with his pocket-handkerchief on the cat, which was sleeping innocently in the window; “git out o’ that, you brute; you’re always agoin’ in the winder, capsizin’ things. There! you’ve been an’ sat on the face o’ that ’ere wax doll till you’ve a’most melted it. Out o’ that with you! No, Miss Merryon,” he added, turning to the girl with his wonted urbanity, “I don’t keep turpentine, and I was only surprised you should ask for it in a toy-shop; but you’ll get it of Mr White next door. I don’t believe there’s anythink in the world as he can’t supply to his customers.”

David Boone bowed them out, and then re-entered the back-shop, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

“I don’t like it—I don’t even like to think of it, Gorman,” he said to a big low-browed man who sat smoking his pipe beside the little fireplace, the fire in which was so small that its smoke scarcely equalled in volume that of the pipe he smoked: “No, I don’t like it, and I won’t do it.”

“Well, well, you can please yourself,” said Gorman, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and placing it in his vest pocket as he rose and buttoned his thick pea-jacket up to the chin; “but I’ll tell you what it is, if you are a descendant of the hunter of the far west that you boast so much about, it’s precious little of his pluck that you’ve got; an’ so I tell ’ee to your face, David Boone. All I’ve got to say is, that you’d better be wise and take my advice, and think better of it.”

So saying, Gorman went out, and slammed the door after him.

Meanwhile, Miss Matty Merryon, having purchased a small phial of turpentine, returned to Number 6, and ushered Willie Willders into the presence of her mistress.

Miss Emelina Tippet was neither tall nor stiff, nor angular nor bony; on the contrary, she was little and plump, and not bad-looking. And people often wondered why Miss Tippet was Miss Tippet and was not Mrs Somebody-else. Whatever the reason was, Miss Tippet never divulged it, so we won’t speculate about it here.

“A note, boy, from Mr Auberly?” exclaimed Miss Tippet, with a beaming smile; “give it me—thank you.”

She opened it and read attentively, while Master Willie glanced round the parlour and took mental notes. Miss Emma Ward sat down on a stool in the window, ostensibly to “do sums,” but really to draw faces, all of which bore a strong caricatured resemblance to Willie, at whom she glanced slyly over the top of her slate.

Matty remained standing at the door to hear what the note was about. She did not pretend to busy herself about anything. There was no subterfuge in Matty. She had been Miss Tippet’s confidential servant before entering the service of Mr Auberly, and her extremely short stay in Beverly Square had not altered that condition. She had come to feel that she had a right to know all Miss Tippet’s affairs, and so waited for information.

“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Tippet, still reading, “yes; ‘get him a situation in your brother’s office,’ (oh, certainly, I’ll be sure to get that); ‘he seems smart, I might almost say impu—’ Ahem! Yes, well—.”

“Boy,” said Miss Tippet, turning suddenly to Willie, “your name is William Willders, I believe?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, William, Mr Auberly, my relative, asks me to get you into my brother’s—my brother’s, what’s ’is name—office. Of course, I shall be happy to try. I am always extremely happy to do anything for—yes, I suppose of course you can write, and, what d’ye call it—count—you can do arithmetic?”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Willie.

“And you can spell—eh? I hope you can spell, Edward, a—I mean Thomas—is it, or William?”

Miss Tippet looked at Willie so earnestly and put this question in tones so solemn that he was much impressed, and felt as if all his earthly hopes hung on his reply, so he admitted that he could spell.

“Good,” continued Miss Tippet. “You are, I suppose, in rather poor circumstances. Is your father poor?”

“He’s dead, ma’am; was drowned.”

“Oh! shocking, that’s very sad. Was your mother drowned, too?”

“No, ma’am, she’s alive and well—at least she’s well for her, but she an’t over strong. That’s why I want to get work, that I may help her; and she wants me to be a clerk in a office, but I’d rather be a fireman. You couldn’t make me a fireman, could you, ma’am?”

At this point Willie caught Miss Ward gazing intently at him over the top of her slate, so he threw her into violent confusion by winking at her.

“No, boy, I can’t make you a fireman. Strange wish—why d’you want to be one?”

“’Cause it’s such jolly fun,” replied Willie; with real enthusiasm, “reg’lar bangin’ crashin’ sort o’ work—as good as fightin’ any day! An’ my brother Frank’s a fireman. Such a one, too, you’ve no notion; six fut four he is, an’ as strong as—oh, why, ma’am, he could take you up in one hand, ma’am, an’ twirl you round his head like an old hat! He was at the fire in Beverly Square last night.”

This speech was delivered with such vehemence, contained so many objectionable sentiments, and involved such a dreadful supposition in regard to the treatment of Miss Tippet’s person, that the worthy lady was shocked beyond all expression. The concluding sentence, however, diverted her thoughts.

“Ah! was he indeed at that sad fire, and did he help to put it out?”

“Sure, an’ he did more than that,” exclaimed Matty, regarding the boy with sudden interest. “If that was yer brother that saved Miss Loo he’s a ra’al man—”

“Saved Loo!” cried Miss Tippet; “was it your brother that saved Loo?”

“Yes, ma’am, it was.”

“Bless him; he is a noble fellow, and I have great pleasure in taking you by the hand for his sake.”

Miss Tippet suited the action to the word, and seized Willie’s hand, which she squeezed warmly. Matty Merryon, with tears in her eyes, embraced him, and said that she only wished she had the chance of embracing his brother, too. Then they all said he must stay to lunch, as it was about lunchtime, and Miss Tippet added that he deserved to have been born in a higher position in life—at least his brother did, which was the same thing, for he was a true what’s-’is-name, who ought to be crowned with thingumyjigs.

Emma, who had latterly been looking at Willie with deepening respect, immediately crowned him with laurels on the slate, and then Matty rushed away for the lunch-tray—rejoicing in the fire, that had sent her back so soon to the old mistress whom she never wanted to leave; that had afforded scope for the display of such heroism, and had brought about altogether such an agreeable state of unwonted excitation.

Just as the party were on the point of sitting down to luncheon, the street-door knocker was applied to the door with an extremely firm touch.

“Miss Deemas!” exclaimed Miss Tippet. “Oh! I’m so glad. Rush, Matty.”

Matty rushed, and immediately there was a sound on the wooden passage as of a gentleman with heavy boots. A moment later, and Matty ushered in a very tall, broad-shouldered, strapping lady; if we may venture to use that expression in reference to one of the fair sex.

Miss Deemas was a sort of human eagle. She had an eagle eye, an aquiline nose, an eagle flounce, and an eagle heart. Going up to Miss Tippet, she put a hand on each of her shoulders, and stooping down, pecked her, so to speak, on each cheek.

“How are you, my dear?” said Miss Deemas, not by any means tenderly; but much in the tone in which one would expect to have one’s money or one’s life demanded.

“Quite well, dear Julia, and so glad to see you. It is so good of you to take me by surprise this way; just at lunch-time, too. Another plate and knife, Matty. This is a little boy—a friend—not exactly a friend, but a—a thingumy, you know.”

“No, I don’t know, Emelina, what is the precise ‘thingumy’ you refer to this time,” said the uncompromising and matter-of-fact Miss Deemas.

“You’re so particular, dear Julia,” replied Miss Tippet with a little sigh; “a what’s-’is-n–, a protégé, you know.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Deemas, regarding Willie with a severe frown, as if in her estimation all protégés were necessarily villains.

“Yes, dear Julia, and, would you believe it, that this boy’s brother-in-law—”

“Brother, ma’am,” interrupted Willie.

“Yes, brother, actually saved my darling’s life last night, at the—the thing in Beverly Square.”

“What ‘darling’s life,’ and what ‘thing’ in Beverly Square?” demanded Miss Deemas.

“What! have you not heard of the fire last night in Beverly Square—my relative, James Auberly—living there with his family—all burnt to ashes—and my sweet Loo, too? A what’s-’is-name was brought, and a brave fireman went up it, through fire and water and smoke. Young Auberly went up before him and fell—heat and suffocation—and saved her in his arms, and his name is Frank, and he’s this boy’s brother-in-law!”

To this brief summary, given with much excitement, Miss Deemas listened with quiet composure, and then said with grim sarcasm, and very slowly:

“Let me see; there was a fire in Beverly Square last night, and James Auberly, living there with his family, were all burned to ashes.”

Miss Tippet here interrupted with, “No, no;” but her stern friend imposing silence, with an eagle look, continued:

“All burned to ashes, and also your sweet Loo. A ‘what’s-his-name’ having been brought, a brave fireman goes up it, and apparently never comes down again (burned to ashes also, I fancy); but young Auberly, who went up before him, and fell—heat and suffocation being the result—saved some one named ‘her’ in his arms; his name being Frank (owing no doubt to his having been re-baptised, for ever since I knew him he has been named Frederick), and he is this boy’s brother-in-law!”

By way of putting an extremely fine point on her sarcasm, Miss Deemas turned to Willie, with a very condescending air, and said:

“Pray, when did your sister marry Mr Frederick Auberly?”

Willie, with a face of meekness, that can only be likened to that of a young turtle-dove, replied:

“Please, ma’am, it isn’t my sister as has married Mr Auberly; but it’s my brother, Frank Willders, as hopes to marry Miss Loo Auberly, on account o’ havin’ saved her life, w’en she comes of age, ma’am.”

Miss Deemas stood aghast, or rather sat aghast, on receiving this reply, and scanned Willie’s face with one of her most eagle glances; but that small piece of impudence wore an expression of weak good-nature, and winked its eyes with the humility of a subdued pup, while Miss Tippet looked half-horrified and half-amused; Matty grinned, and Emma squeaked through her nose.

“Boy,” said Miss Deemas severely, “your looks belie you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Willie, “my mother always said I wasn’t half so bad as I looked; and she’s aware that I’m absent from home.”

At this point Willie allowed a gleam of intelligence to shoot across his face, and he winked to Emma, who thereupon went into private convulsions in her handkerchief.

“Emelina,” said Miss Deemas solemnly, “let me warn you against that boy. He is a bad specimen of a bad sex. He is a precocious type of that base, domineering, proud and perfidious creature that calls itself ‘lord of creation,’ and which, in virtue of its superior physical power, takes up every position in life worth having,” (“except that of wife and mother,” meekly suggested Miss Tippet), “worth having” (repeated the eagle sternly, as if the position of wife and mother were not worth having), “worth having, and leaves nothing for poor weak-bodied, though not weak-minded woman to do, except sew and teach brats. Bah! I hate men, and they hate me, I know it, and I would not have it otherwise. I wish they had never been made. I wish there had been none in the world but women. What a blessed world it would have been then!”

Miss Deemas hit the table with her hand, in a masculine manner, so forcibly, that the plates and glasses rattled, then she resumed, for she was now on a favourite theme, and was delivering a lecture to a select audience.

“But, mark you, I’m not going to be put down by men. I mean to fight ’em with their own weapons. I mean to—”

She paused suddenly at this point, and, descending from her platform, advised Miss Tippet to dismiss the boy at once.

Poor Miss Tippet prepared to do so. She was completely under the power of Miss Deemas, whom, strange to say, she loved dearly. She really believed that they agreed with each other on most points, although it was quite evident that they were utterly opposed to each other in everything. Wherein the bond lay no philosopher could discover. Possibly it lay in the fact that they were absolute extremes, and, in verification of the proverb, had met.

Be this as it may, a note was quickly written to her brother, Thomas Tippet, Esquire, which was delivered to Willie, with orders to take it the following evening to London Bridge, in the neighbourhood of which Mr Tippet dwelt and carried on his business.

Chapter Eight.

A Hidden Fire.

In the afternoon of the following day Willie set off to the City in quest of Mr Thomas Tippet. Having to pass the King Street fire station, he resolved to look in on his brother.

The folding-doors of the engine-house were wide open, and the engine itself, clean and business-like, with its brass-work polished bright, stood ready for instant action. Two of the firemen were conversing at the open door, while several others could be seen lounging about inside. In one of the former Willie recognised the strong man who had collared him on a well-remembered occasion.

“Please, sir,” said Willie, going up to him, “is Frank Willders inside?”

“Why, youngster,” said Dale, laying his hand on Willie’s head, “ain’t you the boy that pulled our bell for a lark the other night?”

“Yes, sir, I am; but you let me off, you know, so I hope you won’t bear me ill-will now.”

“That depends on how you behave in future,” said Dale with a laugh; “but what d’you want with Frank Willders?”

“I want to see him. He’s my brother.”

“Oh, indeed! You’ll find him inside.”

Willie entered the place with feelings of interest, for his respect for firemen had increased greatly since he had witnessed their recent doings at the Beverly Square fire.

He found his brother writing at the little desk that stood in the window, while five or six of his comrades were chatting by the fire, and a group in a corner were playing draughts, and spinning yarns of their old experiences. All assisted in loading the air with tobacco-smoke.

The round cloth caps worn by the men gave them a much more sailor-like and much less fireman-like appearance than the helmets, which, with their respective hatchets, hung on the walls, rendering the apartment somewhat like a cavalry guard-room. This change in the head-piece, and the removal of the hatchet, was the only alteration in their costume in what may be styled “times of peace.” In other respects they were at all times accoutred, and in readiness to commence instant battle with the flames.

“Hallo, Blazes! how are ye?” said Willie, touching his brother on the shoulder.

“That you, Willie?” said Frank, without looking up from his work. “Where away now?”

“Come to tell ye there’s a fire,” said Willie, with a serious look.

“Eh? what d’ye mean?” asked Frank, looking at his brother, as if he half believed he was in earnest.

“I mean what I say—a fire here,” said Willie, solemnly striking his breast with his clenched fist, “here in Heart Street, Buzzum Square, ragin’ like fury, and all the ingins o’ the fire brigade, includin’ the float, couldn’t put it out, no, nor even so much as squeanch it!”

“Then it’s of no use our turning out, I suppose?” said Frank with a smile, as he wiped his pen; “what set it alight, lad?”

“A wax doll with flaxen hair and blue eyes,” answered Willie; “them’s the things as has all along done for me. When I was a boy I falled in love with a noo wax doll every other day. Not that I ever owned one myself; I only took a squint at ’em in toy-shop winders, and they always had flaxen hair and blue peepers. Now that I’ve become a man, I’ve bin an’ falled in love with a livin’ wax doll, an’ she’s got flaxen hair an’ blue eyes; moreover, she draws.”

“Draws—boy! what does she draw—corks?” inquires Frank.

“No!” replied Willie, with a look of supreme contempt; “nothin’ so low; she draws faces an’ pictures like—like—a schoolmaster, and,” added Willie, with a sigh, “she’s bin an’ drawed all the spirit out o’ this here buzzum.”

“She must have left a good lot o’ combustible matter behind, however, if there’s such a fire raging in it. Who may this pretty fire-raiser be?”

“Her name is Emma Ward, and she b’longs to a Miss Tippet, to whom she’s related somehow, but I don’t know where she got her, nor who’s her parents. This same Miss Tippet is some sort of a relation o’ Mr Auberly, who sent me to her with a note, and she has sent me with another note to her brother near London Bridge, who, I s’pose, will send me with another note to somebody else, so I’m on my way down to see him. I thought I’d look in to ask after you in passin’, and cheer you on to dooty.”

A violent fit of somewhat noisy coughing from one of the men at the fireplace attracted Willie’s attention at this point in the conversation.

“Wot a noisy feller you are, Corney,” remarked one of the men.

“Faix,” retorted Corney, “it’s noisy you’d be too av ye had the cowld in yer chist that I have. Sure, if ye had bin out five times in wan night as I wos on Widsenday last, wid the branch to howld in a smoke as ’ud choke Baxmore hisself (an’ it’s well known he can stand a’most anything), not to spake o’ the hose bu’stin’ right betune me two feet.”

“Come, come, Paddy,” said Dale, interrupting; “don’t try to choke us, now; you know very well that one of the fires was only a cut-away affair; two were chimneys, and one was a false alarm.”

“True for ye!” cried Corney, who had a tendency to become irascible in argument, or while defending himself; “true for ye, Mister Dale, but they was alarms for all that, false or thrue, was they not now? Anyhow they alarmed me out o’ me bed five times in a night as cowld as the polar ragions, and the last time was a raale case o’ two flats burnt out, an’ four hours’ work in iced wather.”

There was a general laugh at this point, followed by several coughs and sneezes, for the men were all more or less afflicted with colds, owing to the severity of the weather and the frequency of the fires that had occurred at that time.

“There’s some of us can sing chorus to Corney,” observed one of the group. “I never saw such weather; and it seems to me that the worse the weather the more the fires, as if they got ’em up a purpose to kill us.”

“Bill Moxey!” cried another, “you’re always givin’ out some truism with a face like Solomon.”

“Well, Jack Williams,” retorted Moxey, “it’s more than I can say of you, for you never say anything worth listenin’ to, and you couldn’t look like Solomon if you was to try ever so much.—You’re too stoopid for that.”

“I say, lads,” cried Frank Willders, “what d’ye say to send along to the doctor for another bottle o’ cough mixture, same as the first?”

This proposal was received with a general laugh.

“He’ll not send us more o’ that tipple, you may depend,” said Williams.

“No, not av we wos dyin’,” said Corney, with a grin.

“What was it?” asked Williams.

“Didn’t you hear about it?” inquired Moxey. “Oh, to be sure not; you were in hospital after you got run over by the Baker Street engine. Tell him about it, Corney. It was you that asked the doctor, wasn’t it, for another bottle?”

Corney was about to speak, when a young fireman entered the room with his helmet hanging on his arm.

“Is it go on?” he inquired, looking round.

“No, it’s go back, young Rags,” replied Baxmore, as he refilled his pipe; “it was only a chimney, so you’re not wanted.”

“Can any o’ you fellers lend me a bit o’ baccy?” asked Rags. “I’ve forgot to fetch mine.”

“Here you are,” said Dale, offering him a piece of twist.

“Han’t ye got a bit o’ hard baccy for the tooth?” said Rags.

“Will that do?” asked Frank Willders, cutting off a piece from a plug of cavendish.

“Thank’ee. Good afternoon.”

Young Rags put the quid in his cheek, and went away humming a tune.

In explanation of the above incident, it is necessary to tell the reader that when a fire occurred in any part of London at the time of which we write, the fire-station nearest to it at once sent out its engines and men, and telegraphed to the then head or centre station at Watling Street. London was divided into four districts, each district containing several fire stations, and being presided over by a foreman. From Watling Street the news was telegraphed to the foremen’s stations, whence it was transmitted to the stations of their respective districts, so that in a few minutes after the breaking out of a fire the fact was known to the firemen all over London.

As we have said, the stations nearest to the scene of conflagration turned out engines and men; but the other stations furnished a man each. Thus machinery was set in motion which moved, as it were, the whole metropolis; and while the engines were going to the fire at full speed, single men were setting out from every point of the compass to walk to it, with their sailors’ caps on their heads and their helmets on their arms.

And this took place in the case of every alarm of fire, because fire is an element that will not brook delay, and it does not do to wait to ascertain whether it is worth while to turn out such a force of men for it or not.

In order, however, to prevent this unnecessary assembling of men when the fire was found to be trifling, or when, as was sometimes the case, it was a false alarm, the fireman in charge of the engine that arrived first, at once sent a man back to the station with a “stop,” that is, with an order to telegraph to the central station that the fire turns out to be only a chimney or a false alarm, and that all hands who have started from the distant stations may be “stopped.” The “stop” was at once telegraphed to the foremen, from whom it was passed (just as the “call” had been) to the outlying stations, and this second telegram might arrive within quarter of an hour of the first.

Of course the man from each station had set out before that time, and the “stop” was too late for him, but it was his duty to call at the various fire stations he happened to pass on the way, where he soon found out whether he was to “go on” or to “go back.”

If no telegram had been received, he went on to the fire; sometimes walking four or five miles to it, “at not less than four miles an hour.” On coming up to the scene of conflagration, he put on his helmet, thrust his cap into the breast of his coat, and reported himself to the chief of the fire brigade (who was usually on the spot), or to the foreman in command, and found, probably, that he had arrived just in time to be of great service in the way of relieving the men who first attacked the flames.

If, on the other hand, he found that the “stop” had been telegraphed, he turned back before having gone much more than a mile from his own station, and so went quietly home to bed. In the days of which we write the effective and beautiful system of telegraphy which now exists had not been applied to the fire stations of London, and the system of “stops” and “calls,” although in operation, was carried out much less promptly and effectively by means of messengers.

Some time before the entrance of Willie Willders into the King Street station the engine had been turned out to a fire close at hand, which proved to be only a chimney on fire, and which was put out by means of a hand-pump and a bucket of water, while Moxey was sent back with the “stop” to the station. The affair was over and almost forgotten, and the men had resumed their pipes, as we have seen, when young Rags entered and was told to go back.

Apologising for this necessary digression, we return to Joe Corney.

“The fact was,” said he, “that we had had a fearful time of it that winter—blowin’ great guns an’ snow nearly every night, an’ what wi’ heat at the fires an’ cowld i’ the streets, an’ hot wather pourin’ on us at wan minnit an’ freezin’ on us the nixt, a’most every man Jack of us was coughin’ an’ sneezin’, and watherin’ so bad at our eyes an’ noses, that I do belave if we’d held ’em over the suction-pipes we might ha’ filled the ingins without throublin’ the mains at all. So the doctor he said, says he, ‘Lads, I’ll send ye a bottle o’ stuff as’ll put ye right.’ An’ sure enough down comes the bottle that night when we was smokin’ our pipes just afther roll-call. It turned out to be the best midcine ever was. ‘Musha!’ says I, ‘here’s the top o’ the marnin’ to ye, boys!’ Baxmore he smacks his lips when he tastes it, opens his eyes, tosses off the glass, and holds it out for another. ‘Howld on; fair play!’ cried Jack Williams, so we all had a glass round. It was just like lemonade or ginger-beer, it was. So we sat down an’ smoked our pipes over it, an’ spun yarns an’ sung songs; in fact we made a jollification of it, an’ when we got up to turn in there warn’t a dhrop left i’ the bottle.

“‘You’d better go to the doctor for another bottle,’ says Moxey, as he wint out.

“‘I will,’ says I; ‘I’ll go i’ the marnin’.’

“Sure enough away I goes i’ the marnin’ to Doctor Offley. ‘Doctor,’ says I, howldin’ out the bottle, ‘we all think our colds are much the better o’ this here midcine, an’ I comed, av ye plaze, for another o’ the same.’

“Musha! but ye should ha’ seen the rage he goes off into. ‘Finished it all?’ says he. ‘Ivery dhrop, doctor,’ says I, ‘at wan sittin’.’ At that he stamped an’ swore at me, an’ ordered me away as if I’d bin a poor relation; an’ says he, ‘I’ll sind ye a bottle to-night as’ll cure ye!’ Sure so he did. The second bottle would have poison’d a rat. It lasted us all six months, an’ I do belave ye’ll find the most of it in the cupboard at this minnit av ye look.”

“Come, Willie,” said Frank, while the men were laughing at the remembrance of this incident. “I’m going down your way and will give you a convoy. We can take a look in at the gymnastics as we pass, if you choose.”

“All right, Blazes, come along.” So saying they left the station, and set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the City.

Chapter Nine.

Auctions and Gymnastics.

As the brothers drew near to the busy region of the City which lies to the north of London Bridge; Frank turned aside into one of the narrow streets that diverge from the main thoroughfare.

“Where are ye goin’?” inquired Willie.

“There was a fire here last night,” said Frank; “I want to have a look at the damage.”

“A fire!” exclaimed Willie. “Why, Blazes, it strikes me there’s bin more fires than usual last night in London.”

“Only two, lad.”

“Only two! How many would you have?” asked Willie with a laugh.

“Don’t you know,” said Frank, “that we have about four fires every night? Sometimes more, sometimes fewer. Of course, we don’t all of us turn out to them; but some of the brigade turn out to that number, on an average, every night of the year.”

“Are ye jokin’, Frank?”

“Indeed I am not. I wish with all my heart I could say that I was joking. It’s a fact, boy. You know I have not been long in the force, yet I’ve gone to as many as six fires in one night, and we often go to two or three. The one we are going to see the remains of just now was too far from us for our engine to turn out; but we got the call to send a man on, and I was sent. When I arrived and reported myself to Mr Braidwood, the two top floors were burnt out, and the fire was nearly got under. There were three engines, and the men were up on the window-sills of the second-floor with the branches, playin’ on the last of the flames, while the men of the salvage-corps were getting the furniture out of the first floor. Conductor Brown was there with his escape, and had saved a whole family from the top floor, just before I arrived. He had been changed from his old station at the West End that very day. He’s a wonderful fellow, that conductor! Many a life he has saved; but, indeed, the same may be said of most of the men in the force, especially the old hands. Here we are, lad. This is the house.”

Frank stopped, as he spoke, in front of a ruined tenement, or rather, in front of the gap which was now strewn with the charred and blackened débris of what had once been a house. The street in which it stood was a narrow, mean one, inhabited by a poor, and, to judge from appearance, a dissipated class. The remains of the house were guarded by policemen, while a gang of men were engaged in digging among the ruins, which still smoked a little here and there.

“What are they diggin’ for?” asked Willie.

“I fear they are looking for dead bodies. The house was let out to lodgers, and swarmed with people. At first it was thought that all were saved; but just before I was ordered home after the fire was got under, some one said that an old man and his grandchild were missing. I suppose they’re looking for them now.”

On inquiring of a policeman, however, Frank learned that the remains of the old man and his grandchild had already been found, and that they were searching for the bodies of others who were missing. A little beyond the spot where the fire had occurred, a crowd was gathered round a man who stood on a chair haranguing them, with apparently considerable effect, for ever and anon his observations were received with cries of “Hear, hear,” and laughter. Going along the middle of the narrow street, in order to avoid the smell of the old-clothes’-shops and pawnbrokers, as well as the risk of contact with their wares, Frank and Willie elbowed their way through the crowd to within a few yards of the speaker.

“What is he?” inquired Frank of a rather dissipated elderly woman.

“He’s a clown or a hacrobat, or somethink of that sort, in one of the theatres or music-’alls. He’s bin burnt out o’ his ’ome last night, an’s a-sellin’ off all he’s been able to save, by hauction.”

“Come; now, ladies an’ gents,” cried the clown, taking up a rather seedy-looking great-coat, which he held aloft with one hand, and pointed to it with the other, “Who’s agoin’ to bid for this ’ere garment—a hextra superfine, double-drilled, kershimere great-coat, fresh from the looms o’ Tuskany—at least it was fresh from ’em ten years ago (that was when my grandfather was made Lord Mayor of London), an’ its bin renewing its youth (the coat, not the Lord Mayor) ever since. It’s more glossy, I do assure you, ladies and gents, than w’en it fust comed from the looms, by reason of the pile havin’ worn off; and you’ll obsarve that the glossiness is most beautiful and brightest about the elbows an’ the seams o’ the back. Who bids for this ’ere venerable garment? Six bob? Come now, don’t all bid at once. Who said six bob?”

No reply being made to this, except a laugh, the clown (who, by the way, wore a similarly glossy great-coat, with a hat to match) protested that his ears must have deceived him, or his imagination had been whispering hopeful things—which was not unlikely, for his imagination was a very powerful one—when he noticed Frank’s tall figure among the crowd.

“Come now, fireman, this is the wery harticle you wants. You comed out to buy it, I know, an’ ’ere it is, by a strange coincidence, ready-made to hand. What d’ye bid? Six bob? Or say five. I know you’ve got a wife an’ a large family o’ young firemen to keep, so I’ll let it go cheap. P’raps it’s too small for you; but that’s easy put right. You’ve only got to slit it up behind to the neck, which is a’ infallible cure for a tight fit, an’ you can let down the cuffs, which is double, an’ if it’s short you can cut off the collar, an’ sew it on to the skirts. It’s water-proof, too, and fire-proof, patent asbestos. W’en it’s dirty you’ve got nothin’ to do but walk into the fire, an’ it’ll come out noo. W’en it’s thoroughly wet on the houtside, turn it hinside hout, an’ there you are, to all appearance as dry as bone. What! you won’t have it at no price? Well, now, I’ll tempt you. I’ll make it two bob.”

“Say one,” cried a baker, who had been listening to this, with a broad grin on his floury countenance.

“Ladies and gents,” cried the clown, drawing himself up with dignity; “there’s an individual in this crowd—I beg parden, this assemblage—as asks me to say ‘one.’ I do say ‘one,’ an’ I say it with melancholy feelin’s as to the liberality of my species. One bob! A feller-man as has bin burnt hout of ’is ’ome an’ needs ready money to keep ’im from starvation, offers his best great-coat—a hextra superfine, double-drilled (or milled, I forget w’ich) kershimere, from the looms o’ Tuskany—for one bob!”

“One-an’-six,” muttered an old-clothes-man, with a black cotton sack on his shoulder.

“One-an’-six,” echoed the clown with animation; “one-an’-six bid; one-an’-six. Who said one-an’-seven? Was it the gent with the red nose?—No, one-an’-six; goin’ at the ridiculously low figure of one-an’-six—gone! as the old ’ooman said w’en her cat died o’ apple-plexy. Here you are; hand over the money. I can’t knock it down to you, ’cause I haven’t a hauctioneer’s ’ammer. Besides, it’s agin’ my principles. I’ve never knocked nothin’ down, not even a skittle, since I joined the Peace Society.

“Now, ladies an’ gents, the next thing I’ve got to hoffer is a harm-chair. Hand up the harmchair, Jim.”

A very antique piece of furniture was handed up by a little boy, whom Willie recognised as the little boy who had once conversed with him in front of the chocolate-shop in Holborn Hill.

“Thank you, my son,” said the clown, taking the chair with one hand and patting the boy’s head with the other; “this, ladies and gents,” he added in a parenthetical tone, “is my son; he’s bin burnt hout of ’ouse an’ ’ome, too! Now, then, who bids for the old harm-chair? the wery identical harm-chair that the song was written about. In the embrace o’ this ’ere chair has sat for generations past the family o’ the Cattleys—that’s my name, ladies an gents, at your service. Here sat my great-great-grandfather, who was used to say that his great-grandfather sat in it too. Here sat his son, and his son’s son—the Lord Mayor as was—and his son, my father, ladies and gents, who died in it besides, and whose son now hoffers it to the ’ighest bidder. You’ll observe its antiquity, ladies an’ gents. That’s its beauty. It’s what I may call, in the language of the haristocracy, a harticle of virtoo, w’ich means that it’s a harticle as is surrounded by virtuous memories in connection with the defunct. Now then, say five bob for the hold harm-chair!”

While the clown was endeavouring to get the chair disposed of, Willie pushed his way to the side of Jim Cattley.

“I say, youngster, would you like a cup o’ chocolate?” began Willie by way of recalling to the boy their former meeting.

Jim, whose face wore a sad and dispirited look, turned angrily and said, “Come, I don’t want none o’ your sauce!”

“It ain’t sauce I’m talkin’ of, it’s chocolate,” retorted Willie. “But come, Jim, I don’t want to bother ye. I’m sorry to see you an yer dad in sitch a fix. Have you lost much?”

“It’s not what we’ve lost that troubles us,” said Jim, softened by Willie’s sympathetic tone more than by his words; “but sister Ziza is took bad, an’ she’s a fairy at Drury Lane, an’ takin’ her down the fire-escape has well-nigh killed her, an’ we’ve got sitch a cold damp cellar of a place to put her in, that I don’t think she’ll get better at all; anyhow, she’ll lose her engagement, for she can’t make two speeches an’ go up in a silver cloud among blue fire with the ’flooenzer, an ’er ’air all but singed off ’er ’ead.”

Jim almost whimpered at this point, and Willie, quitting his side abruptly, went back to Frank (who was still standing an amused auditor of the clown), and demanded a shilling.

“What for, lad?”

“Never you mind, Blazes; but give me the bob, an’ I’ll pay you back before the week’s out.”

Frank gave him a shilling, with which he at once returned to Jim, and thrusting it into his hand, said:

“There, Jim, your dad’s hard up just now. Go you an’ get physic with that for the fairy. Them ’floo-enzers is ticklish things to play with. Where d’ye stop?”

“Well, you are a queer ’un; thank’ee all the same,” said Jim, pocketing the shilling. “We’ve got a sort o’ cellar just two doors east o’ the burnt ’ouse. Why?”

“’Cause I’ll come an’ see you, Jim. I’d like to see a live fairy in plain clo’se, with her wings off—”

The rest of the sentence was cut short by the clown, who, having disposed of the old arm-chair to a chimney-sweep, ordered Jim to “’and up another harticle.” At the same moment Frank touched Willie on the shoulder, and said, “Let’s go, lad; I’ll be late, I fear, for the gymnastics.”

At the period of which we write, the then Chief of the London Fire Brigade, Mr Braidwood, had introduced a system of gymnastic training among the firemen, which he had found from experience to be a most useful exercise to fit the men for the arduous work they had to perform. Before going to London to take command of and reorganise the brigade which then went by the name of the London Fire-Engine Establishment, and was in a very unsatisfactory condition, Mr Braidwood had, for a long period, been chief of the Edinburgh Fire Brigade, which he had brought to a state of great efficiency. Taking the requirements and conditions of the service in Edinburgh into consideration, he had come to the conclusion that the best men for the work in that city were masons, house-carpenters, slaters, and suchlike; but these men, when at their ordinary employments, being accustomed to bring only certain muscles into full play, were found to have a degree of stiffness in their general movements which prevented them from performing their duty as firemen with that ease and celerity which are so desirable. To obviate this evil he instituted the gymnastic exercises, which, by bringing all the muscles of the body into action, and by increasing the development of the frame generally, rendered the men lithe and supple, and in every way more fitted for the performance of duties in which their lives frequently depended on their promptitude and vigour.

In addition to these advantages, it was found that those exercises gave the men confidence when placed in certain situations of danger. “For example,” writes Mr Braidwood, “a fireman untrained in gymnastics, on the third or fourth floor of a burning house, with the branch in his hands, who is uncertain as to his means of escape, in the event of his return by the stair being cut off, will be too much concerned about his own safety to render much service, and will certainly not be half so efficient as the experienced gymnast, who, with a hatchet and eighty feet of rope at his waist, and a window near him, feels himself in comparative security, knowing that he has the means and the power of lowering himself easily and safely into the street”—a knowledge which not only gives him confidence, but enables him to give his undistracted attention to the exigencies of the fire.

It was to attend this gymnastic class that Frank now turned aside, and proposed to bid Willie goodbye; but Willie begged to be taken into the room. Frank complied, and the boy soon found himself in an apartment fitted up with all the appliances of a gymnasium, where a number of powerful young men were leaping, vaulting, climbing, and in other ways improving their physical powers. Frank joined them, and for a long time Willie stood in rapt and envious contemplation of the busy scene.

At first he could not avoid feeling that there seemed a good deal more of play than business in their doings; but his admiration of the scene deepened when he remembered the bold acts of the firemen at Beverly Square, and recognised some of the faces of the men who had been on duty there, and reflected that these very men, who seemed thus to be playing themselves, would on that very night, in all probability, be called upon to exert these powers sternly and seriously, yet coolly, in the midst of scenes of terror and confusion, and in the face of imminent personal danger.

Brooding over these things, Willie, having at length torn himself away, hastened on his pilgrimage to London Bridge.

Chapter Ten.

Difficulties and Dissipations.

In a very small office, situate in a very large warehouse, in that great storehouse of the world’s wealth, Tooley Street, sat a clerk named Edward Hooper.

Among his familiar friends Edward was better known by the name of Ned.

He was seated on the top of a tall three-legged stool, which, to judge from the uneasy and restless motions of its occupant, must have been a peculiarly uncomfortable seat indeed.

There was a clock on the wall just opposite to Ned’s desk, which that young gentleman was in the habit of consulting frequently—very frequently—and comparing with his watch, as if he doubted its veracity. This was very unreasonable, for he always found that the two timepieces told the truth; at least, that they agreed with each other. Nevertheless, in his own private heart, Ned Hooper thought that clock—and sometimes called it—“the slowest piece of ancient furniture he had ever seen.”

During one of Ned’s comparisons of the two timepieces the door opened, and Mr Auberly entered, with a dark cloud, figuratively speaking, on his brow.

At the same moment the door of an inner office opened, and Mr Auberly’s head clerk, who had seen his employer’s approach through the dusty window, issued forth and bowed respectfully, with a touch of condolence in his air, as he referred with much regret to the fire at Beverly Square, and hoped that Miss Auberly was not much the worse of her late alarm.

“Well, she is not the better for it,” said Mr Auberly; “but I hope she will be quite well soon. Indeed, the doctor assures me of this, if care is taken of her. I wish that was the only thing on my mind just now; but I am perplexed about another matter, Mr Quill. Are you alone?”

“Quite alone, sir,” said Quill, throwing open the door of the inner office.

“I want to consult with you about Frederick,” said Mr Auberly as he entered.

The door shut out the remainder of the consultation at this point, so Edward Hooper consulted the clock again and sighed.

If sighs could have delivered Hooper from his sorrows, there is no doubt that the accumulated millions of which he was delivered in that office, during the last five years, would have filled him with a species of semi-celestial bliss.

At last, the hands of the clock reached the hour, the hour that was wont to evoke Ned’s last sigh and set him free; but it was an aggravating clock. Nothing would persuade it to hurry. It would not, for all the untold wealth contained in the great stores of Tooley Street, have abated the very last second of the last minute of the hour. On the contrary, it went through that second quite as slowly as all the others. Ned fancied it went much slower at that one on purpose; and then, with a sneaking parade of its intention to begin to strike, it gave a prolonged hiss, and did its duty, and nothing but its duty; by striking the hour at a pace so slow, that it recalled forcibly to Ned Hooper’s imaginative mind, “the minute-gun at sea.”

There was a preliminary warning given by that clock some time before the premonitory hiss. Between this harbinger of coming events, and the joyful sound which was felt to be “an age,” Ned was wont to wipe his pen and arrange his papers. When the hiss began, he invariably closed his warehouse book and laid it in the desk, and had the desk locked before the first stroke of the hour. While the “minute-gun at sea” was going on, he changed his office-coat for a surtout, not perfectly new, and a white hat with a black band, the rim of which was not perfectly straight. So exact and methodical was Ned in these operations, that his hand usually fell on the door-latch as the last gun was fired by the aggravating clock. On occasions of unusual celerity he even managed to drown the last shot in the bang of the door, and went off with a sensation of triumph.

On the present occasion, however, Ned Hooper deemed it politic to be so busy, that he could not attend to the warnings of the timepiece. He even sat on his stool a full quarter of an hour beyond the time of departure. At length, Mr Auberly issued forth.

“Mr Quill,” said he, “my mind is made up, so it is useless to urge such considerations on me. Good-night.”

Mr Quill, whose countenance was sad, looked as though he would willingly have urged the considerations referred to over again, and backed them up with a few more; but Mr Auberly’s tone was peremptory, so he only opened the door, and bowed the great man out.

“You can go, Hooper,” said Mr Quill, retiring slowly to the inner office, “I will lock up. Send the porter here.”

This was a quite unnecessary permission. Quill, being a good-natured, easy-going man, never found fault with Ned Hooper, and Ned being a presumptuous young fellow, though good-humoured enough, never waited for Mr Quill’s permission to go. He was already in the act of putting on the white hat; and, two seconds afterwards, was in the street wending his way homeward.

There was a tavern named the “Angel” at the corner of one of the streets off Tooley Street, which Edward Hooper had to pass every evening on his way home. Ned, we grieve to say, was fond of his beer; he always found it difficult to pass a tavern. Yet, curiously enough, he never found any difficulty in passing this tavern; probably because he always went in and slaked his thirst before passing it.

“Good evening, Mr Hooper,” said the landlord, who was busy behind his counter serving a motley and disreputable crew.

Hooper nodded in reply, and said good evening to Mrs Butler, who attended to the customers at another part of the counter.

“Good evenin’, sir. W’at’ll you ’ave to-night, sir?”

“Pot o’ the same, Mrs B,” replied Ned.

This was the invariable question and reply, for Ned was a man of regularity and method in everything that affected his personal comforts. Had he brought one-tenth of this regularity and method to bear on his business conduct, he would have been a better and a happier man.

The foaming pot was handed, and Ned conversed with Mrs Butler while he enjoyed it, and commenced his evening, which usually ended in semi-intoxication.

Meanwhile, Edward Hooper’s “chum” and fellow-lodger sat in their mutual chamber awaiting him.

John Barret did not drink, but he smoked; and, while waiting for his companion, he solaced himself with a pipe. He was a fine manly fellow, very different from Ned; who, although strong of limb and manly enough, was slovenly in gait and dress, and bore unmistakable marks of dissipation about him.

“Very odd; he’s later than usual,” muttered Barret, as he glanced out at the window, and then at the tea-table, which, with the tea-service, and, indeed everything in the room, proved that the young men were by no means wealthy.

“He’ll be taking an extra pot at the ‘Angel,’” muttered John Barret, proceeding to re-light his pipe, while he shook his head gravely; “but he’ll be here soon.”

A foot on the stair caused Barret to believe that he was a true prophet; but the rapidity and firmness of the step quickly disabused him of that idea.

The door was flung open with a crash, and a hearty youth with glowing eyes strode in.

“Fred Auberly!” exclaimed Barret in surprise.

“Won’t you welcome me?” demanded Fred.

“Welcome you? Of course I will, most heartily, old boy!” cried Barret, seizing his friend’s hand and wringing it; “but if you burst in on a fellow unexpectedly in this fashion, and with such wild looks, why—”

“Well, well, don’t explain, man; I hate explanations. I have come here for sympathy,” said Fred Auberly, shutting the door and sitting down by the fire.

“Sympathy, Fred?”

“Ay, sympathy. When a man is in distress he naturally craves for sympathy, and he turns, also naturally, to those who can and will give it—not to everybody, John Barret—only to those who can feel with him as well as for him. I am in distress, John, and ever since you and I fought our first and last battle at Eton, I have found you a true sympathiser. So now, is your heart ready to receive the flood of my sorrows?”

Young Auberly said the latter part of this in a half-jesting tone, but he was evidently in earnest, so his friend replied by squeezing his hand warmly, and saying, “Let’s hear about it, Fred,” while he re-lighted his pipe.

“You have but a poor lodging here, John,” said Auberly, looking round the room.

Barret turned on his friend a quick look of surprise, and then said, with a smile:

“Well, I admit that it is not quite equal to a certain mansion in Beverly Square that I wot of, but it’s good enough for a poor clerk in an insurance office.”

“You are right,” continued Auberly; “it is not equal to that mansion, whose upper floors are at this moment a chevaux-de-frise of charcoal beams and rafters depicted on a dark sky, and whose lower floors are a fantastic compound of burned bricks and lime, broken boards, and blackened furniture.”

“You don’t mean to say there’s been a fire?” exclaimed Barret.

“And you don’t mean to tell me, do you, that a clerk in a fire insurance office does not know it?”

“I have been ill for two days,” returned Barret, “and have not seen the papers; but I’m very sorry to hear of it; indeed I am. The house is insured, of course?”

“I believe it is,” replied Fred carelessly; “but that is not what troubles me.”

“No?” exclaimed his friend.

“No,” replied the other. “If the house had not been insured my father has wealth enough in those abominably unpicturesque stores in Tooley Street to rebuild the whole of Beverly Square if it were burnt down. The fire costs me not a thought, although, by the way, it nearly cost me my life, in a vain attempt I made to rescue my poor dear sister Loo—”

“Vain attempt!” exclaimed Barret, with a look of concern.

“Ay, vain, as far as I was concerned; but a noble fireman—a fellow that would make a splendid model for Hercules in the Life Academy—sprang to the rescue after me and saved her. God bless him! Dear Loo has got a severe shake, but the doctors say that we have only to take good care of her, and she will do well. But to return to my woes. Listen, John, and you shall hear.”

Fred Auberly paused, as though meditating how he should commence.

“You know,” said he, “that I am my father’s only son, and Loo his only daughter.”

“Yes.”

“Well, my father has disinherited me and left the whole of his fortune to Loo. As far as dear Loo is concerned I am glad; for myself I am sad, for it is awkward, to say the least of it, to have been brought up with unlimited command of pocket-money, and expectations of considerable wealth, and suddenly to find myself all but penniless, without a profession and without expectations, at the age of twenty-two.”

He paused and looked at his friend, who sat in mute amazement.

“Failing Loo,” continued Fred calmly, “my father’s fortune goes to some distant relative.”

“But why? wherefore?” exclaimed Barret.

“You shall hear,” continued Auberly. “You are aware that ever since I was able to burn the end of a stick and draw faces on the nursery-door, I have had a wild, insatiable passion for drawing; and ever since the memorable day on which I was whipped by my father, and kissed, tearfully, by my beloved mother, for caricaturing our cook on the dining-room window with a diamond-ring, I have had an earnest, unextinguishable desire to become a—a painter, an artist, a dauber, a dirtier of canvas. D’ye understand?”

“Perfectly,” said Barret.

“Well, my father has long been resolved, it seems, to make me a man of business, for which I have no turn whatever. You are aware that for many years I have dutifully slaved and toiled at these heavy books in our office—which have proved so heavy that they have nearly squeezed the soul out of me—and instead of coming to like them better (as I was led to believe I should), I have only come to hate them more. During all this time, too, I have been studying painting late and early, and although I have not gone through the regular academical course, I have studied much in the best of all schools, that of Nature. I have urged upon my father repeatedly and respectfully, that it is possible for me to uphold the credit of the family as a painter; that, as the business can be carried on by subordinates, there is no necessity for me to be at the head of it; and that, as he has made an ample fortune already, the half of which he had told me was to be mine, I would be quite satisfied with my share, and did not want any more. But my father would never listen to my arguments. The last time we got on the subject he called me a mean-spirited fellow, and said he was sorry I had ever been born; whereupon I expressed regret that he had not been blessed with a more congenial and satisfactory son, and tried to point out that it was impossible to change my nature. Then I urged all the old arguments over again, and wound up by saying that even if I were to become possessor of the whole of his business to-morrow, I would sell it off, take to painting as a profession, and become the patron of aspiring young painters from that date forward!

“To my surprise and consternation, this last remark put him in such a towering rage, that he vowed he would disinherit me, if I did not then and there throw my palette and brushes into the fire. Of course, I declined to do such an act, whereupon he dismissed me from his presence for ever. This occurred on the morning of the day of the fire. I thought he might perhaps relent after such an evidence of the mutability of human affairs. I even ventured to remind him that Tooley Street was not made of asbestos, and that an occasional fire occurred there! But this made him worse than ever; so I went the length of saying that I would, at all events, in deference to his wishes, continue to go to the office at least for some time to come. But, alas! I had roused him to such a pitch that he refused to hear of it, unless I should ‘throw my palette and brushes into the fire!’ Flesh and blood, you know, could not do that, so I left him, and walked off twenty miles into the country to relieve my feelings. There I fell in with such a splendid ‘bit;’ a sluice, with a stump of a tree, and a winding bit of water with overhanging willows, and a peep of country beyond! I sat down and sketched, and forgot my woes, and rejoiced in the fresh air and delightful sounds of birds, and cows, and sheep, and hated to think of Tooley Street. Then I slept in a country inn, walked back to London next day, and, voilà! here I am!”

“Don’t you think, Fred, that time will soften your father?”

“No, I don’t think it. On the contrary, I know it won’t. He is a good man; but he has an iron will, which I never saw subdued.”

“Then, my dear Fred, I advise you to consider the propriety of throwing your palette and brushes into—”

“My dear John, I did not come here for your advice. I came for your sympathy.”

“And you have it, Fred,” cried Barret earnestly. “But have you really such an unconquerable love for painting?”

“Have I really!” echoed Fred. “Do you think I would have come to such a pass as this for a trifle? Why, man, you have no idea how my soul longs for the life of a painter, for the free fresh air of the country, for the poetry of the woods, the water, and the sky, for the music of bird and beast and running brook. You know the true proverb, ‘Man made the town; but God made the country!’”

“What,” asked Barret, “would become of the town, if all men thought as you do?”

“Oh! John Barret, has town life so marred your once fine intellect, that you put such a question in earnest? Suppose I answer it by another: What would become of the country if all men thought and acted as you do?”

Barret smiled and smoked.

“And what,” continued Auberly, “would become of the fine arts if all men delighted in dirt, dust, dullness, and desks? Depend upon it, John, that our tastes and tendencies are not the result of accident; they were given to us for a purpose. I hold it as an axiom that when a man or a boy has a strong and decided bias or partiality for any particular work that he knows something about, he has really a certain amount of capacity for that work beyond the average of men, and is led thereto by a higher power than that of man. Do not misunderstand me. I do not say that, when a boy expresses a longing desire to enter the navy or the army, he has necessarily an aptitude for these professions. Far from it. He has only a romantic notion of something about which, experimentally, he knows nothing; but, when man or boy has put his hand to any style of work, and thereafter loves it and longs after it, I hold that that is the work for which he was destined, and for which he is best suited.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Barret, smoking harder than ever. “At all events, I heartily sympathise with you, and—”

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a loud burst of whistling, as the street-door opened and the strains of “Rule Britannia” filled the entire building. The music was interrupted by the sudden opening of another door, and a rough growl from a male voice.

“Don’t get waxy, old feller,” said the performer in a youthful voice, “I ain’t a-goin’ to charge you nothink for it. I always do my music gratis; havin’ a bee-nevolient turn o’ mind.”

The door was slammed violently, and “Rule Britannia” immediately burst forth with renewed and pointed emphasis.

Presently it ceased, and a knock came to Barret’s door.

“Well, what d’ye want, you noisy scamp?” said Barret, flinging the door open, and revealing the small figure of Willie Willders.

“Please, sir,” said Willie, consulting the back of a note; “are you Mister T–Tom—Tupper, Esquire?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Ain’t there sitch a name in the house?”

“No, not that I know of.”

Willie’s face looked blank.

“Well, I was told he lived here,” he muttered, again consulting the note.

“Here, let me look,” said Barret, taking the note from the boy. “This is Tippet, not Tupper. He lives in the top floor. By the way, Auberly,” said Barret, glancing over his shoulder, “Isn’t Tom Tippet a sort of connection of yours?”

“Yes; a distant one,” said Fred carelessly, “too distant to make it worth while our becoming acquainted. He’s rich and eccentric, I’m told. Assuredly, he must be the latter if he lives in such a hole as this. What are you staring at, boy?”

This question was put to Willie.

“Please, sir, are you the Mr Auberly who was a’most skumfished with smoke at the Beverly Square fire t’other day, in tryin’ to git hold o’ yer sister?”

Fred could not but smile as he admitted the fact.

“Please, sir, I hope yer sister ain’t the wuss of it, sir.”

“Not much, I hope; thank you for inquiring; but how come you to know about the fire, and to be interested in my sister?”

“’Cause I was there, sir; an’ it was my brother, sir, Frank Willders, as saved your sister.”

“Was it, indeed!” exclaimed Fred, becoming suddenly interested. “Come, let me hear more about your brother.”

Willie, nothing loth, related every fact he was acquainted with in regard to Frank’s career, and his own family history, in the course of which he revealed the object of his visit to Mr Tippet. When he had finished, Frederick Auberly shook hands with him and said:

“Now, Willie, go and deliver your note. If the application is successful, well; but if it fails, or you don’t like your work, just call upon me, and I’ll see what can be done for you.”

“Yes, sir, and thankee,” said Willie; “where did you say I was to call, sir?”

“Call at—eh—ah—yes, my boy, call here, and let my friend Mr Barret know you want to see me. He will let me know, and you shall hear from me. Just at present—well, never mind, go and deliver your note now. Your brother is a noble fellow. Good-night. And you’re a fine little fellow yourself,” he added, after Willie closed the door.

The fine little fellow gave vent to such a gush of “Rule Britannia” at the moment, that the two friends turned with a smile to each other.

Just then a man’s voice was heard at the foot of the stair, grumbling angrily. At the same moment young Auberly rose to leave.

“Good-night, Barret. I’ll write to you soon as to my whereabout and what about. Perhaps see you ere long.”

“Good-night. God prosper you, Fred. Good-night.”

As he spoke, the grumbler came stumbling along the passage.

“Good-night again, Fred,” said Barret, almost pushing his friend out. “I have a particular reason for not wishing you to see the fr–, the man who is coming in.”

“All right, old fellow,” said Fred as he passed out, and drew up against the wall to allow a drunken man to stumble heavily into the room.

Next moment he was in the street hastening he knew not whither; but following the old and well-known route to Beverly Square.

Chapter Eleven.

Wonderful Plans.

When Willie Willders knocked at Tom Tippet’s door, at the top of the house, a rich jovial bass voice cried, “Come in.” So Willie went in, and stood before a stout old gentleman, whose voluminous whiskers, meeting below his chin, made ample amends for the total absence of hair from the top of his head.

Mr Tippet stood, without coat or vest, and with his braces tied round his waist, at a carpenter’s bench, holding a saw in his right hand, and a piece of wood in his left.

“Well, my lad, what’s your business?” he inquired in the voice of a stentor, and with the beaming smile of an elderly cherub.

“Please, sir, a note—from a lady.”

“I wish your message had been verbal, boy. It’s so difficult to read ladies’ hands; they’re so abominably angular, and—where are my specs? I’ve a mind to have ’em screw-nailed to my nose. Ah! here they are.”

He found them under a jack-plane and a mass of shavings; put them on and read the note, while Willie took the opportunity of observing that Mr Tippet’s room was a drawing-room, parlour, dining-room, workshop, and old curiosity-shop, all in one. A half-open door revealed the fact that an inner chamber contained Mr Tippet’s bed, and an indescribable mass of machinery and models in every stage of progression, and covered with dust, more or less thick in exact proportion to their respective ages. A dog and cat lay side by side on the hearth asleep, and a small fire burned in a grate, on the sides of which stood a variety of crucibles and such-like articles and a glue-pot; also a tea-pot and kettle.

“You want a situation in my office as a clerk?” inquired Mr Tippet, tearing up his sister’s letter, and throwing it into the fire.

“If you please, sir,” said Willie.

“Ha! are you good at writing and ciphering?”

“Middlin’, sir.”

“Hum! D’you know where my office is, and what it is?”

“No, sir.”

“What would you say now,” asked Mr Tippet, seating himself on his bench, or rather on the top of a number of gimblets and chisels and files and pincers that lay on it; “what would you say now to sitting from morning till night in a dusty ware-room, where the light is so feeble that it can scarcely penetrate the dirt that encrusts the windows, writing in books that are so greasy that the ink can hardly be got to mark the paper? How would you like that, William Willders—eh?”

“I don’t know, sir,” replied Willie, with a somewhat depressed look.

“Of course you don’t, yet that is the sort of place you’d have to work in, boy, if I engaged you, for that is a correct description of my warehouse. I’m a sleeping partner in the firm. D’ye know what that is, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it’s a partner that does no work; but I’m wide-awake for all that, an’ have a pretty good notion of what is going on there. Now, lad, if I were to take you in, what would you say to 5 pounds a year?”

“It don’t sound much, sir,” said Willie bluntly, “but if you take me in with the understandin’ that I’m to work my way up’ards, I don’t mind about the pay at first.”

“Good,” said Mr Tippet, with a nod of approval. “What d’ye think of my workshop?” he added, looking round with a cherubic smile.

“It’s a funny place,” responded Willie, with a grin.

“A funny place—eh? Well, I daresay it is, lad, in your eyes; but let me tell you, it is a place of deep interest, and, I may add without vanity, importance. There are inventions here, all in a state bordering more or less upon completion, which will, when brought into operation, modify the state of society very materially in many of its most prominent phases. Here, for instance, is a self-acting galvano-hydraulic engine, which will entirely supersede the use of steam, and, by preventing the consumption of coal now going on, will avert, or at least postpone, the decline of the British Empire. Able men have calculated that, in the course of a couple of hundred years or so, our coal-beds will be exhausted. I have gone over their calculations and detected several flaws in them, which, when corrected, show a very different result—namely, that in seventeen or eighteen years from this time there will not be an ounce of coal in the kingdom!”

Mr Tippet paused to observe the effect of this statement. Willie having never heard of such things before, and having a thoughtful and speculative as well as waggish turn of mind, listened with open eyes and mouth and earnest attention, so Mr Tippet went on:

“The frightful consequences of such a state of things you may conceive, or rather they are utterly inconceivable. Owing to the foundations of the earth having been cut away, it is more than probable that the present coal districts of the United Kingdom will collapse, the ocean will rush in, and several of our largest counties will become salt-water lakes. Besides this, coal being the grand source of our national wealth, its sudden failure will entail national bankruptcy. The barbarians of Europe, taking advantage of our condition, will pour down upon us, and the last spark of true civilisation in our miserable world will be extinguished—the last refuge for the hunted foot of persecuted Freedom will be finally swept from the face of the earth!”

Here Mr Tippet brought the saw down on the bench with such violence, that the dog and cat started incontinently to their legs, and Willie himself was somewhat shaken.

“Now,” continued Mr Tippet, utterly regardless of the sensation he had created, and wiping the perspiration from his shining head with a handful of shavings; “now, William Willders, all this may be, shall be, prevented by the adoption of the galvano-hydraulic engine, and the consequent restriction of the application of coal to the legitimate purposes of warming our dwellings and cooking our victuals. I mean to bring this matter before the Home Secretary whenever I have completed my invention, which, however, is not quite perfected.

“Then, again,” continued Mr Tippet, becoming more and more enthusiastic as he observed the deep impression his explanations were making on Willie, who stood glaring at him in speechless amazement, “here you have my improved sausage-machine for converting all animal substances into excellent sausages. I hold that every animal substance is more or less good for food, and that it is a sad waste to throw away bones and hair, etcetera, etcetera, merely because these substances are unpalatable or difficult to chew. Now, my machine gets over this difficulty. You cut an animal up just as it is killed, and put it into the machine—hair, skin, bones, blood, and all—and set it in motion by turning on the galvano-hydraulic fluid. Delicious sausages are the result in about twenty minutes.

“You see my dog there—Chips I call him, because he dwells in the midst of chips and shavings; he sleeps upon chips, and if he does not exactly eat chips, he lives upon scraps which have a strong resemblance to them. The cat has no name. I am partial to the time-honoured name of ‘Puss.’ Besides, a cat is not worthy of a name. Physically speaking, it is only a bundle of living fur—a mere mass of soft animated nature, as Goldsmith would express it. Intellectually it is nothing—a sort of existent nonentity, a moral void on which a name would be utterly thrown away. Well, I could take these two animals, Chips and Puss, put them in here (alive, too, for there is a killing apparatus in the instrument which will effectually do away with the cruel process of slaughtering, and with its accompanying nuisances of slaughter-houses and butchers)—put them in here, I say, and in twenty minutes they would be ground up into sausages.

“I know that enemies to progress, ignorant persons and the like, will scoff at this, and say it is similar to the American machine, into one end of which you put a tree, and it comes out at the other end in the shape of ready-made furniture. But such scoffs will cease, while my invention will live. I am not bigoted, William. There may be good objections to my inventions, and great difficulties connected with them, but the objections I will answer, and the difficulties I will overcome.

“This instrument,” continued Mr Tippet, pointing to a huge beam, which leant against the end of the small apartment, “is only a speculative effort of mine. It is meant to raise enormous weights, such as houses. I have long felt it to be most desirable that people should be able to raise their houses from their foundations by the strength of a few men, and convey them to other localities, either temporarily or permanently. I have not succeeded yet, but I see my way to success; and, after all, the idea is not new. You can see it partially carried out by an enterprising company in this city, whose enormous vans will remove the whole furniture of a drawing-room, almost as it stands, without packing. My chief difficulty is with the fulcrum; but that is a difficulty that met the philosopher of old. You have heard of Archimedes, William—the man who said he could make a lever big enough to move the world, if he could only get a fulcrum to rest it on. But Archimedes was weak in that point. He ought to have known that, even if he did get such a fulcrum, he would still have required another world as long as his lever, to enable him to walk out to the end of it. No, by the way, he might have walked on the lever itself! That did not occur to me before. He might even have ridden along it. Come, that’s a new idea. Let me see.”

In order the better to “see,” Mr Tippet dropt the piece of wood from his left hand, and pressed his fingers into both eyes, so as to shut out all earthly objects, and enable him to take an undistracted survey of the chambers of his mind. Returning suddenly from the investigation, he exclaimed:

“Yes, William, I don’t quite see my way to it; but I can perceive dimly the possibility of Archimedes having so formed his lever, that a line of rails might have been run along the upper side of it, from the fulcrum to the other end.”

“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Willie, who, having become excited, was entering eagerly into his patron’s speculations, and venting an occasional remark in the height of his enthusiasm.

“Such a thing might be done,” continued Mr Tippet emphatically; “a small carriage—on the galvano-hydraulic principle, of course—might run to and fro—”

“With passengers,” suggested Willie.

“Well—with passengers,” assented Mr Tippet, smiling. “Of course, the lever would be very large—extremely large. Yes, there might be passengers.”

“An’ stations along the line?” said Willie.

Mr Tippet knitted his brows.

“Ye–yes—why not?” he said slowly. “Of course, the lever would be very long, extremely long, and it might be necessary to stop the carriages on the way out. There might be breadth sufficient on the lever to plant small side stations.”

“An’ twenty minutes allowed for refreshments,” suggested Willie.

“Why, as to that,” said Mr Tippet, “if we stop at all, there could be no reasonable objection to refreshments, although it is probable we might find it difficult to get anyone sufficiently enterprising to undertake the supply of such a line; for, you know, if the lever were to slip at the fulcrum and fall—”

“Oh!” exclaimed Willie, “wouldn’t there be a smash; neither!”

“The danger of people falling off, too,” continued Mr Tippet, “might be prevented by railings run along the extreme edges of the lever.”

“Yes,” interrupted Willie, whose vivid imagination, unused to such excitement, had taken the bit in its teeth and run away with him; “an’ spikes put on ’em to keep the little boys from swinging on ’em, an’ gettin’ into mischief. Oh! what jolly fun it would be. Only think! we’d advertise cheap excursion trains along the Arkimeedis Line, Mondays an’ Toosdays. Fares, two hundred pounds, fust class. No seconds or parleys allowed for love or money. Starts from the Fuddlecrum Sta—”

“Fulcrum,” said Mr Tippet, correcting.

“Fulcrum Station,” resumed Willie, “at 2:30 a.m. of the mornin’ precisely. Stops at the Quarter, Half-way, an’ Three-quarter Stations, allowin’ twenty minutes, more or less, for grub—weather permittin’.”

“Your observations are quaint,” said Mr Tippet, with a smile; “but there is a great deal of truth in them. No doubt, the connection of such ideas, especially as put by you, sounds a little ludicrous; but when we come to analyse them, we see their possibility, for, if a lever of the size indicated by the ancient philosopher were erected (and theoretically, the thing is possible), then the subordinate arrangements as to a line of railway and stations, etcetera, would be mere matters of detail. It might be advertised, too, that the balance of the lever would be so regulated, that, on the arrival of the train at the terminus, the world would rise (a fact which might be seen by the excursionists, by the aid of enormous telescopes, much better than by the people at home), and that, on the return of the train, the world would again sink to its ancient level.

“There would be considerable risk, no doubt,” continued Mr Tippet meditatively, “of foolish young men and boys getting over the rails in sport or bravado, and falling off into the depths of illimitable profundity, but—”

“We could have bobbies stationed along the line,” interrupted Willie, “an’ tickets put up warnin’ the passengers not to give ’em money on no account wotsomedever, on pain o’ bein’ charged double fare for the first offence, an’ pitched over the rails into illimidibble pro-what’s-’is-name for the second.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, William,” said Mr Tippet suddenly, getting off the bench and seizing the boy’s hand, “your talents would be wasted in my office. You’ll come and assist me here in the workshop. I’m greatly in want of an intelligent lad who can use his hands; but, by the way, can you use your hands? Here, cut this piece of wood smooth, with that knife.”

He handed Willie a piece of cross-grained wood and a blunt knife.

Willie looked at both, smiled, and shook his head.

“It would take a cleverer feller than me to do it; but I’ll try.”

Willie did try; after a quarter of an hour spent in vain attempts, he threw down the wood and knife exclaiming, “It’s impossible.”

Mr Tippet, who had been smiling cherubically, and nodding approval, said:

“I knew it was impossible, my lad, when I gave it to you, and I now know that you are both neat-handed and persevering; so, if you choose, I’ll engage you on the spot to come on trial for a week. After that we will settle the remuneration. Meanwhile, shake hands again, and allow me to express to you my appreciation of the noble character of your brother, who, I understand from my sister’s letter, saved a young relative of mine from the midst of imminent danger. Good-night, William, and come to me on Monday next, at nine o’clock in the morning.”

Willie was somewhat perplexed at this prompt dismissal (for Mr Tippet had opened the door), especially after such a long and free-and-easy conversation, and he felt that, however much license Mr Tippet might permit, he was a man of stern will, who could not be resisted with impunity; so, although he was burning to know the object and nature of innumerable strange pieces of mechanism in the workshop, he felt constrained to make a polite bow and depart.

On his way downstairs, he heard the voices of men as if in angry disputation; and on reaching the next floor, found Mr Barret standing at the open door of his room, endeavouring to hold Ned Hooper, who was struggling violently.

“I tell you,” said the latter, in a drunken voice, “that I w–will go out!”

“Come, Ned, not to-night; you can go to-morrow” said Barret soothingly, yet maintaining his hold of his friend.

“W–why not? ain’t night the best time to—to—be jolly?—eh! L–me go, I shay.”

He made a fierce struggle at this point; and Barret, ceasing to expostulate, seized him with a grasp that he could not resist, and dragged him forcibly, yet without unnecessary violence, into the room.

Next instant the door was shut with a bang and locked; so Willie Willders descended to the street, and turned his face homewards, moralising as he went on the evils of drink.

It was a long way to Notting Hill; but it was not long enough to enable Willie to regain his wonted nonchalance. He had seen and heard too much that night to permit of his equilibrium being restored. He pursed his mouth several times into the form of a round O, and began “Rule Britannia”; but the sounds invariably died at the part where the “charter of the land” is brought forward. He tried “The Bay of Biscay, O!” with no better success, never being able to get farther than “lightning’s vivid powers,” before his mind was up in the clouds, or in Mr Tippet’s garret, or out on the Archimedes-Lever Railway.

Thus wandering in dreams he reached home, talked wildly to his anxious mother, and went to bed in a state of partial insanity.

Chapter Twelve.

A Little Domestic Chit-Chat.

One night, not long after the events narrated in the last chapter, Frank Willders was standing with the fireman-in-charge in the King Street Station. He had just removed his helmet, and the perspiration on his brow showed that he had been but recently engaged in some active duty; as indeed was the case, for he had just returned from a “walk” to a fire in Whitechapel.

“It was only a small affair,” said Frank, hanging up his helmet and axe, and sitting down to fill his pipe; “a low beer-shop in Brook Street; the taproom burnt out, and the rest of the house damaged by smoke. It was pretty well over before I got there, and I left half an hour after. Where are the rest o’ the lads?”

“They’re out wi’ both engines,” said Baxmore, who was busy making a memorandum on a slate.

“With both engines!” said Frank.

“Ay, both,” replied Baxmore, with a laugh, as he sat down in front of the fire. “Let me see; it’s now nine o’clock, so they’ve bin off an hour; one to Walton Street, Brompton; the other to Porchester Terrace, Bayswater. The call was the queerest I’ve seen for many a day. We was all sittin’ here smokin’ our pipes, as usual, when two fellers came to the door, full split, from opposite pints o’ the compass, an’ run slap into each other. They looked like gentlemen; but they was in such a state it wasn’t easy to make out what sort o’ fish they was. One had his coat torn and his hat gone; the other had his tile pretty well knocked down on his eyes—I s’pose by the people he run into on the way—an’ both were half-mad with excitement. They both stuttered, too—that was the fun o’ the thing, and they seemed to think each was takin’ off the other, and got into a most awful rage. My own opinion is, that one stuttered by nature, an’ the other stuttered from fright. Anyhow, they both stuttered together, and a precious mess they made of it.

“‘F–F–F–Fire!’ roared one.

“‘F–F–F–Fire!’ yelled the other.

“‘Where away?’ asked Mr Dale, looking quietly at the two men, who were gasping for breath.

“‘B–B–B–Brompton,’ ‘B–B–B–Bayswater!’ they shouted together; and then, turnin’ fiercely on each other, the one said ‘N–N–N–No!’ and the other said ‘N–N–N–No!’ ‘Now, which is it?’ said Dale, ‘an’ be quick—do.’

“‘B–B–B–Brompton!’

“‘B–B–B–Bayswater!’ in a breath; then says one, ‘I—I s–s–say Brompton!’ an’ the other, he says, ‘I—I s–s–say Bayswater!’

“At this they grew furious, and Dale tried to calm them and settle the question by asking the name of the street.

“‘W–W–Walton S–Street!’ cried one.

“‘P–P–P–Porchester T–T–Terrace!’ shouted the other.

“‘N–N–No!’ ‘Y–Y–Yes!’ ‘N–No!’ an’ with that, one up fist an’ hit the other a crack between the eyes. T’other returned on the nob, and then they closed.

“Before this Mr Dale had ordered out one o’ the engines, an’ when he heard the two streets named it occurred to him that there might be two fires, so he ordered out the other engine; and before we got the stutterers separated both engines were off full swing, one to Brompton, the other to Bayswater; but whether there are two fires or no is yet to be seen.”

Just as Baxmore concluded, the rattle of a returning engine was heard. Next moment it dashed up to the door, and the firemen, leaping off, streamed into the station, where; amid much comment and some laughter at the scene they had so recently witnessed, they hung up their helmets and crowded round the fire.

“So it was in Brompton, after all,” said Jack Williams, stirring the coals; “but it was a small affair in a baker’s shop, and we soon got it out.”

“Is the other engine back?” inquired Moxey.

“Here she comes to answer for herself,” said Mason, as the second engine dashed up to the station, and the men were joined by their comrades.

“We’ve got it out,” said Dale, sitting down before the desk to enter the particulars in his diary; “it was a private house, and well alight when we got there, but the Paddington engine was playing on it, and we soon got it under.”

“Faix, it’s well them stutterers didn’t kape us longer, else the whole house would have bin burnt out intirely,” observed Joe Corney, binding up a slight wound in his thumb, which he had received from a splinter.

Most of the men were more or less begrimed with charcoal and smoke, and otherwise bore marks of their recent sharp though short skirmish, but none of them deemed it necessary to remove these evidences of devotion to duty until they had refreshed themselves with a pipe.

“Were there people in the house?” inquired Frank.

“Ay, but Pickford was there with the escape, an’ got ’em all out before we came up,” said one.

“Pickford said he couldn’t help laughing after he got ’em out, at the remembrance o’ their faces. When he first went in they was all sound asleep in the top floor, for the smoke was only beginnin’ to show there, an’ the surprise they got when he jump in among ’em an’ shouted was wonderful to behold.”

“Not so wonderful,” observed Bill Moxey, “as the surprise I seed a whole man-o’-war’s crew get by consequence o’ the shout o’ one of her own men.”

“When was that? Let’s hear about it, Bill,” said Corney, stuffing down the tobacco in his pipe, and firing a battery of cloudlets into the air.

“We was in the Red Sea at the time,” said Moxey, clearing his throat, “layin’ at anchor, and a precious hot time we had of it. There was never a cloud a’most in the sky, and the sun was nigh hot enough to fry the decks off the ship. Cook said he’d half a mind to try to roast a junk o’ beef at it, but I never heard that he managed that. We slep’ on deck o’ nights, ’cause you might as well have tried to sleep in a baker’s oven as sleep below. The thing that troubled us most at that time was a tiger we had on board. It did kick up such a shindy sometimes! We thought it would break its cage an make a quid o’ some of us. I forget who sent it to us—p’raps it was the Pasha of Egypt; anyhow we weren’t sorry when the order was given to put the tiger ashore.

“Well, the same day that we got rid o’ the tiger we was sent aboard a Malay ship to flog one o’ the men. He’n bin up to some mischief, an’ his comrades were afraid, I s’pose, to flog him; and as the offence he had committed was against us somehow (I never rightly understood it myself), some of us went aboard the Malay ship, tied him up, an’ gave him two dozen.

“That night the whole ship’s company slep’ on deck as usual—officers as well—all but the cap’n, who had gone ashore. It was a tremendous hot night, an’ a good deal darker than usual. There was one man in the ship named Wilson; but we called him Bob Roarer, because of a habit he had of speakin’ an’ sometimes roarin’ in his sleep. Bob lay between me an’ the purser that night, an’ we slep’ on all right till it was getting pretty late, though there was two or three snorers that got their noses close to the deck an’ kep’ up a pretty fair imitation of a brass band. Suddenly Bob began to dream, or took a nightmare or somethin’, for he hit straight out with both fists, givin’ the purser a tap on the nob with his left, an’ diggin’ his right into my bread-basket with such good will that he nearly knocked all the wind out o’ me, at the same time he uttered a most appallin’ yell.

“The confusion that followed is past description.

“Some of us thought it was the tiger had broke loose,—forgettin’ that it had been sent ashore. Bob sneaked off the moment he found what he’d done, and the purser, thinkin’ it was pirates, grabbed the first he could lay hold of by the throat, and that was me, so to it we went tooth an’ nail, for I had no notion who was pitchin’ into me, it was so dark. Two of the men in their fright sprang up the main shrouds. Two others, who were asleep in the main-top, were awoke by the row, looked down on the starboard side, an’ saw the two comin’ up. Thinking it was the friends of the Malay who had been flogged coming to be revenged, they ran down the port shrouds like mad, and one o’ them rushed along the port-deck, stickin’ his feet into the bread-baskets of all the sleepers that hadn’t been woke by the yell, rousin’ them up an’ causin’ them to roar like bo’suns. The row woke the cook, who was a nigger; he, thinkin’ it was a sudden jollification, seized one o’ the coppers an’ began to beat it with an iron spoon. This set up the quartermaster, who rushed along the starboard deck, trampin’ upon the breasts and faces of all and sundry. The gunner thought it was the tiger, and took to the top of the awning; while the doctor and bo’s’n’s-mate they jumped over the side, and hung on by ropes up to their waists in water!

“At the worst o’ the confusion the cap’n came aboard. We didn’t see him, but he ordered silence, an’ after a while we discovered that there was no reason whatever for the shindy. It wasn’t till a long time afterwards that we found out the real cause of the false alarm; but the only man that got no fright that night, and kep’ quite cool, was the man who set it all agoin’—Bob Roarer.”

“What a feller you are, Bill, to talk blarney,” said Corney, rising and knocking the ashes out of his pipe; “sure, aither yer father or yer mother must have bin an Irishman.”

“Blarney or no blarney, them’s the facts,” said Moxey, yawning, “an’ I’m off to bed.”

“Ditto,” said Frank, stretching himself.

The two tressels, which were always removed from the room during the day, had been brought in, and were by this time occupied by Mason and Williams, whose duty it was to keep watch that night. Baxmore, the sub-engineer of the station, sat down at the desk to read over the events of the day, and the others rose to leave.

“By the way, Baxmore,” said Dale, “what was that false alarm at 2 p.m. when I was down at Watling Street?”

“Only a chemist in Kensington, who, it seems, is mad after makin’ experiments, and all but blew the roof off his house with one of ’em.”

“Ah! only smoke, I suppose,” said Dale.

“That was all,” said Baxmore, “but there was sitch a lot of it that some fellows thought it was a fire, an’ came tearin’ down here wi’ the news, so we had a ride for nothing.”

“If I’m not mistaken you’ll have a ride for something ere long,” observed Dale, turning his head aside, while he listened attentively. “Hold on, lads, a minute!”

There was a sound of wheels in the distance, as if some vehicle were approaching at a furious pace. On it came, louder and louder, until it turned the corner of the street, and the horses’ feet rattled on the stones as they were pulled up sharp at the station. Instantly the bell was rung violently, and a severe kicking was bestowed on the door.

It is needless to say that the summons was answered promptly. Some of the men quietly resumed the helmets they had just hung up, well knowing that work lay before them.

A cabman darted through the door the instant it was opened, shouting—

“Fire!”

“Where?” asked Dale.

“Forth Street, Holborn, sir!” cried the cabman. Again, for the third time that night, the order was given to “get her out.” While this was being done, Baxmore took a leathern purse from the cupboard, and gave the cabman a shilling for being first to “give the call.”

As the men were already accoutred, the engine left the station on this occasion in less than five minutes. The distance was short, so the pace was full speed, and in an incredibly short space of time they drew up in front of a large, handsome shop, from the first-floor windows of which thick smoke and a few forked flames were issuing.

Chapter Thirteen.

Wild Doings and Daring Deeds.

Quick though they were, however, in reaching the scene of the fire, the escape was there before them. It had a shorter way to travel, and was already pitched, with its head resting against a window of the second floor, and the fly ladder raised to the third.

The people who had crowded round the building at the first alarm of fire, were looking on as if in suspense, and the firemen knew that Conductor Forest, or one of his lion-hearted comrades, was inside, doing his noble and dangerous work. But they had no time to pay attention to what was going on.

While some of the firemen got the engine into play, the others ran in a body to the front-door of the burning house, the lower part of which was a coach-builder’s warehouse. It was a heavy double door, locked and barred, and the owner had not yet arrived with the key. It was evident that the fire had originated in one of the upper floors, for there was no light in the wareroom.

“Get the pole-axe,” said Dale, as soon as he found the door was fast.

Frank Willders sprang off at the word, and returned with an axe of the largest size attached to a handle nearly four feet long.

“Drive it in, Willders,” said Dale.

Frank’s powerful blows at once thundered on the massive door; but they fell on it in vain, for it was unusually strong. Seeing this, Dale ran back to the engine, and got out the pole.

“Come, lay hold some of you!” said he. Immediately eight firemen, Frank and Dale being at the front, charged the door like a thunderbolt with this extemporised battering-ram. It gave way with a prodigious crash, and the whole party fell over each other into the warehouse.

There was a burst of laughter from themselves, as well as from the crowd; but in another moment they were up and swarming through the premises among the smoke, searching for a point of attack.

“Send the branch up here,” cried Mason, coughing violently.

“Sure, my peepers is out entirely!” gasped Corney, rushing to the window for air; while showers of water fell on his head, for the engine was already in full play.

Just then there was a noise outside, as if men were disputing violently. Dale guessed at once what it was, and ran down the staircase, calling out as he passed: “Here, Willders, Corney, Baxmore, lend a hand, will you?”

On reaching the engine, they found about a dozen roughs of the lowest character, disputing fiercely as to which of them was to pump the engine! As each man received one shilling an hour for this work, it became a desirable means of earning a good night’s wages to these broad-shouldered rascals; who, in their anger, and in spite of the police, and the solitary fireman who superintended the engine, had actually caused the men already at work to cease pumping.

We may remark in passing, that this would not have been the case, but for the police force, from some unknown cause, being not very strong at that fire, and having an excited and somewhat turbulent crowd to keep in order. As a general rule, the police of London are of the most essential service at fires; and not a few of them have obtained the medals of the Society for the protection of life from fire, and other rewards for gallantry displayed in saving life at the risk of their own lives.

On the present occasion, however, the few policemen present could barely hold their ground against such a band of stalwart desperadoes, so the firemen came to the rescue. In the front of the roughs stood a man who was stronger made and better dressed than the others. He had not been pugnacious at first; but having got involved in the riot, he struck out with the rest. Dale sprang at this man, who was none other than the half-nautical individual already introduced to the reader by the name of Gorman, and launched a left-hander at his head; but Gorman stepped aside, and one of his comrades was felled instead. At this, the others made a rush in a body at Dale; but Frank, Corney, and Baxmore come up at the moment, and each knocked down a man. Instantly Dale seized an instrument from the engine, named a “preventer,” like a large boat-hook, and, raising it at the full stretch of his powerful arms, he brought it swoop down on the heads of the roughs—six of whom, including Gorman, measured their length on the ground.

Meanwhile, Bill Moxey and Jack Williams, who had charge of the branch—which is considered the post of honour at a fire—had paid no attention whatever to this little episode; but the instant the order was given, had conveyed their branch into the building, and up to the first floor, where they thought they could reach the fire more directly; for it is an axiom in fire brigades to get into a burning building without delay, and attack the fire at its heart.

They got the hose up a staircase, and began to play through a doorway at the head of it; but, to their surprise, did not make any impression whatever. Two other engines, however, were at work by this time—so the fire was kept in check.

“Something wrong here,” said Moxey, speaking with difficulty, owing to the dense smoke.

Owing to the same cause, it was impossible to see what was wrong.

“I’ll go in an’ see,” said Mason, dropping on his hands and knees, and creeping into the room with his mouth as close to the ground as possible. This he did, because in a room on fire there is always a current of comparatively fresh air at the floor.

Presently the sound of Mason’s small hatchet was heard cutting up woodwork, and in a few seconds he rushed out almost choking.

“There,” said he, “stick the branch through that hole. You’ve bin playin’ all this time up agin’ a board partition!”

Moxey and Williams advanced, put the branch through the partition, and the result was at once obvious in the diminution of smoke and increase of steam.

While these incidents were occurring outside and inside the building, the crowd was still waiting in breathless expectation for the re-appearance of Conductor Forest of the fire-escape; for the events just narrated, although taking a long time to tell, were enacted in a few minutes.

Presently Forest appeared at the window of the second floor with two infants in his arms. Instead of sending these down the canvas trough of the escape in the usual way—at the risk of their necks, for they were very young—he clasped them to his breast, and plunging into it himself head-foremost, descended in that position, checking his speed by spreading out his knees against the sides of the canvas. Once again he sprang up the escape amid the cheers of the people, and re-entered the window.

At that moment the attention of the crowd was diverted by the sudden appearance of a man at one of the windows of the first floor.

He was all on fire, and had evidently been aroused to his awful position unexpectedly, for he was in such confusion that he did not observe the fire-escape at the other window. After shouting wildly for a few seconds, and tossing his arms in the air, he leaped out and came to the ground with stunning violence. Two policemen extinguished the fire that was about him, and then, procuring a horse-cloth lifted him up tenderly and carried him away.

It may perhaps surprise the reader that this man was not roused sooner by the turmoil and noise that was going on around him, but it is a fact that heavy sleepers are sometimes found by the firemen sound asleep, and in utter ignorance of what has been going on, long after a large portion of the houses in which they dwell have been in flames.

When Forest entered the window the second time he found the smoke thicker than before, and had some difficulty in groping his way—for smoke that may be breathed with comparative ease is found to be very severe on the eyes. He succeeded, however, in finding a woman lying insensible on the floor of the room above. In carrying her to the window he fell over a small child, which was lying on the floor in a state of insensibility. Grasping the latter with his left hand, he seized its night-dress with his teeth, and, with the woman on his shoulder, appeared on the top of the fly-ladder, which he descended in safety.

The cheers and shouts of the crowd were deafening as Forest came down; but the woman, who had begun to recover, said that her brother was in a loft above the room in which she had been found.

The Conductor, therefore, went up again, got on the roof of the house, broke through the tiles, and with much difficulty pulled the man through the aperture and conveyed him safely to the ground. (See note 1).

The firemen were already at Forest’s heels, and as soon as he dragged the man through the hole in the roof, Frank and Baxmore jumped into it with the branch, and immediately attacked the fire.

By this time all the engines of the district in which the fire had occurred, and one from each of the two adjoining districts, had arrived, and were in full play, and one by one the individual men from the distant stations came dropping in and reported themselves to Dale, Mr Braidwood not being present on that occasion. There was thus a strong force of fresh firemen on the ground, and these, as they came up, were sent—in military parlance—to relieve skirmishers. The others were congregated in front of the door, moving quietly about, looking on and chatting in undertones.

Such of the public as arrived late at the fire no doubt formed a very erroneous impression in regard to these men, for not only did they appear to be lounging about doing nothing, but they were helped by one of their number to a glass of brandy—such of them at least as chose to take it. But those who had witnessed the fire from the beginning knew that these men had toiled, with every nerve and muscle strained, for upwards of an hour in the face of almost unbearable heat, half-suffocated by smoke, and drenched by hot water. They were resting now, and they had much need of rest, for some of them had come out of the burning house almost fainting from exposure to heat and smoke. Indeed, Mason had fainted; but the fresh air soon revived him, and after a glass of brandy he recovered sufficiently to be fit for duty again in half an hour.

Frank and Baxmore were the last to be relieved. When two fresh men came up and took the branch they descended the stairs, and a strange descent it was. The wooden stair, or flight of open steps, which they had to descend first, was burnt to charcoal, and looked as if it would fall to pieces with a touch.

“I hope it’ll bear,” said Frank to Baxmore, who went first.

“Bear or not bear, we must go down,” said Baxmore.

He went unhesitatingly upon it, and although the steps bent ominously, there was enough of sound wood to sustain him.

The second stair, also of wood, had not been quite so much charred; but so great was the quantity of water poured continuously into the house, that it formed a regular water-course of the staircase, down which heaps of plaster and bricks and burnt rubbish had been washed, and had stuck here and there, forming obstructions on which the water broke and round which it roared in the form of what might have been a very respectable mountain-torrent, with this striking difference, that the water which rushed down it was hot, in consequence of its having passed through such glowing materials.

The lower staircase was a stone one—the worst of all stairs in a fire, owing to its liability to crack at its connection with the wall, from the combined influence of heat and cold water. Just as the two men reached the head of it, it fell, without warning, in a mass of ruins.

“Never mind,” said Baxmore, “the fire-escape is still at the window.”

So saying, he ran through the smoke and reached it. Frank was about to follow, when he observed a shut door. Without having any definite intention, he laid hold of the handle, and found that it was locked on the inside—he knew that, for he saw the end of the key sticking through the key-hole. At once he threw his weight on it, and burst it open. To his amazement, he found a little old lady sitting quietly, but in great trepidation, in an easy-chair, partially clothed in very scanty garments, which she had evidently thrown on in great haste.

“Go away, young man!” she screamed, drawing a shawl tightly round her. “Go away, I say! how dare you, sir?”

“Why, ma’am,” cried Frank, striding up to her; “the house is on fire! Come, I’ll carry you out.”

“No—No!” she cried, pushing him resolutely away. “What! carry me—me out thus! I know it’s on fire. Leave me, sir, I command you—I entreat you; I will die rather than appear as I am—in public.”

The poor lady finished off with a loud shriek; for Frank, seeing how matters stood, and knowing there was not a moment to lose, plucked a blanket from the bed, overwhelmed her in it, and exclaiming, “Forgive me, ma’am,” lifted her gently in his arms, bore her through the smoke, down the escape, to the street; carried her into a neighbouring house (the door of which was opportunely open), and laid her like a bundle on one of the beds, where he left her, with strict injunctions to the people of the house to take care of her! Frank then went out to rejoin his comrades, and refreshed himself with a glass of beer; while Baxmore, being a teetotaller, recruited his energies with a glass of water.

By this time the fire had been pretty well subdued; but there were some parts smouldering about the roof and upper floor, that rendered it necessary to keep the engines going, while the firemen hunted their foe from room to room, and corner to corner—extinguishing him everywhere; not, however, before he had completely gutted the whole house, with the exception of part of the ground floor.

“Keep away from the walls, men,” said Dale, coming up to the group, who were resting.

At that moment there was a cry raised that some one was in the cellars.

At the word, Baxmore ran into the house, and descended to the basement. There was little smoke here; but from the roof, water was running down in a thick, warm shower, which drenched him in a few minutes. He ran through the whole place, but found no one, until he opened the door of a closet, when he discovered two old women who had taken refuge there; one being deaf and the other lame, as her crutches testified. They were up to the knees in water, and the same element was pouring in continuous streams on their heads—yet, like the old lady up-stairs, they refused to move or be moved.

Finding that persuasion was useless, Baxmore ran up for a horse-cloth, and, returning, threw it over the head of the deaf old woman, whom he bore, kicking violently, into the street. The other was carried out in the same fashion—only that she screamed violently, being unable to kick.

Soon after that, the fire was completely extinguished, and the engines and men returned to their several stations, leaving London once again in comparative repose.

Note 1. It is perhaps right to state here, that a deed similar to this in nearly every point was performed by Conductor Samuel Wood, a member of the London Fire-Escape Brigade, for which he received a testimonial signed by the then Lord Mayor, and a silver watch with 20 pounds from the inhabitants of Whitechapel. Wood saved nearly 200 lives by his own personal exertions. Many of his brave comrades have also done deeds that are well worthy of record, but we have not space to do more than allude to them here.

Chapter Fourteen.

Joe Corney’s Adventure with Ghosts.

When we said that the firemen returned to their respective stations, it must not be supposed that the house which had been burnt was left in forlorn wretchedness. No; one of the firemen remained to watch over it, and guard against the upstarting of any sneaking spark that might have managed to conceal itself.

The man selected for this duty was Joe Corney.

Unfortunately for Joe, this was the only part of a fireman’s duty that he did not relish.

Joe Corney was, both by nature and education, very superstitious. He believed implicitly in ghosts, and knew an innumerable host of persons, male and female, who had seen people who said they had seen ghosts. He was too honest to say he had ever seen a ghost himself; but he had been “very near seein’ wan two or three times,” and he lived in perpetual expectation and dread of meeting one face to face before he died. Joe was as brave as a lion, and faced danger, and sometimes even what appeared to be certain death, with as much unflinching courage as the bravest of his comrades. Once, in particular, he had walked with the branch in his hands along the burning roof of a tottering warehouse, near the docks, in order to gain a point from which he could play on the flames so as to prevent them spreading to the next warehouse, and so check a fire which might have easily become one of the “great fires of London.”

Joe was therefore a man who could not be easily frightened; yet Joe trembled in his shoes when he had the most distant prospect of meeting with a ghost!

There was no help for it, however. He had been appointed to watch the ruin; and, being a man who cherished a strong sense of duty, he set himself doggedly to make the most of his circumstances.

It was past one o’clock when the fire was finally extinguished. A few night-birds and late revellers still hung about it, as if in the hope that it would burst forth again, and afford them fresh excitement; but before two o’clock, everyone had gone away, and Joe was left alone with his “preventer” and lantern. Even the policeman on the beat appeared to avoid him; for, although he passed the ruin at regular intervals in his rounds, he did not stop at it beyond a few moments, to see that the fireman’s lantern was burning and all right.

“Corney, me lad,” said Joe to himself, “it’s bad luck has befallen ye this night; but face yer luck like a man now, and shame it.”

Encouraging himself thus, he grasped his preventer, and pulled about the débris in various places of which he had some suspicion; but the engines had done their work so effectually that not a spark remained. Then Joe walked up and down, and in and out for an hour; studied the half-consumed pictures that still hung on the walls of one of the lower rooms, which had not been completely destroyed; moralised on the dire confusion and ruin that could be accomplished in so short a space of time; reflected on the probable condition of the unfortunates who had been burnt out; on the mutability of human affairs in general, and wondered what his “owld mother” would think of him, if she saw him in his forlorn situation.

This latter thought caused his mind to revert to ghosts; but he was comforted by hearing the slow, distant foot-fall of the policeman. On it came, not unlike the supposed step of an unearthly visitant, until the guardian of the night stood revealed before him on the other side of the road.

“It’s a cowld night intirely,” cried Corney.

“It is,” responded the policeman.

“How goes the inimy?” inquired the fireman.

“Just gone three,” replied the other.

The policeman’s voice, although gruff, was good-humoured and hearty; but he was evidently a strict disciplinarian, for he uttered no other word, and passed on.

“Faix, I’m gettin’ slaipy,” remarked Joe to himself, with a loud yawn. “I’ll go and rest a bit.”

So saying, he re-entered the ruin, and with the aid of his lantern sought about for the least uncomfortable apartment on the ground floor. He selected one which was comparatively weather-tight. That is to say, only one of the windows had been dashed out, and the ceiling was entire, with the exception of a hole about four feet wide, through which the charred beams above could be seen depicted against the black sky. There was about an inch of water on the floor; but this was a small matter, for Joe’s boots were thick and strong. The door, too, had been burst off its hinges, and lay on the floor; but Joe could raise this, and place it in its original position.

The room had been a parlour and there were several damaged prints hanging on the walls, besides a quantity of detached paper hanging from them. Most of the furniture had been removed at the commencement of the fire; but a few broken articles remained, and one big old easy-chair, which had either been forgotten, or deemed unworthy of removal, by the men of the Salvage Corps. (See note 1.)

Joe wheeled the chair to the fireplace—not that there was any fire in it; on the contrary, it was choked up with fallen bricks and mortar, and the hearth was flooded with water; but, as Joe remarked to himself, “it felt more homelike an’ sociable to sit wid wan’s feet on the finder!”

Having erected the door in front of its own doorway, Joe leaned his preventer against the wall, placed his lantern on the chimney-piece, and sat down to meditate. He had not meditated long, when the steady draught of air from the window at his back began to tell upon him.

“Och! but it’s a cowld wind,” said he. “I’ll try the other side. There’s nothin’ like facin’ wan’s inimies.”

Acting on this idea, he changed his position, turning his face to the window and his back to the door.

“Well,” he remarked on sitting down again, “there’s about as much draught from the door; but, sure, ye’ve improved yer sitivation, Corney, for haven’t ye the illigant prospect of over the way through the windy?”

Not long after this, Joe’s mind became much affected with ghostly memories. This condition was aggravated by an intense desire to sleep, for the poor man had been hard worked that day, and stood much in need of repose. He frequently fell asleep, and frequently awoke. On falling asleep, his helmet performed extremely undignified gyrations. On awaking, he always started, opened his eyes very wide, looked round inquiringly, then smiled, and resumed a more easy position. But, awake or asleep, his thoughts ran always in the same channel.

During one of those waking moments, Joe heard a sound which rooted him to his seat with horror; and would doubtless have caused his hair to stand on end, if the helmet would have allowed it. The sound was simple enough in itself, however; being slight, slow, and regular, and was only horrible in Joe’s mind, because of his being utterly unable to account for it, or to conceive what it could be.

Whatever the sound was, it banished sleep from his eyes for at least a quarter of an hour. At last, unable to stand the strain of uncertainty, he arose, drew his hatchet, took down his lantern, and, coughing loudly and sternly—as though to say:

“Have a care, I’m coming!”—removed the door and went cautiously into the passage, where the sound appeared to come from. It did not cease on his appearing; but went on slowly and steadily, and louder than before. It appeared to be at his very elbow; yet Joe could see nothing, and a cold perspiration broke out on him.

“Och! av I could only see it!” he gasped.

Just as he said this he did see it, for a turn of his lantern revealed the fact that a drop of water fell regularly from one of the burnt beams upon a large sheet of paper which had been torn from the passage wall. This, resting on the irregular rubbish, formed a sort of drum, which gave forth a hollow sound.

“Ah, then, but ye are a goose, Joe Corney, me boy!” said the fireman, as he turned away with an amiable smile and resumed his seat after replacing the door.

About this time the wind began to rise, and came in irregular gusts. At each gust the door was blown from the wall an inch or so, and fell back with a noise that invariably awoke Joe with a start. He looked round each time quickly; but as the door remained quiet he did not discover the cause of his alarm. After it had done this several times Joe became, so to speak, desperately courageous.

“Git out wid ye!” he cried angrily on being startled again, “wasn’t the last wan all a sham? an’ sure ye’re the same. Go ’long in pace—an’ goodnight!”

As he said this the over-taxed man fell asleep; at the same moment a heavy gust of wind drove the door in altogether, and dashed it down on his head. Fortunately, being somewhat charred, the panel that struck his helmet was driven out, so that Joe came by no greater damage than the fright, which caused his heart to bound into his throat, for he really believed that the ghost had got him at last!

Relieving himself of the door, which he laid on the floor lest it should play him the same prank over again, Joe Corney once more settled himself in the easy-chair and resolved to give his mind to meditation. Just then the City clocks pealed forth the hour of four o’clock.

This is perhaps the quietest hour of the twenty-four in London. Before this most of the latest revellers have gone home, and few of the early risers are moving.

There was one active mind at work at that hour, however—namely, that of Gorman—who, after recovering from the blow given him by Dale, went to his own home on the banks of the Thames, in the unaristocratic locality of London Bridge.

Gorman owned a small boat, and did various kinds of business with it. But Gorman’s occupations were numerous and not definite. He was everything by turns, and nothing long. When visible to the outward eye (and that wasn’t often), his chief occupations were loafing about and drinking. On the present occasion he drank a good deal more than usual, and lay down to sleep, vowing vengeance against firemen in general, and Dale in particular.

Two or three hours later he awoke, and leaving his house, crossed London Bridge, and wended his way back to the scene of the fire without any definite intention, but with savage desires in his breast. He reached it just at that point where Joe Corney had seated himself to meditate, as above described.

Joe’s powers of meditation were not great at any time. At that particular time they were exerted in vain, for his head began to sway backward and forward and to either side, despite his best efforts to the contrary.

Waiting in the shadow of a doorway until the policeman should pass out of sight and hearing, and cautiously stepping over the débris that encumbered the threshold of the burnt house, Gorman peeped into the room, where the light told him that some one kept watch. Great was his satisfaction and grim his smile when he saw that a stalwart fireman sat there apparently asleep. Being only able to see his back, he could not make certain who it was,—but from the bulk of the man and breadth of the shoulders he concluded that it was Dale. Anyhow it was one of his enemies, and that was sufficient, for Gorman’s nature was of that brutal kind that he would risk his life any day in order to gratify his vengeance, and it signified little to him which of his enemies fell in his way, so long as it was one of them.

Taking up a brick from the floor, he raised himself to his full height, and dashed it down on the head of the sleeping man. Just at that moment Corney’s nodding head chanced to fall forward, and the brick only hit the comb of his helmet, knocking it over his eyes. Next moment he was grappling with Gorman.

As on previous occasions, Joe’s heart had leaped to his throat, and that the ghost was upon him “at last” he had no manner of doubt; but no sooner did he feel the human arm of Gorman and behold his face than his native courage returned with a bound. He gave his antagonist a squeeze that nearly crushed his ribs together, and at the same time hurled him against the opposite wall. But Gorman was powerful and savage. He recovered himself and sprang like a tiger on Joe, who received him in a warm embrace with an Irish yell!

The struggle of the two strong men was for a few moments terrible, but not doubtful, for Joe’s muscles had been brought into splendid training at the gymnastics. He soon forced Gorman down on one knee; but at the same moment a mass of brickwork which had been in a toppling condition, and was probably shaken down by the violence of their movements, fell on the floor above, broke through it, and struck both men to the ground.

Joe lay stunned and motionless for a few seconds, for a beam had hit him on the head; but Gorman leaped up and made off a moment or two before the entrance of the policeman, who had run back to the house on hearing Joe’s war-whoop.

It is needless to add that Joe spent the remainder of his vigil that night in an extremely wakeful condition, and that he gave a most graphic account of his adventure with the ghosts on his return to the station!

Note 1. The Salvage Corps is a body of men appointed by the insurance offices to save and protect goods at fires, and otherwise to watch over their interests. They wear a uniform and helmets, something like those of the firemen, and generally follow close in their wake—in their own vans—when fires break out.

Chapter Fifteen.

A New Phase of Life.

“Mother,” said Master William Willders one night to his parent, as he sat at supper—which meal consisted of bread and milk; “he’s the jolliest old feller, that Mr Tippet, I ever came across.”

“I’m glad you like him, Willie,” said Mrs Willders, who was busy patching the knees of a pair of small unmentionables; “but I wish, dear, that you would not use slang in your speech, and remember that fellow is not spelt with an e-r at the end of it.”

“Come now, mother, don’t you go an’ get sarcastic. It don’t suit you; besides, there’s no occasion for it,—for I do my best to keep it down, but I’m so choke full of it that a word or two will spurt up now and then in spite o’ me.”

Mrs Willders smiled and continued her patching; Willie grinned and continued his supper.

“Mother,” said Willie, after an interval of silence.

“Well, my son?”

“What d’ye think the old feller—ah! I mean fellow—is up to just now?”

“I don’t know, Willie.”

“He’s inventin’ a calc’latin’ machine, as is to do anythin’ from simple addition to fractions, an’ he says if it works well he’ll carry it on to algebra an’ mathematics, up to the fizmal calc’lus, or somethin’ o’ that sort. Oh, you’ve no notion how he strains himself at it. He sits down in his shirt-sleeves at a writin’-table he’s got in a corner, an’ tears away at the little hair he has on the sides of his head (I do believe he tore it all off the top with them inventions), then he bangs up an’ seizes his tools, and shouts, ‘Look here, Willie, hold on!’ an’ goes sawin’ and chisellin’ and hammerin’ away like a steam-engine. He’s all but bu’st himself over that calc’latin’ machine, and I’m much afraid that he’ll clap Chips into the sausage-machine some day, just to see how it works. I hope he won’t, for Chips an’ I are great friends, though we’ve only bin a month together.”

“I hope he’s a good man,” said Mrs Willders thoughtfully.

“Well, I’m sure he must be!” cried Willie with enthusiasm, “for he is very kind to me, and also to many poor folk that come about him regularly. I’m gettin’ to know their faces now, and when to expect ’em. He always takes ’em into his back room—all sorts, old men and old women an’ children, most of ’em seedy enough, but some of ’em well off to look at. What he says to ’em I don’t know, but they usually come out very grave, an go away thankin’ him, and sayin’ they won’t forget his advice. If the advice is to come back soon they certainly don’t forget it! And he’s a great philosopher, too, mother, for he often talks to me about my int’lec’s. He said jist t’other day, ‘Willie,’ said he, ‘get into a habit o’ usin’ yer brains, my boy. The Almighty put us into this world well-made machines, intended to be used in all our parts. Now, you’ll find thousands of people who use their muscles and neglect their brains, and thousands of others who use their brains and neglect their muscles. Both are wrong, boy; we’re machines, lad—wonderful machines—and the machines won’t work well if they’re not used all over.’ Don’t that sound grand, mother?”

Willie might have received an answer if he had waited for one, but he was too impatient, and went rattling on.

“And who d’ye think, mother, came to see old Tippet the other day, but little Cattley, the clown’s boy. You remember my tellin’ you about little Cattley and the auction, don’t you?”

“Yes, Willie.”

“Well, he came, and just as he was goin’ away I ran out an’ asked him how the fairy was. ‘She’s very ill,’ he said, shakin’ his head, and lookin’ so mournful that I had not the heart to ask more. But I’m goin’ to see them, mother.”

“That’s right, my boy,” said Mrs Willders, with a pleased look; “I like to hear you talk of going to see people in distress. ‘Blessed are they that consider the poor,’ Willie.”

“Oh, as to that, you know, I don’t know that they are poor. Only I feel sort o’ sorry for ’em, somehow, and I’m awful anxious to see a real live fairy, even though she is ill.”

“When are you going?” inquired Mrs Willders.

“To-morrow night, on my way home.”

“Did you look in at Frank’s lodging in passing to-night?”

“Yes, I did, and found that he was in the station on duty again. It wasn’t a bad sprain, you see, an’ it’ll teach him not to go jumpin’ out of a first-floor window again.”

“He couldn’t help it,” said the widow. “You know his escape by the stair had been cut off, and there was no other way left.”

“No other way!” cried Willie; “why didn’t he drop? He’s so proud of his strength, is Blazes, that he jumped off-hand a’ purpose to show it! Ha! he’d be the better of some o’ my caution. Now, mother, I’m off to bed.”

“Get the Bible, then,” said Mrs Willders.

Willie got up and fetched a large old family Bible from a shelf, and laid it on the table before his mother, who read a chapter and prayed with her son; after which Willie gave her one of his “roystering” kisses and went to bed.

The lamps had been lighted for some time next night, and the shop-windows were pouring forth their bright rays, making the streets appear as light as day, when Willie found himself in the small disreputable street near London Bridge in which Cattley the clown dwelt.

Remembering the directions given to him by little Jim Cattley, he soon found the underground abode near the burnt house, the ruins of which had already been cleared away and a considerable portion of a new tenement erected.

If the stair leading to the clown’s dwelling was dark, the passage at the foot of it was darker; and as Willie groped his way carefully along, he might have imagined it to be a place inhabited only by rats or cats, had not gleams of light, and the sound of voices from sundry closed doors, betokened the presence of human beings. Of the compound smells peculiar to the place, those of beer and tobacco predominated.

At the farther end of this passage, there was an abrupt turn to the left, which brought the boy unexpectedly to a partially open door, where a scene so strange met his eyes that he involuntarily stood still and gazed.

In a corner of the room, which was almost destitute of furniture, a little girl, wan, weary, and thin, lay on a miserable pallet, with scanty covering over her. Beside her stood Cattley—not, as when first introduced, in a seedy coat and hat; but in full stage costume—with three balls on his head, white face, triangular roses on his cheeks, and his mouth extended outward and upward at the corners, by means of red paint. Little Jim sat on the bed beside his sister, clad in pink skin-tights, with cheeks and face similar to his father, and a red crest or comb of worsted on his head.

“Ziza, darling, are you feeling better, my lamb?” said the elder clown, with a gravity of expression in his real mouth that contrasted strangely with the expression conveyed by the painted corners.

“No, father, not much; but perhaps I’m gettin’ better, though I don’t feel it,” said the sweet, faint voice of the child, as she opened her large hollow eyes, and looked upward.

“So, that’s the fairy!” thought Willie sadly, as he gazed on the child’s beautiful though wasted features.

“We’ll have done d’rectly, darling,” said the clown tenderly; “only one more turn, and then we’ll leave you to rest quietly for some hours. Now, then, here we are again!” he added, bounding into the middle of the room with a wild laugh. “Come along, Jim, try that jump once more.”

Jim did not speak; but pressing his lips to his sister’s brow, leaped after his sire, who was standing an a remarkably vigorous attitude, with his legs wide apart and his arms akimbo, looking back over his shoulder.

“Here we go,” cried Jim in a tiny voice, running up his father’s leg and side, stepping lightly on his shoulder, and planting one foot on his head.

“Jump down,” said the clown gravely.

Jim obeyed.

“That won’t do, Jim. You must do it all in one run; no pausing on the way—but, whoop! up you go, and both feet on my head at once. Don’t be afeard; you can’t tumble, you know.”

“I’m not afeard, father,” said Jim; “but I ain’t quite springy in my heart to-night. Stand again and see if I don’t do it right off.”

Cattley the elder threw himself into the required attitude; and Cattley junior, rushed at him, ran up him as a cat runs up a tree, and in a moment was standing on his father’s head with his arms extended. Whoop!—next moment he was turning round in the air; and whoop! in another moment he was standing on the ground, bowing respectfully to a supposed audience.

To Jim’s immense amazement, the supposed audience applauded him heartily; and said, “Bravyo! young ’un,” as it stepped into the room, in the person of William Willders.

“Why! who may you be?” inquired the clown senior, stepping up to the intruder.

Before Willie could answer the clown junior sprang on his father’s shoulders, and whispered in his ear. Whatever he said, the result was an expression of benignity and condescension on the clown’s face—as far as paint would allow of such expression.

“Glad to meet you, Master Willders,” he said. “Proud to know anyone connected with T. Tippet, Esquire, who’s a trump. Give us your flipper. What may be the object of your unexpected, though welcome visit to this this subterraneous grotto, which may be said to be next door to the coral caves, where the mermaids dwell.”

“Yes, and there’s one o’ the mermaids singing,” remarked the clown junior, with a comical leer, as a woman’s voice was heard in violent altercation with some one. “She’s a sayin’ of her prayers now; beseechin’ of her husband to let her have her own way.”

Willie explained that, having had the pleasure of meeting with Jim at an auction sale some weeks ago, he had called to renew his acquaintance; and Jim said he remembered the incident—and that, if he was not mistaken, a desire to see a live fairy in plain clo’se, with her wings off, had something to do with his visit.

“Here she is;—by the way, what’s your name?”

“Bill Willders.”

“Here she is, Bill; this is the fairy,” he said, in quite an altered tone, as he went to the bed, and took one of his sister’s thin hands in both of his. “Ziza, this is the feller I told ye of, as wanted to see you, dear; b’longs to Mr Tippet.”

Ziza smiled faintly, as she extended her hand to Willie, who took it and pressed it gently.

Willie felt a wonderfully strong sensation within his heart as he looked into the sufferer’s large liquid eyes; and for a few seconds he could not speak. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Well, you ain’t one bit like what I expected to see. You’re more like a angel than a fairy.”

Ziza smiled again, and said she didn’t feel like either the one or the other.

“My poor lamb,” said the clown, sitting down on the bed, and parting the dark hair on Ziza’s forehead, with a hand as gentle as that of a mother, “we’re goin’ now. Time’s up. Shall I ask Mrs Smith to stay with you again, till we come back?”

“Oh, no, no!” cried the child hurriedly, and squeezing her fingers into her eyes, as if to shut out some disagreeable object. “Not Mrs Smith. I’d rather be alone.”

“I wish I could stay with you, Ziza,” said Jim earnestly.

“It’s of no use wishin’, Jim,” said his father, “you can’t get off a single night. If you was to fail ’em you’d lose your engagement, and we can’t afford that just at this time, you know; but I’ll try to get Mrs James to come. She’s a good woman, I know, and—”

“Mister Cattley,” interrupted Willie, “if you’ll allow a partic’larly humble individual to make a observation, I would say there’s nothin’ in life to prevent me from keeping this ’ere fairy company till you come back. I’ve nothin’ particular to do as I knows on, an’ I’m raither fond of lonely meditation; so if the fairy wants to go to sleep, it’ll make no odds to me, so long’s it pleases her.”

“Thankee, lad,” said the clown; “but you’ll git wearied, I fear, for we won’t be home till mornin’—”

“Ah!” interrupted Willie, “till daylight does appear. But that’s no odds, neither—’cause I’m not married yet, so there’s nobody awaitin’ for me—and” (he winked to Jim at this point) “my mother knows I’m out.”

The clown grinned at this. “You’d make one of us, youngster,” said he, “if ye can jump. Howsever, I’m obliged by your offer, so you can stay if Ziza would like it.”

Ziza said she would like it with such goodwill, that Willie adored her from that moment, and vowed in his heart he would nurse her till she—he did not like to finish the sentence; yet, somehow, the little that he had heard and seen of the child led him irresistibly to the conclusion that she was dying.

This having been satisfactorily arranged, the Cattleys, senior and junior, threw cloaks round them, exchanged their wigs for caps; and, regardless of the absurd appearance of their faces, hurried out to one of the minor theatres, with heavy hearts because of the little fairy left so ill and comfortless at home.

In a few minutes they were tumbling on the stage, cracking their jokes, and convulsing the house with laughter.

Chapter Sixteen.

Willie in a New Light.

Left alone with the fairy, Willie Willders began his duties as sick-nurse, a sphere of action into which he had never thought of being introduced, even in his wildest dreams.

He began by asking the fairy if she was all right and comfortable, to which she replied that she was not; upon which he explained that he meant, was she as right and comfortable as could be expected in the circumstances; could he do anything for her, in fact, or get her anything that would make her more comfortable than she was—but the fairy shook her poor head and said, “No.”

“Come now, won’t you have somethin’ to eat? What had you for dinner?” said Willie, in a cheery voice, looking round the room, but not discovering any symptoms of food beyond a few empty plates and cups (the latter without handles), and a tea-pot with half a spout.

“I had a little bread and butter,” said the fairy.

“No tipple?” inquired the nurse.

“No, except water.”

“Ain’t there none in the house?”

“No.”

“D’ye git nothin’ better at other times?” inquired Willie in surprise.

“Not often. Father is very poor. He was ill for a long time, too, and if it hadn’t been for your kind master I think we should all have starved. He’s better now, but he needs pretty good living to keep him up to his work—for there’s a deal of training to be done, and it wears him out if he don’t get meat. But the pantomimes began and we were getting on better, when the fire came and burnt everything we had almost, so we can’t afford much meat or beer, and I don’t like beer, so I’ve got them persuaded to let me live on bread and butter and water. I would like tea better, because it’s hot, but we can’t afford that.”

Here was a revelation! The fairy lived upon bread and butter and water! Willie thought that, but for the interpolation of the butter, it would have borne marvellous resemblance to prison fare.

“When had you dinner?” inquired Willie suddenly.

“I think about four o’clock.”

“An’ can’t you eat nothin’ now?”

Again the fairy shook her head.

“Nor drink?”

“Look if there’s anything in the tea-pot,” said the fairy.

Willie looked, shook his head, and said, “Not a drop.”

“Any leaves?”

“Why, y–yes,” he brought the pot nearer to the candle; “there are a few used-up ones.”

“Oh, do pour some hot water into it; but I fear the water is cold, and the fire’s too low to boil it, and I know the coals are done; but father gets paid his salary to-morrow, and he’ll give me some tea then. He’s very kind to me, father is, and so is Jim.”

She sighed as she spoke, and shut her eyes.

“Ziza,” said Willie in a careless tone, “you won’t object to my leavin’ you for a few minutes; only a few; I want to get a little fresh air, an’ see what sort of a night it is; I won’t be long gone.”

Ziza, so far from objecting, said that she was used to being left alone for long, long hours at a time, and wouldn’t mind it. So Willie put the candle nearer to her bedside, placed a tea-cup of water within reach, went out, shut the door softly behind him, groped his way through the passage and up the stair, and got into the street.

That day his eccentric employer had paid him his first month’s wage, a sovereign, with many complimentary remarks as to his usefulness. The golden coin lay in his pocket. It was the first he had ever earned. He had intended to go straight home and lay the shining piece in his mother’s lap, for Willie was a peculiar boy, and had some strange notions in regard to the destination of “first-fruits.” Where he had got them nobody could tell. Perhaps his mother knew, but nobody ever questioned her upon the point.

Taking this gold piece from his pocket, he ran into the nearest respectable street, and selected there the most respectable grocer’s shop, into which he entered, and demanded a pound of the shopman’s best tea, a pound of his best sugar, a pound of his best butter, a cut of his best bacon, and one of his best wax-candles. Willie knew nothing about relative proportion in regard to such things; he only knew that they were usually bought and consumed together.

The shopman looked at the little purchaser in surprise, but as Willie emphatically repeated his demands he gave him the required articles. On receiving the sovereign he looked twice at Willie, rung the piece of money three times on the counter, and then returned the change.

Gathering the packages in his arms, and putting the candle between his vest and bosom, he went into a baker’s shop, purchased a loaf, and returned to the “subterraneous grotto” laden like the bee. To say that the fairy was surprised when he displayed these things, would be a feeble use of language. She opened her large eyes until Willie begged her in alarm not to open them wider for fear they should come out, at which sally she laughed, and then, being weak, she cried.

After that she fell in with her nurse’s humour, and the two proceeded to “have a night of it.” Ziza said she’d be a real fairy and tell him what to do, and Willie said he’d be a gnome or a he-fairy and do it.

At the outset Willie discovered that he had forgotten coals, but this was rectified by another five minutes’ airing, and a rousing fire was quickly roaring in the chimney, while the kettle sang and spluttered on it like a sympathetic thing, as no doubt it was. Willie cleared the small table that stood at the invalid’s bed side, and arranged upon it the loaf, the tea-pot, two cracked tea-cups, the butter and sugar, and the wax-candle—which latter was stuck into a quart bottle in default of a better candle-stick.

“Now, ain’t that jolly?” said the nurse, sitting down and rubbing his hands.

“Very!” replied the patient, her eyes sparkling with delight.

“It’s so like a scene in a play,” continued Willie.

“Only much more real,” suggested the fairy.

“Now, then, Ziza, have a cup o’ tea, fresh from the market o’ Chiny, as your dad would say, if he was sellin’ it by auction. He’s a knowin’ codger your dad is, Ziza. There. I knowed I forgot somethin’ else—the cream!”

“I don’t mind it, indeed I don’t,” said Ziza earnestly.

Willie had started up to run out and rectify this omission, but on being assured that the fairy liked tea almost as well without as with cream, and that there was no cream to be got near at hand, he sat down again and continued to do the honours of the table. First he made the fairy sit up in bed, and commented sadly on her poor thin neck as she did it, observing that she was nothing better than a skeleton in a skin. Then he took off his own jacket and put it on her shoulders, tying the arms round her neck. Next he placed a piece of board in front of her, saying that it was a capital tray, and on this he arranged the viands neatly.

“Now, then, go at it, Ziza,” he said, when all was arranged.

Ziza, who received his attentions with looks that were wonderfully gleeful for one in her weak state of health, went at it with such vigour that the bread was eaten and the tea drunk in a few minutes, and the supply had to be renewed. When she was in the middle of her second round of buttered toast (for Willie had toasted the bread), she stopped suddenly.

“Why don’t you go on?” asked Willie.

“Because you have not eaten or drunk one mouthful yet.”

“But I’m lookin’ at you, and ain’t that better? Howsever, if ye won’t go on, I’ll not keep you back,” and with that Willie set to work, and, being uncommonly hungry, did what he styled “terrible execution among the wittles.”

For some time the nurse and patient ate in comparative silence, but by degrees they began to talk, and as they became more confidential their talk became more personal.

“D’you like bein’ a fairy?” said Willie, after a lull in the conversation.

“No, I don’t,” replied Ziza.

“Why not?”

“Because—because—I don’t like the kind of things we have to do, and—and—in short, I don’t like it at all, and I often pray God to deliver me from it.”

“That’s strange, now,” said Willie, “I would have thought it great fun to be a fairy. I’d rather be a little clown or a he-fairy myself, now, than anything else I know of, except a fireman.”

“A fireman, Willie?”

“Yes, a fireman. My brother, Blaz—a—Frank, I mean, is one, and he saved the lives of some people not long since.”

Of course Willie here diverged into a graphic account of the fire in Beverly Square, and, seeing that Ziza listened with intense earnestness, he dilated upon every point, and went with special minuteness into the doings of Frank.

When he concluded, Ziza heaved a very deep sigh and closed her eyes.

“I’ve tired you, Ziza,” exclaimed Willie, jumping up, with a look of anxiety, and removing the tea-board and jacket, as the child slipped down under the clothes. He asked if she wanted to go to sleep.

“Yes, for I’m very tired,” she sighed languidly; then added, “but please read to me a little first.”

“What book am I to read you?” said Willie, looking round the room, where no book of any kind was to be seen.

“Here, it’s under the pillow.”

Willie put his hand under the pillow and pulled out a small pocket-Bible.

“Read the third chapter of Saint John’s Gospel,” said the child, closing her eyes.

Willie read in the monotonous tones of a schoolboy’s voice until he came to the sixteenth verse, “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

“Stop at that verse,” whispered Ziza. “I’ll go to sleep now.”

Her deep breathing soon proclaimed that she was in the land of dreams, so Willie removed the candle a little further away from her, and then, resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, began to read the Bible. He turned over a few pages without much intention of finding any particular place, for he was beginning to feel sleepy.

The first words his eyes fell upon were, “Blessed are they that consider the poor.”

He roused up a little at this, and read the verse again, for he connected it with the fact that the fairy was poor. Then he pondered it for some time, and, falling asleep, dropt his head on the Bible with such force that he woke up for a little and tried to read again, but do what he would he could not get beyond that verse; finally he gave up the attempt, and, laying his forehead down upon it, quickly fell sound asleep.

In this state the couple were discovered an hour or two later by Messrs Cattley senior and junior on their return from the theatre.

“Inscrutable mysteries! say, what is this?” exclaimed the elder clown, advancing into the room on tiptoe.

Apostrophising his eye and one Betty Martin, the younger clown said that it was a “rare go and no mistake,” whereupon his father laid his hand on Willie’s shoulder and gently shook him.

“Eh! another cup, Ziza?” exclaimed the self-accused nurse, as he put out his hand to seize the tea-pot. “Hallo! I thought it was the fairy,” he added, looking up with a sleepy smile; “I do believe I’ve gone and fell asleep.”

“Why, lad, where got ye all those things?” inquired the senior Cattley, laying aside his cloak and cap, and speaking in a low tone, for Ziza was still sleeping soundly.

“Well, I got ’em,” replied Willie in a meditative tone, “from a friend of mine—a very partikler friend o’ mine—as declines to let me mention his name, so you’ll have to be satisfied with the wittles and without the name of the wirtuous giver. P’r’aps it was a dook, or a squire, or a archbishop as did it. Anyway his name warn’t Walker. See now, you’ve bin an’ woke up the fairy.”

The sick child moved as he spoke, but it was only to turn, without awaking, on her side.

“Well, lad,” said the clown, sitting down and looking wistfully in the face of his daughter, “you’ve got your own reasons for not tellin’ me—mayhap I’ve a pretty good guess—anyhow I say God bless him, for I do b’lieve he’s saved the child’s life. I’ve not seen her sleep like that for weeks. Look at her, Jim; ain’t she like her old self?”

“Yes, father, she don’t need no paint and flour to make a fairy on her just now. She’s just like what she was the last time I seed her go up in a gauze cloud to heaven, with red and blue fire blazin’ all round her.”

“I’ll bid ye good-night now,” said Willie, buttoning up his jacket to the chin, and pulling his cap down on his brows with the air of a man who has a long walk before him.

“You’re off, are you—eh?” said the elder clown, rising and taking Willie by the hand, “well, you’re a good lad. Thank’ee for comin’ here an’ takin’ care of Ziza. My subterranean grotto ain’t much to boast of, but such as it is you’re welcome to it at all times. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said Willie; “good-night, Jim.” Jim replied good-night heartily, and then Willie stepped into the dark passage. He glanced back at the fairy before shutting the door, but her eyes were closed, so he said good-night to her in his heart, and went home.

Chapter Seventeen.

Home Life.

“My dear Miss Tippet, I shall never, no never, get over it.”

So said, and so undoubtedly thought, a thin little old lady with remarkably bright eyes, and a sweet old face, as she sat sipping tea at Miss Tippet’s elbow.

It was in the drawing-room of Miss Deemas that she sat, and the Eagle sat opposite to her.

“It was very dreadful,” responded Miss Tippet with a sigh—“very.”

“It was awful. I know I shall never get over it,—never,” repeated the little old lady, finishing her tea, and asking for another cup in the calmest possible voice, with the sweetest possible smile.

“Oh yes, you will, Mrs Denman,” said Miss Deemas snappishly.

“No, indeed, I won’t,” repeated Mrs Denman; “how can I? Just think of the situation. Sitting in my chair in dishabille, when a man—a Man, Miss Dee—”

“Well, I know what a man is,” said the Eagle bitterly; “why don’t you go on?”

“Burst himself through my bedroom-door,” continued Mrs Denman, “with lime and charcoal and brick-dust and water streaming down his face—f–fo-olded me in his arms, bore me out into the street—the street! Oh! I shall never, never get over it; and so little, so very little clothing on me—”

“How much had you on?” asked Miss Deemas in a deep voice, the calmness of which contrasted forcibly with Mrs Denman’s excited tones.

“Really, Miss Deemas, I see no necessity for going into particulars. It is sufficient to know that I was carried by a man into the street in the face of some thousands of people, for I heard them cheering though I saw them not. I know I shall never get over it—another cup, my love; not quite so much sugar—no, not if I were to live to the age of Methusaleh.”

“I don’t wonder, indeed I don’t,” murmured the sympathetic Miss Tippet. “I think, Julia dear, you are a little too hard on Mrs Denman. How would you like to have been carried out of a burning house in such a way by a big rough man?”

“Oh, my dear,” interposed Mrs Denman, “I did not say he was rough. Big he certainly was, and strong, but I must do him the justice to say that the man li—lif—oh me! lifted me up very tenderly, and carried me as though I had been an infant and he my mother, through smoke and fire and water, into the street, before the eyes of the—whole—oh, it’s too awful to think of!”

“Stuff!” ejaculated Miss Deemas, pecking a piece of cake out of her fingers as she would, metaphorically of course, have pecked the eyes out of the head of Frank Willders, or any other man. “Didn’t you say he put a blanket round you?”

“Of course, Miss Deemas; I should have died otherwise of pure shame.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” retorted the Eagle. “You would probably have been half suffocated and a good deal dirtied, and you might have been singed, but you wouldn’t have died; and what need you care now, for the people saw nothing but a bundle. You might have been a bundle of old clothes for all they knew or cared. All they wanted to see was the bravery, as they call it, of the man; as if there were not hundreds upon hundreds of women who would do the same thing if their muscles were strong enough, and occasion served.”

“But it was a brave act, you know,” said Miss Tippet timidly.

“I don’t know that,” retorted Miss Deemas, helping herself to more cake with as much decision of manner as if she had been carrying it off by force of arms from before the very muzzles of a masculine battery. “I don’t know that. He had to escape, you know, for his own life, and he might as well bring a bundle along with him as not.”

“Yes; but then,” said Miss Tippet, “he first went up the—the thingumy, you know.”

“No, he didn’t,” retorted Miss Deemas smartly; “he was in the house at the time, and only came down the ‘thingumy,’ as you call it!”

It was a peculiarity of Miss Deemas’s character, that she claimed the right to be as rude as she chose to people in her own house, and rather prided herself on this evidence of independence.

“In my opinion,” said Mrs Denman, “his being in the burning house at all of his own accord, was of itself evidence of courage. I think the fireman is a brave young man.”

Thus much Mrs Denman said with dignity to Miss Deemas. The remainder of her speech she addressed to Miss Tippet.

“But, my dear, I feel that although I owe this young man a debt of gratitude which I can never repay, I shall never be able to look my preserver in the face. I know that his mind will always revert, when he sees me, to the fi—fig—the figure that he lifted out of that easy-chair. But there is one thing I have resolved on,” continued the little old lady in more cheerful tones, as she asked for another cup of tea, “and that is, to get a fireman to instruct me as to the best method of saving my own life should fire again break out in my dwelling.”

The Eagle gave a hysterical chuckle at this.

“I have already written to one who has been recommended to me as a shrewd man, and he is coming to call on me this very evening at seven o’clock.”

Mrs Denman started, as if her own remark had recalled something, and pulled out her watch.

“Why, it is almost half-past six!” she exclaimed, rising hastily. “Excuse a hurried departure, Miss Deemas. Your society and sympathy” (she looked pointedly at Miss Tippet here) “have been so agreeable that I did not observe how time was flying. Good-bye, Miss Deemas. Good evening, dear Miss Tippet.”

Miss Deemas bowed.

“Good-bye, my love,” said Miss Tippet, bustling round her friend. “I’m so glad to have met you, and I hope you’ll come and see me soon; 6 Poor-thing Lane, remember. Come whenever you please, dear Mrs Denman. Yes, yes, time does indeed fly, as you say; or as my friend, Sir Archibald What’s-his-name used to remark, ‘Tempit fugus something re-what’s-’is-name.’ Good-bye, dear Mrs Denman.”

While the ladies were thus engaged, one whom the Eagle would have tossed her beak at with supreme contempt was enjoying himself in the bosom of his family. This was none other than Joe Corney himself, who, having received a “stop” for a distant fire, had looked in on his wife to tell her of the note he had received from Mrs Denman.

The family bosom resided in a small portion of a small house in the small street where the fire-engine dwelt.

Joe had laid his helmet on the table, and, having flung himself into a chair, seized his youngest child, a little girl, in his arms, raised her high above his head and laughed in her face; at which the child chuckled and crowed to the best of its ability.

Meanwhile his eldest son, Joe junior, immediately donned the helmet, seized the poker, thrust the head of it into a bucket of water, and, pointing the other end at a supposed fire, began to work an imaginary hand-pump with all his might.

“It’s goin’ out, daddy,” cried the urchin.

“Sure, he’s a true chip o’ the owld block,” observed his mother, who was preparing the evening meal of the family; “he’s uncommon fond o’ fire an’ wather.”

“Molly, my dear,” said the fireman, “I’d have ye kape a sharp eye on that same chip, else his fondness for fire may lead to more wather than ye’d wish for.”

“I’ve bin thinkin’ that same meself, honey,” replied Mrs Corney, placing a pile of buttered toast on the table. “Shure didn’t I kitch him puttin’ a match to the straw bed the other day! Me only consolation is that ivery wan in the house knows how to use the hand-pump. Ah, then, ye won’t believe it, Joe, but I catched the baby at it this mornin’, no later, an’ she’d have got it to work, I do believe, av she hadn’t tumbled right over into the bucket, an’ all but drownded herself. But, you know, the station’s not far off, if the house did git alight. Shure ye might run the hose from the ingin to here without so much as drawin’ her out o’ the shed. Now, then, Joe, tay’s ready, so fall to.”

Joe did fall to with the appetite of a man who knows what it is to toil hard, late and early. Joe junior laid aside the helmet and poker, and did his duty at the viands like the true son of a fireman—not to say an Irishman—and for five minutes or so the family enjoyed themselves in silence. After that Joe senior heaved a sigh, and said that it would be about time for him to go and see the old lady.

“What can it be she wants?” asked Mrs Corney.

“Don’t know,” replied her husband. “All I know is that she’s the old lady as was bundled neck and crop out o’ the first-floor windy o’ the house in Holborn by Frank Willders. She’s a quare owld woman that. She’s got two houses, no less; wan over the coachmaker’s shop—the shop bein’ her property—an’ wan in Russell Square. They say she’s rich enough to line her coffin with goold an inch thick. Spakin’ o’ that, Molly my dear, a quare thing happened to me the other night. It’s what ye call a coinsidence.”

“What’s that, Joe?”

“Well, t’ain’t easy to explain, but it means two things happenin’ together in a most onlikely way—d’ye see?”

“No, I don’t, Joe,” replied Mrs Corney, helping herself to another slice of toast.

“Well, it don’t matter much,” resumed Joe, “but this is what it was: Mr Dale an’ me was sittin’, about two in the mornin’, at the station fire smokin’ our pipes (for it was my turn on duty) an’ chattin’ away about one thing an’ another, when somehow we got upon tellin’ our experiences, an’ Dale he tells me a story o’ how he was once called to a fire in a cemetary, an’ had to go down among the coffins—for they was afire—an’ what a fright some o’ his men got, when, just as he had finished, an’ all my flesh was creepin’ at wot I’d heard, there comes a ring at the bell an’ a call to a fire in Portland Street. I runs an’ gets out the ingin, an’ Frank (he was my mate that night) he rings up the boys, an’ away we wint in tin minutes. It wasn’t far, an’ when we got there in we wint into the house, which was full o’ smoke, but no fire to be seen. We wint coughin’ and sneezin’ an’ rubbin’ our eyes down into a cellar, where the lads of another ingin was at work before us wi’ the hand-pumps, an’, would ye belaive it? but the walls o’ that cellar was lined wi’ coffins! True for ye, there they was, all sizes, as thick as they could stand. I thought I was dramin’, but it was no drame, for it was an undertaker’s shop; an’ when I wint upstairs, after we diskivered the fire an’ put it out, I sees two coffins on tressels lyin’ ready for use. Wan was black-painted wood, no doubt for a poor man, an’ nothin’ inside o’t. The other alongside was covered wid superfine black cloth an’ silver-mounted handles, an’ name-plate, an’ it was all padded inside an’ lined wid white satin!”

“White satin, Joe? You’re jokin’.”

“As sure as your name’s Molly, it was white satin,” repeated Joe; “I wouldn’t have belaived it av I hadn’t seen it; but that’s the way the quality goes to their graves. I looks at the two coffins as I was comin’ away, an’ thinks I to myself, I wonder whether the poor man or the rich man’ll be most comfortable when they’re laid there?”

“Now, Molly, I’ll bid ye good-night an’ be off to see this owld lady, this Mrs Denman. Look afther that boy, now, an kape the matches out of his way, whativer ye do.”

With this very needful warning, Joe Corney kissed his wife and the baby, and went off to the station to obtain leave of absence for a couple of hours.

Chapter Eighteen.

Joe Corney’s Advice.

Wending his way through the crowded streets, Joe soon reached the door of the house in Russell Square which belonged to Mrs Denman.

The good lady had made use of a cab after quitting Miss Deemas, so that she was at home and seated in a luxuriously easy chair in her splendidly furnished drawing-room when the fireman applied the knocker.

“Does Mrs Denman stop here, my dear?” said Joe to the smart servant-girl who opened the door.

“Yes,” replied the girl, “and she told me to show you up to the drawing-room whenever you came. Step this way.”

Joe pulled off his cap and followed the maid, who ushered him into the presence of the little old lady.

“Pray take a chair,” said Mrs Denman, pointing to one which had evidently been placed close to hers on purpose. “You are a fireman, I understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Joe, “I’ve bin more nor tin years at the business now.”

“You must find it a very warm business, I should imagine,” said Mrs Denman, with a smile.

“True for ye, ma’am. My body’s bin a’most burnt off my sowl over and over again; but it’s cowld enough, too, sometimes, specially when ye’ve got to watch the premises after the fire’s bin put out of a cowld winter night, as I had to do at your house, ma’am.”

Mrs Denman started and turned pale.

“What! d’you mean to say that you were at the fire in—in Holborn that night?”

“Indeed I do, ma’am. Och! but ye must be ill, ma’am, for yer face is as white as a ghost. Shure but it’s red now. Let me shout for some wather for ye, ma’am.”

“No, no, my good man,” said Mrs Denman, recovering herself a little. “I—I—the fact is, it did not occur to me that you had been at that fire, else I would never—but no matter. You didn’t see—see—any one saved, did you?”

“See any one saved, is it? Shure, I did, an’ yerself among the lot. Och! but it’s Frank Willders as knows how to do a thing nately. He brought ye out o’ the windy, ma’am, on his showlder as handy as if ye’d bin a carpet-bag, or a porkmanty, ma’am—”

“Hush, man!” exclaimed poor Mrs Denman, blushing scarlet, for she was a very sensitive old lady; “I cannot bear to think of it. But how could—you know it was me? It—it—might have been anything—a bundle, you know.”

“Not by no manes,” replied the candid Joe. “We seed your shape quite plain, ma’am, for the blankit was tight round ye.”

Mrs Denman covered her face with her hand at this point, and resting her elbow on the arm of her chair, reflected that the thing was beyond remedy, and that, as the man had come and was now looking at her, matters could not be worse; so she resolved to carry out her original intention, and question him as to the best course of action in the event of fire.

“My good man,” she said, “I have taken the liberty of asking you to come here to tell me what I should do to guard against fire in future.”

Joe rubbed his nose and looked at the ground; then he stroked his chin and looked at the old lady; then a look of intelligence lighted up his expressive countenance as he said abruptly—

“Is yer house an’ furniture insured, ma’am?”

“No, it is not,” replied Mrs Denman. “I have never insured in my life, because although I hear of fires every day in London, it has never occurred to me until lately that there was any probability of my house being burned. I know it was very foolish of me, but I shall see to having it done directly.”

“That’s right, ma’am,” said Joe, with an approving nod. “If you seed the heaps an’ heaps o’ splendid furnitur’ an’ goods an’ buildin’s as is burnt every day a’most in London, an’ lost to the owners ’cause they grudged the few shillin’s of insurance, or ’cause they was careless an’ didn’t b’lieve a fire would ever come to them, no matter how many might come to other folk, you’d insure yer house an’ furnitur’ first thing i’ the mornin’, ma’am.”

“I have no doubt you say what is quite correct, Mr Corney, and I will certainly attend to this matter in future; but I am more particularly anxious to know how I should act if the house in which I live were to take fire.”

“Get out of it as fast as possible,” said Joe promptly, “an’ screech out fire! till yer sides is sore.”

“But suppose,” said Mrs Denman, with a faint smile, “that the fire is burning in the stair, and the house full of smoke, what am I to do?”

“Och! I see yer drift now, ma’am,” said Joe, with a knowing look. “Av it’s that what ye wants to know, I’ll just, with your lave, ma’am, give ye a small discourse on the subjic’.”

Joe cleared his throat, and began with the air of a man who knows what he is talking about.

“It’s as well, ma’am, to begin by tryin’ to prevent yer house ketchin’ fire—prevention bein’ better nor cure. If ye’d kape clear o’ that, there’s two or three small matters to remimber. First of all, take oncommon good care o’ your matches, an’ don’t let the childer git at ’em, if you’ve any in the house. Would you believe it, ma’am, there was above fifty fires in London last year that was known to ha’ bin set alight by childers playin’ wid matches, or by careless servants lettin’ ’em drop an’ treadin’ on ’em?”

“How many?” asked Mrs Denman in surprise.

“Fifty, ma’am.”

“Dear me! you amaze me, fireman; I had supposed there were not so many fires in London in a year.”

“A year!” exclaimed Joe. “Why, there’s nearly three fires, on the average, every twinty-four hours in London, an’ that’s about a thousand fires in the year, ma’am.”

“Are you sure of what you say, fireman?”

“Quite sure, ma’am; ye can ax Mr Braidwood if ye don’t b’lieve me.”

Mrs Denman, still in a state of blank amazement, said that she did not doubt him, and bade him go on.

“Well, then,” resumed Joe, “look well arter yer matches, an’ niver read in bed; that’s the way hundreds o’ houses get a light. When you light a candle with a bit o’ paper, ma’am, don’t throw it on the floor an’ tramp on it an’ think it’s out, for many a time there’s a small spark left, an’ the wind as always blows along the floor sets it up an’ it kitches somethin’, and there you are—blazes an’ hollerin’ an’ ingins goin’ full swing in no time. Then, ma’am, never go for to blow out yer gas, an’ if there’s an escape don’t rest till ye get a gasfitter and find it out. But more particularly don’t try to find it yerself with a candle. Och! if ye’d only seen the blows up as I’ve seen from gas, ye’d look better arter it. Not more nor two weeks gone by, ma’am, we was called to attend a fire which was caused by an escape o’ gas. W’en we got there the fire was out, but sitch a mess you niver did see. It was a house, ma’am, in the West End, with the most illigant painted walls and cornices and gimcracks, idged all with goold. The family had just got into it—noo done up for ’em, only, by good luck, there wasn’t much o’ the furnitur’ in. They had smelled a horrid smell o’ gas for a good while, but couldn’t find it. At last the missis, she goes with a workman an a candle to look for it, an’ sure enough they found it in a bathroom. It had been escapin’ in a small closet at the end o’ the bath, and not bein’ able to git out, for the door was a tight fit, it had gone away an’ filled all the space between the ceilin’s an’ floors, an’ between the lath, and plaster, and the walls. The moment the door in the bath-room was opened all this gas took light an’ blowed up like gunpowder. The whole inner skin o’ the beautiful drawing-room, ma’am, was blowed into the middle of the room. The cook, who was in the drawin’-room passage, she was blow’d down stairs; the workman as opened the little door, he was blow’d flat on his back; an’ the missis, as was standin’ with her back to a door, she was lifted off her legs and blow’d right through the doorway into a bedroom.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed the horrified Mrs Denman, “was she killed?”

“No, ma’am, she warn’t killed. Be good luck they was only stunned an’ dreadful skeared, but no bones was broken.”

Mrs Denman found relief in a sigh.

“Well, ma’am,” continued Joe, “let me advise you to sweep yer chimleys once a month. When your chimley gets afire the sparks they get out, and when sparks get out of a windy night there’s no tellin’ what they won’t light up. It’s my opinion, ma’am, that them as makes the laws should more nor double the fines for chimleys goin’ afire. But suppose, ma’am, your house gets alight in spite of you—well then, the question is what’s best to do?”

Mrs Denman nodded her old head six or seven times, as though to say, “That is precisely the question.”

“I’ll tell you, ma’am,”—here Joe held up the fore-finger of his right hand impressively. “In the first place, every one in a house ought to know all the outs and ins of it, ’cause if you’ve got to look for things for the first time when the cry of ‘Fire’ is raised, it’s not likely that you’ll find ’em. Now, d’ye know, or do the servants know, or does anybody in the house know, where the trap in the roof is?”

Mrs Denman appeared to meditate for a minute, and then said that she was not sure. She herself did not know, and she thought the servants might be ignorant on the point, but she rather thought there was an old one in the pantry, but they had long kept a cat, and so didn’t require it.

“Och!” exclaimed Joe, with a broad grin, “sure it’s a trap-door I’m spakin’ of.”

Mrs Denman professed utter ignorance on this point, and when told that it ought to be known to every one in the house as a mode of escape in the event of fire, she mildly requested to know what she would have to do if there were such a trap.

“Why, get out on the roof to be sure,” (Mrs Denman shivered) “and get along the tiles to the next house,” (Mrs Denman shut her eyes and shuddered) “an’ so make yer escape. Then you should have a ladder fixed to this trap-door so as it couldn’t be took away, and ye should have some dozen fathoms o’ half-inch rope always handy, cause if ye was cut off from the staircase by fire an’ from the roof by smoke ye might have to let yourself down from a windy. It’s as well, too, to know how to knot sheets and blankets together, so that the ties won’t slip, for if you have no rope they’d be better than nothin’. You should also have a hand-pump, ma’am, and a bucket of water always handy, ’cause if you take a fire at the beginnin’ it’s easy put out. An’ it’s as well to know that you should go into a room on fire on your hands and knees, with your nose close to the ground—just as a pinter-dog goes—’cause there’s more air there than overhead; an’ it’s better to go in wi’ the hand-pump the first thing. Don’t wait to dress, ma’am.”

“Stop, stop, Mr Corney!” cried Mrs Denman, holding up her hand.

The little lady was stunned with the rapid utterance of the enthusiastic fireman, and with the dreadful suggestion that she, Mrs Denman, should, in the dead of night, get upon the roof of her dwelling and scramble over the tiles, or let herself down by a rope from a window into the public street, or creep into a burning room on her hands and knees with her nose to the ground like a pointer, and all this, too, in her night-dress, so she begged of him to stop, and said:

“But you forget, fireman, it is impossible for me to do any of these dreadful things.”

“Well, ma’am,” returned Joe coolly, “it wouldn’t be easy—though, for the matter o’ that, it’s wonderful what people will do for their lives; but I was tellin’ ye, ma’am, what ought to be done, so as somebody else in the house might do it, if you couldn’t.

“But suppose, ma’am,” continued Joe, without waiting for a reply; “suppose that the house is alight. Well, the first thing you’ve got to do, is not to get into a fluster. That can’t do no good, you know, and is sure to do mischief. Keep cool. That’s the first thing, ma’am; and be deliberate in all ye do. The second thing is, to wrap a blanket round ye, an’ get out of the house as fast as ye can without stoppin’ to dress. It’s of no use lookin’ put out, ma’am; for it’s better to escape without yer clo’es than to be burnt alive in ’em. Then be careful to shut all doors after ye as ye go. This keeps the air from gittin’ at the fire, and so smothers it down till the ingines come up. Also keep all windows shut. If the smoke is like to choke ye, git yer nose as near the ground as possible, an’ go along on yer hands and knees. A bit o’ flannel or a worsted sock held over yer mouth an’ nose, will help you to bear it better.

“If ye can’t escape by the street-door, or the trap in the roof, then get into a front room, where you will be more easy to be got at wid ladders or fire-escapes, an’ see that every mimber o’ the household is there. Many a wan has bin forgotten in the hurry-skurry of a fire, and left asleep in bed, ignorant o’ the danger till too late; when a cool head might have missed ’em, and wakened ’em in time. Whatever ye do, ma’am—keep cool.”

The probability of poor Mrs Denman keeping cool in such circumstances was uncommonly small; for she was at that moment hot all over, and her face flushed at the mere recital of such horrors!

Joe then went on to state, that the very last thing she should do was to jump from a window (a somewhat unnecessary piece of advice, poor Miss Denman thought), and that, when she was compelled to take such a step, she should first of all pitch over all the blankets and bedding she could lay hold of to make her fall easy. He wound up with an emphatic reiteration of the assurance that her only chance lay in “keeping cool.”

That night, poor Mrs Denman, in a condition of mind that is utterly indescribable, because inconceivable, went through the whole of the dreadful processes which Joe had described; and did it, too, with miraculous presence of mind and energy—in her dreams.

Chapter Nineteen.

Dark Plots are hatched.

Gorman was one of those peculiar characters who, in personal appearance, are totally devoid of peculiarity. He was a middle-sized, thick-set, commonplace, grave, quiet man; very powerful—but not apparently so; one whom it was impossible to “find out” unless he chose to let himself be found out. Above all, he was a reserved man.

Everybody knew well enough, at least among his intimates, that he was named Gorman; but not one of the number knew what his Christian name was. A few were aware that he signed himself “D. Gorman”; but whether the “D” represented David, dastard, drunkard, or demon, was a matter of pure speculation to all, a few of his female acquaintance excepted (for he had no friends), who asserted roundly that it represented them all, and some were even willing to go the length of saying that it represented more, and stood for dirty, drivelling, desperate, and a few other choice words which it is quite unnecessary to mention. Only a few, and these were among the knowing and peculiarly observant ones of Gorman’s intimates, said that “D” stood for “deep.” But then, many of those who thus pronounced their opinion, were comparatively worthless characters, given to scandal and slander; so the reader must not allow himself to be biassed too much by their report.

Certain it is, however, that when Gorman was asked on one occasion what his Christian name was, he replied that he had no Christian name; because he didn’t believe in Christianity, and that he signed himself “D,” to be distinguished from the other Gormans who might chance to exist in the universe.

People were not at all shocked at his bold statement of unbelief; because, in the circle in which he moved, the same disbelief was pretty general.

Besides many other traits and qualities, definable and indefinable, Gorman had the power of assuming the appearance either of a burglar of the lowest type, or a well-to-do contractor or tradesman. A slight change in dress and manner were sufficient to metamorphose him beyond recognition.

Everybody knew, also, that Gorman was the landlord of a small public-house at the corner of a dirty street, not far from London Bridge; and that he kept a stout, middle-aged man on the premises to do the duty of host, while he himself went about “other business,” which nobody knew of, and which no one could find out, although many had tried to do so with all their might.

Every day in the year, Gorman might have been seen at the “Golden Swan”; but never for longer than a few minutes at a time, when he inspected the books, received the cash drawn the day before; and made an impression on all in the premises, that tended to convince them they were well looked after.

“Humph!” ejaculated Gorman, as he finished counting the dirty coppers and pieces of silver which his agent had delivered to him, and dropped them from his dirty fingers into a dirty leather bag: “Business is dull, I think.”

“It ain’t brisk just now, sir,” replied the deputy-landlord of the “Golden Swan.”

Gorman received this reply with another “Humph,” and then, putting the bag in his coat pocket, prepared to leave.

“No one bin askin’ for me?” inquired Gorman.

“No, sir; no one.”

“I’ll be back to-morrow about this time.”

The deputy knew that this was false, for his employer invariably came at a different hour each day, in order to take “the house” by surprise; but he said, “Very well, sir,” as usual.

“And mind,” continued Gorman, “that you put the lights out. You’re uncommon careful about that, I hope?”

It is worthy of remark, in reference to Gorman’s anxiety about putting out lights, that he had been burned out of several sets of premises in the course of a few years. He was quite a martyr, as it were, to fire. Unaccountably worried, pursued, and damaged by it—no, not damaged, by the way; because Gorman was a prudent man, and always insured to the full amount. His enemies sometimes said above it; but neither they nor we have any means of proving or disproving that.

The deputy protested that he always exercised the utmost precaution in putting everything out every night—from the last beery lingerer, to the gas—and that he felt quite put out himself at being asked the question, as it implied a doubt of his care and attention to business. Hereupon Gorman said “Good-night,” and the deputy returned to the counter, where besotted men and drunken women awaited his attendance.

Three-quarters of an hour sufficed to convey Gorman from the east to the west end of London. Here he sought the well-known precincts of Poorthing Lane, and entered the shop of Mr David Boone.

That worthy received him with a look of glad surprise; but with a feeling of the deepest misery.

“Anyone inside?” asked Gorman.

“No,” said Boone, “’cept the boy. I’ll call him to mind the shop, and then we can be alone.”

As Gorman did not vouchsafe a reply, but walked straight into the little room behind the shop, Boone called the boy, and bade him mind the shop, while he held private consultation with his friend.

The shop-boy enjoyed the name of Robert Roddy. He was a soft-faced, washed-out youth, with a disposition to wink both eyes in a meek manner. Rough-spoken people called him an idiot, but Roddy was not quite such an idiot as they took him for. He obeyed his master’s mandate by sitting down on a tall stool near the window, and occupied himself in attempting to carve a human face on the head of a walking-stick.

“Glad to see you, Mr Gorman,” said Boone, seating his tall body on a low stool at the side of his friend, who, with his hat on, had thrown himself into an armchair, and spread out both legs before the fire. “Very glad to see you, indeed, in my—little sanctum, my withdrawing room, if I may venture to use the name, to which I retire during the intervals of business.”

Boone said this with an air of pleasantry, and smiled, but his visitor did not encourage him.

“Pretty long intervals, I should suppose,” he growled, pulling out his pipe and lighting it.

Boone admitted, with a sigh, that they were, and observed that trade was extremely dull—astonishingly dull.

“Why, would you believe it, sir, I have not sold twenty shillings’ worth o’ goods all last week, and only one wax-doll within the month, although it’s gettin’ well on for Christmas-time? One would a’most fancy the childr’n was about to give up such vanities an’ devote themselves to serious business. It’s a serious business for the like of us, anyhow.”

Again Mr Boone smiled, and again failed to make an agreeable impression on his visitor, who demanded in a surly tone if he had been thinking over it, and made up his mind to do it.

Boone’s face changed at this indefinite question, and became a shade paler than it was by nature, as he replied, hesitatingly, that he had been thinking over it, and that he had made up his mind not to do it.

“Oh, you have, have you?” said Gorman in a tone of irony. “Very good; then I’ll trouble you to pay me the three hundred pounds you owe me by this day next week, and the rent of this here tenement for last half.”

Boone’s face became still paler.

“You’re a hard landlord,” said he.

“You’re a soft tenant,” retorted Gorman.

“You know what the punishment is by law,” continued Boone.

“Yes—death,” said the other drily; “but you know as well as I do that it’s never carried out nowadays.”

“But penal servitude for ten or twenty years ain’t much better.”

“Some men think it’s worse,” replied Gorman, with a savage grin; “but you’ve no need to fear. If you only take the right precautions it’s impossible to find it out, an’ I’ll engage to put ye up to doin’ it in such a way that there won’t be a scrap the size of a sixpence left to convict you. Only put a bold face on it and the thing’s done, and your fortune made as well as mine.”

The man’s voice and manner softened a little as he said this, for he thought he perceived symptoms of wavering in his tenant, who covered his face with his large thin hands and sighed deeply.

“Come, don’t be hard on me,” he said at length; “I really haven’t got courage to go through with this. Only give me a little more time, and I’ll—”

“Very good,” interrupted Gorman, with an oath, as he rose and dashed his pipe into fragments on the hearth; “if you won’t burn yourself out o’ this scrape.”

“Hush! hush, man!” said Boone in a hoarse whisper; “not so loud; my lad will hear you. Come, I’ll think of it.”

“Will you do it?” demanded the other fiercely. “You know the alternative if you don’t?”

“Ruination?”

“Exactly so; and that without delay.”

“Ruination either way,” murmured Boone sadly to himself, as though he were counting the cost.

“Tut, man,” said his landlord, becoming more gentle, “it’s nothing of the sort. If you only take my advice, it’ll be a jolly blaze, which, instead of ending in smoke will end in some thousands of pounds and commencing business again on fresh capital. Come, I’ve not got time to waste with you. There’s no escape for you, so you’d better say yes, else I’ll go and have a talk with a legal friend of mine who is used to screwing gold out of most unpromising mines.”

David Boone’s face had by this time become so pale that it could not become paler, so it turned somewhat green instead. His teeth, too, had a tendency to chatter when he spoke, but by a strong mental effort he prevented this, and said in a subdued voice that he was willing to do whatever his landlord pleased to command.

“That’s all right,” said Gorman, resuming his seat in front of the fire; “now you speak like a man. Sit down and I’ll go over the matter with you, and make your mind easy by showing you that it ain’t either a difficult or risky piece of work. Bless you, it ain’t the first time I’ve been up to that sort o’ thing.”

It did not require the diabolical leer that accompanied this remark to convince his hearer of its truth.

“Now, then,” said Gorman, with a business air, “first of all, how stands the stock in the shop?”

“Rather low,” answered Boone, who had reseated himself on the stool; “in fact, I’ve got little or nothing more than what is visible. I’ve bin so hard-up of late that I’ve had to crowd everything into view an’ make the most of appearances. All the dressed dolls has got their frocks spread out, and the undressed ones their arms an’ legs throwed about to make ’em take up as much room as possible. The lids of all the work boxes is open, the slates and puzzle boxes stuck up in single rows, with their broadsides to the front, and the collapsin’ worlds is all inflated. Everything in the front is real, but all behind is sham dummies an’ empty boxes.”

Gorman opened his eyes a little on hearing this.

“Good,” he said, after a pause; “you’re a cleverer fellow than I took you for. I thought you was well off, and I’m sure the neighbours think the same, for the place looks pretty full an’ thrivin’. I suppose, now, if it was all sold off you wouldn’t have enough to pay up my loans?”

“Nothink like it,” said Boone earnestly. “I’ve slaved night and day, an’ done my best, but luck’s again’ me.”

“Ah, that’s ’cause you’ve bin faint-hearted in time past; you’re goin’ to be bold in time to come, my good fellow; you’ll have to be bold, you will. Come, I’ll explain how. But first, let me ask how much you think the stock is worth.”

“Not much above fifty pounds.”

“Hum! it looks like more.”

“That’s true, an’ the people about think it’s worth two or three hundred, for you see I have a lot o’ cheap jewellery, and some of the inquisitive ones have been trying to pump me of late. They all think I’m thriving,” said Boone, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“So you are, so you are, man,” said Gorman jocosely, “and you’re going to make your fortune soon, and so am I, though at present I’m poor enough. However, that don’t matter. Here’s your course for the future, which you’re to steer by. You’ll go an’ begin chatting with your neighbours at odd times, and your conversation, curiously enough, will always be about the times bein’ better than usual, an’ about the approach of Christmas, an’ the stock you mean to lay in against that festive season. After that you’ll lay in the stock—fifty pounds’ worth; and it won’t be sham; it’ll be real—”

“But where is the money to come from?” asked Boone.

“Oh, don’t you trouble about the money; I’ll provide that. I’ve a curious power of raisin’ the wind on easy terms. Fifty pounds’ worth of real goods will be bought by you, my thriving shopman, and you’ll let some of the neighbours, partiklerly these same inquisitive ’uns, see the goods and some of the invoices, and you’ll tell them that you’ve laid in 150 pounds worth of stock, and that you think of layin’ in more. On the strength of the press o’ business you’ll get another shop-lad, and you’ll keep ’em employed a good deal goin’ messages, so that they won’t get to know much about the state o’ things, and I’ll take care to send you a rare lot o’ customers, who’ll come pretty often for small purchases, and give the shop an uncommon thrivin’ look. Oh, we’ll make a splendid appearance of doin’ business, and we’ll have lots of witnesses ready to bother these sharp lawyers if need be—won’t we, Boone?”

Poor Boone, whose colour had not yet improved much, smiled in a ghastly way, but said nothing.

“Well, then,” resumed Gorman, after a few minutes’ meditation, “when this thriving trade is in full swing we’ll get it insured. You know it would never do to risk the loss of such valuable stock by fire—eh, Boone? common prudence pints that out! You say what you have is worth fifty, and what you’ll lay in is fifty more, makin’ a hundred, so we’ll insure for five hundred; there’s a clear gain of four hundred per cent, only think of that! Well, the house I have already insured for five hundred, that makes nine hundred, and we’ll insure the furniture and fixings for fifty; that’ll look business-like, you know. Then the goods laid in will be carefully removed in the night at various times before the fire, so you had better see that they are small and portable objects; that’ll make another fifty pounds, if not more. So I see my way to a thousand pounds. That’s a neat sum, ain’t it, Boone?”

Still Boone made no reply, but favoured his visitor with another ghastly smile.

“Well, then,” pursued Gorman, “all you’ve got to do is, on a certain night that I will fix, to set the shop alight, and the thing’s done quite easy. But that’s not all. You’ve got an old mother, I believe; well, it would be very unnatural in you to run the risk of being burned to death, an’ leaving her penniless; so you’ll insure your life for five hundred pounds, and I’ll pay the first premium on it, and then you’ll die—”

“Die!” exclaimed Boone, with a start.

“Ay; why not, if you’re to get a small fortune by it.”

“But how’s that to be managed?” inquired Boone, with a look of doubt.

“Managed? Nothing easier. You’ll be so desperately upset by the fire—perhaps singed a little too—that you’ll be taken ill and won’t get better. I’ll look carefully after you as your loving friend, and when you’re about dead you’ll get up and clear off in a quiet way. I’ll make arrangements to have a corpse as like you as possible put in your bed, and then you’ll be buried comfortably, and we’ll share the insurance. Of course you’ll have to leave this part of the town and disguise yourself, but that won’t be difficult. Why, man, if you were only fond of a joke you might even attend your own funeral! It’s not the first time that sort of thing has bin done. So, then, you’ll have your life insured, but not yet. Your first business is to set about the purchase of the stock, and, let me tell you, there’s no time to lose, so I advise you to write out the orders this very night. I’ll fetch you fifty pounds in a day or two, and you’ll pay up at once. It’ll look well, you know, and after it’s all settled we’ll divide the plunder. Now then, good-night. I congratulate you on your thriving business.”

Gorman opened the door of the inner room as he said the last words, so that the lad in the shop might hear them. As he passed through the shop he whispered in his friend’s ear, “Mind the consequences if you fail,” and then left him with another hearty good-night.

Poor David Boone, having sold himself to the tempter, went about his duties like an abject slave. He began by ordering goods from various wholesale dealers in the city, after which he took occasion to stand a good deal at his shop door and accost such of his neighbours as chanced to pass. The conversation at such times invariably began with the interesting topic of the weather, on which abstruse subject Boone and his friends displayed a surprising profundity of knowledge, by stating not only what the weather was at the time being, and what it had been in time past, but what it was likely to be in time to come. It soon diverged, however, to business, and usually ended in a display of fresh goods and invoices, and in references, on the part of Boone, to the felicitous state of trade at the time.

Do what he would, however, this thriving tradesman could not act his part well. In the midst of his prosperity his smiles were ghastly and his laughter was sardonic. Even when commenting on the prosperity of trade his sighs were frequent and deep. One of his friends thought and said that prosperity was turning the poor man’s brain. Others thought that he was becoming quite unnatural and unaccountable in his deportment; and a few, acting on the principle of the sailor’s parrot, which “could not speak much, but was a tremendous thinker,” gave no outward indication of their thoughts beyond wise looks and grave shakes of the head, by which most people understood them to signify that they feared there was a screw loose somewhere.

This latter sentiment, it will be observed, is a very common one among the unusually wise ones of the earth, and is conveniently safe, inasmuch as it is more or less true of every person, place, and thing in this sad world of loose screws.

Chapter Twenty.

A little more Hatching.

One night Edward Hooper, having consulted his watch frequently, and compared it with the clock of slow notoriety in the warehouse in Tooley Street, until his patience was almost gone, at last received the warning hiss, and had his books shut and put away before the minute-gun began to boom. He was out at the door and half-way up the lane, with his hat a good deal on one side of his head and very much over one eye, before the last shot was fired.

“It’s a jolly time of day this—the jolliest hour of the twenty-four,” muttered Ned to himself, with a smile.

His speech was thick, and his smile was rather idiotic, by reason of his having drunk more than his usual allowance at dinner that day.

By way of mending matters, Ned resolved to renew his potations immediately, and announced his intentions to himself in the following words:

“Com—mi—boy—y–you’ll go—ave an—urrer por-o-porer—thash yer sort!”

At a certain point in the drunkard’s downward career he ceases to have any control over himself, and increases his speed from the usual staggering jog-trot to a brisk zigzag gallop that generally terminates abruptly in the grave.

Ned Hooper, a kind-hearted fellow enough, and thinking himself not so bad as he seemed because of that same kind-heartedness, had reached the galloping point, and was travelling unusually fast along the high road to ruin.

Being of a generous nature, Ned was in the habit of extending his patronage to various beer-shops, among others to that one near London Bridge which has been described as the property of Gorman. Business, pleasure, or fancy led him to that shop on the evening in question. He was standing at the counter steadying himself with his left hand and holding a pewter-pot in his right, when the door of the inner room opened, and Gorman crossed the floor. He was in a thoughtful mood, and was about to pass out without raising his eyes, when Ned arrested him with:

“Good ev-n’in’, Misher Gorm’n.”

Gorman glanced back, and then turned away as if in contempt, but, suddenly checking himself, returned, and going up to Hooper with as affable a smile as his countenance would admit of, said that he was delighted to shake hands with him, and that he was the very man he wanted to see, as he wished to have a word of conversation with him.

“Conv’shas’n wi’ me?” said Ned, swaying himself to and fro as he endeavoured to look steadily in the face of his friend; “fire away, shen. I’m sh’ man f’r conv’shash’n, grave or gay, comic—’r—shublime, ’s all the shame to me!”

He finished the pot, and laid it, with an immense assumption of care, on the counter.

“Come out, we’ll walk as we talk,” said Gorman.

“Ha! to b’shure; ’at’s poetical—very good, very good, we’ll wa–alk as we talk—ha! ha! very good. Didn’t know you wash a poet—eh? don’t look like ’un.”

“Come along, then,” said Gorman, taking him by the arm.

“Shtop!” said Ned, drawing himself up with an air of drivelling dignity, and thrusting his hand into his trouser-pocket.

“What for?” asked the other.

“I haven’t p–paid for my b–beer.”

“Never mind the beer. I’ll stand that,” said Gorman, dragging his friend away.

Ned consented to be dragged, and said something to the effect that he hoped to have the pleasure of standing treat on some future occasion.

“Now, then,” said Gorman, somewhat firmly, though not sternly, for he knew that Ned Hooper was not to be browbeat; “are you sober enough to attend to what I’ve got to say?”

“Shober as a dudge,” answered Ned.

Gorman looked earnestly in his face for a few moments, and then began to talk to him in a continuous strain by way of testing him.

“C’found these cabs an’ b–busseses; a feller c–can’t hear a word,” said Ned.

“Your lodgin’s an’t far off, are they?”

“Close ’t ’and,” answered Ned.

“Let’s go to ’em,” said Gorman.

In silence Ned Hooper led the way, and, conducting his friend into his “chamber,” as he styled his poor abode, begged him to be seated, and threw himself into an armchair beside the little fire. There was a pipe on the chimney-piece, which Ned began to fill, while Gorman opened the conversation.

“You’re hard up, rather, just now?” said the latter.

“’Xactly so, that’s my c’ndition to a tee.”

Ned smiled as he said this, as though it were the most satisfactory state of things possible, and lighted his pipe.

“Of course you’ve no objection to make a fifty pound note or so?” asked Gorman.

“None in sh’ wo’ld; always,” he became very earnest here, “always sh’posin’ that I make it honestly.”

“Of course, of course,” rejoined the other; “I would never propose anything that would lead you into a scrape. You don’t suppose I would do that, I hope?”

“Shertenly not,” replied Ned with a smile; “fire away.”

“Well, then, I’m anxious just now to procure a dead corpse.”

Ned Hooper, drunk as he was, felt somewhat startled by this, but, being a man of wandering and lively imagination, turned from the point in question to an idea suggested by it.

“I sh’pose a living corpse wouldn’t do, would it? It must be a dead one—eh?”

“Be serious if you can,” said Gorman angrily. “I want a corpse.”

Ned Hooper, who, like many good-humoured men, was easily roused when in a state of intoxication, fired at the tone of Gorman’s voice, and looked at him as sternly as he could, while he replied:

“What have I got to do with yer wants an’ yer co’pses—eh? You don’t sh’pose I keep a stock of ’em on hand ready-made, do you—eh?” Then relapsing into a placid frame, he smiled, and added, “But fire away, ol’ feller, I’m yer man for conv’sashin, specially w’en it’s in the comic line.”

“That’s right,” said Gorman, clapping Ned on the shoulder and endeavouring to conciliate him; “now, then, the question is, how am I to get ’un?”

“Ah, thash the question, if Shakspr’s to be b’lieved.”

“Well, but couldn’t you think?” said Gorman.

“Think!” exclaimed the other, “what am I paid a salary for? What are my brains doin’ night an day—eh? Of course I can think; thash’s my pr’feshion, is thinking.”

Gorman cast a scornful look at his friend, but he deemed it prudent to admit the truth of what he said, and suggested that he might perhaps remember a certain medical student with whom he had once held pleasant converse in his (Gorman’s) house of entertainment.

“R’member him, of course,” hiccuped Ned.

“Well, then, he could get us a corpse, you know—couldn’t he?”

Ned looked uncommonly knowing at this point, and admitted that he rather thought he could—a dozen of them, if necessary.

“Well, I want one, and I’ll pay well for it if it’s of the right sort. It must be at least six-foot two, thin about the jaws, with lanky black hair, and a yellow complexion.”

Ned smiled facetiously, but at the same time shook his head.

“Six f’t two,” said he, “an’t a common height; it won’t be easy to get ’un so tall; but—but,” he pondered here with a grave expression of countenance, “but it might be stretched a bit, you know—eh? As to thin jaws, most of ’em is thin about sh’ jaws, an’ black hair ain’t un—uncommon.”

Ned yawned at this point, and looked very sleepy.

“Well, you’ll speak to him, won’t you, and I’ll make it worth while for both of you?”

“Oh yesh, I’ll shpeak to him,” said Ned, as his head fell on the table and his senses utterly forsook him.

“Bah! you beast,” muttered Gorman, casting a glance of scorn on his friend as he rose to leave. He had the sense, before going, to extinguish the candle, lest Ned should overturn it and set the house on fire; not that he cared either for Ned or the house, but as the former happened to be necessary to him just then, he did not wish him to be burned too soon. Then he went out, closing the door softly after him.

Half an hour afterwards Ned’s friend and fellow-lodger, John Barret, entered the room, accompanied by Fred Auberly.

“Come, Fred,” said the former, “we can chat here without interr— hallo—”

“What’s wrong?” inquired Fred, endeavouring to make out objects by the feeble flicker of the fire, while his friend struck a light.

Barret did not reply, but the light soon revealed Ned’s disreputable figure half sprawling on and half clinging to the table.

“Surely this is not your chum, John?” asked Fred in surprise.

“Yes, that’s him,” answered Barret in a low sad voice. “Help me to get him into bed, like a good fellow.”

Without a word the young men raised the drunken figure in their arms, and laid it like some loathsome object on one of the beds in the adjoining room.

“How can you stay with him?” asked Auberly, after they had returned to the other room and seated themselves at the fire.

“He is an old schoolfellow of mine,” said Barret in a low voice. “I’m sorry you’ve seen him in this state. He was a very different fellow once, I assure you; and if it were not for that accursed drink he would be as pleasant a companion as exists. You know I have no friends in London save yourself, Fred, and this young fellow.—I came to stay with him at first, not knowing his character, and now I remain to try to—to—save him; but I fear his case is hopeless. Come, Fred, we won’t talk of it. You were saying, as we came along, that your father is sterner than ever, were you not?”

“Ay,” said Fred, with a sigh, “he won’t even let me call to see my sister too—that’s the worst of it. For the rest I care not; my brush has sustained me hitherto, and my love for my profession increases every hour. I feel towards it, John, as a man may be supposed to feel towards the sweet, young girl whom wicked guardians had for a long time refused to let him wed. Nothing but death shall separate us now!”

Barret smiled, and was about to make some rejoinder, but he checked himself and changed the subject.

“How is your sister?” said he, “I have not heard of her for a long time.”

“Not well,” answered Fred; “the doctors shake their heads and speak of the shock having been too much for her. Dear Loo, she never was strong, and I’m afraid that she has received fatal injury on the night of the fire. I’m told that my poor father is sadly cut up about her—attends on her night and day, and humours her every whim. This is so unlike him that it fills me with anxiety on account of dear Loo, whom I have not seen since I went to live at Kensington.”

“Kensington, Fred? I did not know you had gone to live there.”

“I was just going to mention that when we came in. I have got a very comfortable lodging with—who do you think? you’ll never guess—Mrs Willders, the mother of our young friend Willie who works with old Tom Tippet upstairs. You may well look surprised. I came upon the lodging quite accidentally, and, finding that it suited my inclinations and my purse, I took it at once for a few weeks. It’s in a very poor locality, no doubt, but you know a man must cut his coat according to his cloth, and my cloth is not broad at present. But then,” continued Fred, with sudden animation, “it’s a splendid place for a painter! There are such picturesque regions and bits near it. Why, Kensington Gardens are sufficient to make the fortune of a landscape-painter—at least in the way of trees; then an hour’s walk takes you to rural scenery, or canal scenery, with barges, bridges, boats, old stores, cottages, etcetera. Oh! it’s a magnificent spot, and I’m hard at work on a picturesque old pump near Shepherd’s Bush Common, with a bit of old brick wall behind it, half-covered with ivy, and a gipsy-like beggar-girl drinking at it out of her hand; that—that’ll make an impression, I think, on the Royal Academy, if—if they take it in.”

“Ah! if they take it in,” said John Barret, smiling.

“Well,” retorted Fred Auberly, “I know that is a point of uncertainty, and I’m not very sanguine, because there is great lack of room. Nevertheless, I mean to send it. And you know, John, ‘faint heart never won fair lady,’ so—”

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a shrill whistle at the top of the house, which, as it drew nearer, became identified with the air of “Rule Britannia!”

“That’s Willie Willders,” said Barret, laughing.

“I guessed as much, and with your leave I’ll call him in. He knows of my having become an inmate of his mother’s house, and as he is probably going home I would like to send a message to his mother. Hallo, Willie.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the youth, in the tones of a thoroughbred seaman. Not that Willie had ever been at sea, but he was so fond of seamen, and had mingled with them so much at the docks, as well as those of them who had become firemen, that he tried to imitate their gait and tones.

“Come here, you scamp, and stop your noise.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Willie, with a grin, as he entered the room, cap in hand.

“Going home, lad?” asked Fred.

“Yes, sir—at least in a permiscuous sort of way entertainin’ myself as I goes with agreeable talk, and improvin’ obsarvation of the shop winders, etceterrer.”

“Will you take a message to your mother?”

“Sure-ly,” answered Willie.

“Well, say to her that I have several calls to make to-night and may be late in getting home, but she need not sit up for me as I have the door-key; tell her not to forget to leave the door on the latch.”

“Wery good, sir,” said Willie. “May I make so bold as to ask how Miss Loo was when you seed her last?”

“Not well, I regret to say,” replied Fred.

“Indeed! I’m surprised to hear that, for she’s agoin’ out to tea to-morrow night, sir.”

“My surprise is greater than yours, lad; how d’you know that, and where is she going to?” asked Auberly.

Here Willie explained in a very elaborate manner that a note had arrived that forenoon from Miss Tippet, inviting Mr Tippet to tea the following evening, and expressing a hope that he would bring with him his clerk, “Mister” Willders, the brother of the brave fireman who had saved Loo’s life, and that Miss Louisa Auberly was to be there, and that Mr Tippet had written a note accepting the same.

“Then you’ll have to take another message from me, Willie. Tell Miss Tippet when you go to-morrow that I will give myself the pleasure of looking in on her in the course of the evening,” said Fred. “Mr Auberly is not to be there, is he?”

“No, not as I knows of.”

“Well, good-night, Willie.”

Willie took his departure, marching to the usual national air, and soon after Fred Auberly bade his friend good-night and left him.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Small Tea-Party.

Miss Tippet’s tea-party began by the arrival of Willie Willders, who, being fond of society, and regardless of fashion, understood his hostess literally when she named her tea-hour! For full half an hour, therefore, he had the field to himself, and improved the occasion by entertaining Miss Tippet and Emma Ward with an account of the wonderful inventions that emanated from the fertile brain of Mr Thomas Tippet.

Strange to say, a deep and lasting friendship had sprung up between the eccentric old gentleman and his volatile assistant. Willie sympathised so fully with his master in his wild schemes, and displayed withal such an aptitude for mechanical contrivance, and such a ready appreciation of complex theories, that Mr Tippet soon came to forget his extreme youth, and to converse with him, propound schemes and new ideas to him, and even to ask his advice; with as much seriousness as though he had been a full-grown man.

This was of course very gratifying to Willie, who repaid his master’s condescension and kindness by devoting himself heart and soul to the duties of what he styled his “profession.” He was a good deal put out when his brother Frank asked him one day what his “profession” was, and resolving never again to be placed in such an awkward position of ignorance, asked his employer what was the name of his business, to which the employer replied that it had no particular name; but, on being urged by his assistant to give it a name, he suggested that he might, if so disposed, style himself a poly-artist, which, he explained, meant an artist of many occupations. Willie felt that this might be translated “jack-of-all-trades,” but on mature consideration he resolved to adopt it, in the belief that few people would understand what it meant, and that thereby he would be invested with a halo of mystery, which was, upon the whole, a gratifying reflection.

Gradually, however, Willie was led to diverge from his employer to his brother Frank, in regard to whom Miss Tippet entertained the strongest feelings of admiration, because of his courageous conduct in saving Louisa Auberly. Willie pursued this theme all the more willingly that Emma appeared to be deeply interested in it.

Emma Ward was very romantic in her nature; yet she had a keen appreciation of the ludicrous,—which caused her to appear somewhat light-headed and giddy in the eyes of superficial observers; but she possessed an underlying earnestness of soul, which displayed itself in a thousand ways to those who had much intercourse with her. She was an ardent hero-worshipper; and while Miss Tippet was her heroine, Frank Willders was, at that time, her beau idéal of a hero, although she only knew him from description.

Willie was still in the middle of a glowing account of a fire, in which Frank and his friends Dale and Baxmore were the chief actors; and Emma was listening with heightened colour, parted lips, and sparkling eyes, when Matty Merryon opened the door and announced Mr Tippet.

That gentleman was still in the act of shaking his sister’s hands with both of his, and kissing her on both cheeks heartily, when Matty announced Miss Deemas.

Matty, being Irish, allowed her soul to gush out too obviously in her tones; so that her feelings towards the Eagle, though unexpressed, were discernible.

Miss Deemas strode up to Miss Tippet, and pecked her on the right cheek, much as an eagle might peck a tender rabbit, which it could slay and devour if it chose, but which it preferred to spare for a time. She was immediately introduced to Mr Tippet, whom she favoured with a stiff bow, intended to express armed neutrality in the meantime; with a possibility, if not a probability, of war in the future. The eccentric gentleman felt chilled, but ventured to express an opinion in regard to the weather, glancing for confirmation of the same towards the window, through which he naturally enough expected to see the sky; but was baffled by only seeing the green venetian blinds, which ruled off the opposite houses in narrow stripes. Before he had recovered himself to make any further observation, Miss Deemas had attempted, in a condescending way, to peck the cheek of Emma Ward; but that young lady, feeling disinclined, so managed that she received the peck on her forehead.

On Willie, Miss Deemas bestowed a glance of utter indifference, which Willie replied to with a gaze of desperate defiance.

Then Miss Deemas seated herself on the sofa, and asked her “dear friend” how she did, and how she felt, and whether things in general were much as usual; from which elevated region of generalities she gradually descended into the more particular sphere of gossip and scandal.

It is only just to Miss Tippet to say that the Eagle did not find her a congenial bird of prey in this region. On the contrary, she had to drag her unwilling friend down into it; and as Miss Tippet was too conscientious and kind-hearted to agree with her in her sweeping censures and caustic observations and wilful misconstructions, it is difficult to conceive wherein she (the Eagle) found pleasure in her society. Probably it was because she found in her one who would submit meekly to any amount of contradiction, and listen patiently to any amount of vituperative declamation.

“So it seems Mr Auberly has disinherited and dismissed his son, my dear,” said Miss Deemas, smoothing her dress with both hands, as though she were about to lay Mr Auberly in her lap, and analyse him.

“I’m sorry to say that it is too true, Julia,” answered Miss Tippet, with a sigh.

“Ha! it’s so like one of these creatures,” said Miss Deemas, pursing her thin lips; “so domineering, so towering, in their pride of mere physical power.”

Mr Tippet glanced at the Eagle in surprise, not being able to understand to what sort of “creatures” she made reference.

“Poor Frederick,” sighed Miss Tippet, “I don’t know what he’ll do (ring the bell, Emma, darling); he’s such a bold, high-spirited young man, and it’s all owing to his determination to take to—to what’s-’is-name as a profession (bring the tea, Matty). It’s very sad.”

“That must be a new sort of profession,” observed Miss Deemas pointedly.

“Oh! I mean painting, you know. It’s impossible to arrange one’s things in such very correct language, you know, dear Julia; you are really too—oh! did you hear of Joe Corney, and what’s-his— fireman’s visit to Mrs Denman? To be sure you did; I forgot it was in your house. It was such a funny account; you heard of it, brother (ring the bell again, dear), didn’t you?”

Mr Tippet, whose wonted vivacity was quite subdued by the freezing influence of the Eagle, said that he had not heard of it; whereupon Miss Tippet said that she had heard of it, and so had Willie Willders, who had heard of it from his brother Frank, who had heard of it from Joe Corney himself; and then she attempted to relate the matter, but failed, and finally asked Willie to tell the story, which Willie did with much gusto; looking at Miss Deemas all the time, and speaking in a very positive tone, as if he thought she was doubting every word he said, and was resolved to hurl it in her teeth, whether she chose to believe it or not.

“Capital!” exclaimed Mr Tippet, laughing heartily, when Willie had concluded; “what an energetic old lady she must be! Really, I must get introduced to her, and show her the self-acting fire-extinguisher I have just invented. You remember it, Willie?” Willie nodded. “I’ve laid it aside for some time; but it is very nearly complete now. A little more work on it will finish it. My only difficulty in regard to it is, madam,” he addressed himself to Miss Deemas here, “that it is apt to burst, and I am uncertain whether or not to add a safety-valve to prevent such a catastrophe, or to make the metal so very strong, that nothing short of gunpowder would burst it; but then, you see, that would make the whole affair too heavy. However, these are only minor difficulties of detail, which a little thought will overcome.”

Miss Deemas received all this with a sinister smile, and replied with the single word, “Oh!” after which she turned immediately to Miss Tippet, and remarked that the weather had been unusually warm of late for the season of the year, which remark so exasperated Willie Willders that he turned with a face of crimson to Emma, and asked her if she didn’t feel a draught of cold air coming over her from somewhere, and whether she would not sit nearer the fire, and farther away from the window!

Willie meant this for an uncommonly severe cut; for Miss Deemas sat at the end of the sofa, near the window!

Fortunately, at this point, Matty Merryon ushered in Loo Auberly, who was instantly enfolded in Miss Tippet’s arms, and thence transferred to Emma’s, in which she was led to the sofa, and gently deposited in the softest corner.

“Darling Loo!” exclaimed Miss Tippet, with tears in her eyes; “you look so thin and pale.”

There could be no doubt on that point. Little Loo, as Emma styled her, was worn to a shadow by sickness, which had hitherto baffled the doctor’s skill. But she was a beautiful shadow; such a sweet, gentle shadow, that one might feel thankful, rather than otherwise, to be haunted by it.

“Pray don’t mind me; I’m too tired to speak to you yet; just go on talking. I like to listen,” said Loo softly.

With ready kindness, Miss Tippet at once sought to draw attention from the child, by reverting to Mrs Denman; and Matty created a little opportune confusion by stumbling into the room with the tea.

Matty usually tripped over the carpet at the door, and never seemed to become wiser from experience.

“Poor Mrs Denman,” said Miss Tippet, pouring out the tea; “it must have been an awful shock; think of a (Sugar, brother? I always forget), what was I—oh, yes; think of a fireman seizing one round the (Cream, Willie? I know you have a sweet tooth, so I don’t need to ask if you take sugar)—yes, he carried her down that dreadful what-d’ye-call-it, and into the next house with nothing (A little more sugar, Julia? No? )—nothing on but her what’s-’is-name. Oh! it was sad; sad to lose all her fine things, too—her furniture, and—and thingumies. Do try a piece of cake, brother.”

“I know a worse case than hers,” said Willie, with a knowing look.

“Do you?” exclaimed Miss Tippet.

“Oh! do tell it,” cried Emma earnestly; “he’s just been telling it to me, and it is so sad and interesting.”

“Come, let’s hear about it, lad,” said Mr Tippet.

Thus encouraged, Willie related his adventure with the clown’s family, and told his tale with such genuine feeling, that Miss Tippet, Loo, and Emma found their eyes moist when he had concluded.

There was a good deal of comment upon this subject, and Miss Deemas animadverted very strongly upon actors in general and clowns in particular. As to ballet-girls, she could not find words to express her contempt for them; but in reference to this Miss Tippet ventured to rebuke her friend, and to say that although she could not and would not defend the position of these unfortunates, yet she felt that they were very much to be pitied, seeing that they were in many cases trained to their peculiarly indelicate life by their parents, and had been taught to regard ballet-dancing as quite a proper and legitimate what’s-its-name. No doubt this was only a palliation of the life they led, but she thought that if anyone was to be severely blamed in the matter it was the people who went to witness and encourage such wicked displays.

Miss Deemas dissented generally from all her friend’s observations, and, wishing to change the subject, asked Loo if her father was coming to fetch her home.

“No,” said Loo; “dear papa is not well to-night, but he is to send the carriage for me. Oh, I wish,” she continued, reverting to the previous subject, “I wish I could do something for these poor people. I’m so very, very sorry for the fairy.”

“So you can, if you choose,” said Miss Deemas sharply.

“No, indeed I cannot,” replied Loo in an earnest voice; “I’m too ill and weak now to be of any use to anyone. Once I was useful to dear papa, but ever since the fire I have not been of use to anybody; only a hindrance to them. Since I have been ill I have thought much more about what I read in the Bible, and I’ve had a great desire to do good in some way or other, but how can I—so weak and helpless?”

Loo almost sobbed, for her sympathies had been awakened by Willie, and a chord had been touched which had been vibrating in her breast for some weeks past.

“Your father is rich, is he not?” asked the Eagle.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Well, a word to him may be the cause of much good, in the shape of money at least, to people in distress; but rich people don’t always like to spend their money in that way.”

Loo hung down her head and made no reply, for she knew that her father did not like to part with money. She had often heard him refuse to do so in days gone by, even when very pathetic appeals (as she thought) were made to him; and experience told her that it was in vain to look for help in that quarter.

The party was now increased by the arrival of Frederick Auberly, who at once infused life into everybody, except Miss Deemas, who had life enough of her own, and would by no means accept the loan of any from anyone else. Fred therefore ignored her altogether, and told stories and cracked jokes and sang songs as if no such female iceberg were present.

Poor Loo was overjoyed to see him, and laying her head on his breast, bade him speak away and not ask questions; only speak, and allow her to listen and rest.

Fred obeyed, and at once began an earnest discussion with Willie as to the best method of getting a stout gentleman out of a third-floor window in case of fire, when Matty Merryon entered with a flushed face and said that a fireman who would not give his name wished to see Willie Willders for a minute; and she was inclined to think it was his brother.

“What! Frank?” exclaimed Willie, rising to go downstairs.

“Stay, Willie,” cried Miss Tippet eagerly; “don’t go down. Pray let me have him up; I should so like to see him, and I’m sure so would Loo; the man, you know, who went up the what’s-its-name, and brought you—yes, send him up, Matty.”

“Plaze, mim, he won’t come,” replied the girl, “I know’d ye would like to see him, an’ axed him in.”

“Tell him,” said Miss Tippet, “that I request it as a favour.”

While Matty was delivering this message, the Eagle took occasion to sniff once or twice in a contemptuous manner, and wondered why people worshipped men just because they happened to be big, and what they called handsome. For her part, she hated all men, but if she were to be obliged to choose between any class (which she was thankful to say was not necessary in her case), she would certainly give the preference to ugly men and small.

Willie Willders nodded his head approvingly, and, being exasperated into a savage serio-comic condition, as well by the Eagle’s voice and aspect as by her sentiments, he said that she was quite right, and that if he were a lady like her he would hold the same opinions, because then, said he, “being stout, I could wallop my husband an’ keep him down, an’ the contrast of his ugly face with mine would not be so obvious.”

Frank’s step on the stair fortunately prevented this open and desperate attack being noticed. Next moment all turned their eyes in breathless expectation towards the door.

Being on duty, Frank appeared in fireman’s costume, with the sailor-like undress cap in his hand. He bowed to the company, and apologised to Miss Tippet for intruding, but he had wished to ask his brother Willie to call at the fire station on his way home to convey a letter to his mother, and merely meant to see him at the door.

“I’m very glad you came, Mr Willders,” said Miss Tippet, “for I assure you we all regard you as the preserver of our dear Miss Auberly’s life when you went up the—the—thing. Here she is. You must shake—that’s it—so nice!”

The last part of Miss Tippet’s remark referred to Loo stretching out her hand to Frank, who advanced promptly and shook it with great tenderness. He then shook hands with Fred, who expressed his regard for him in warm terms; also with Mr Tippet, who paid him some enthusiastic compliments, and said something to the effect that the parent stem from which two such branches as he and Willie had grown must be a prime plant.

As he turned from Mr Tippet—who, being very short, appeared to be looking up at a steeple while he delivered this opinion—Frank’s eyes encountered those of Emma Ward, who was gazing at him in such undisguised admiration, that, being a somewhat bashful man, he felt a little confused, and dropped his eyes, figuratively, on the floor. Emma blushed scarlet with shame at being caught in this way, and thereafter became rigidly grave and indifferent.

When Frank again raised his eyes—which, by the way, he did immediately—they encountered the eagle glance of Miss Deemas frowning defiance on him, as being a sort of type or pattern specimen of his highly objectionable race. Had Miss Deemas been a man (which would have gratified her more than she could have expressed) Frank could have met the frown with a smile of pity. As it was, he turned to the little eager countenance of Miss Tippet, and felt deeper respect than ever for the sex; thus showing that just as an exception proves a rule, so an unfavourable contrast strengthens a cause.

“Pray sit down, Mr Willders,” entreated Miss Tippet earnestly; “I should like so much to hear how you did it from your own lips, and how you can possibly venture up such dreadful things, just like going up the outside of the Monument. Dear Loo, and you came down it, too; but, to be sure, your eyes were shut, which was as well, for you were only in your night— Ah, well, yes, do sit down Mr Firem–—Willders, I mean.”

Frank thanked her, but declined, on the ground that he was on duty, and that he feared he was doing wrong in even looking in on them for the few minutes he had stayed. “Good-night, ma’am,” he continued, “good-night. You’ll call at the station on your way home, Willie?”

Willie said he would, and then all the company, excepting the Eagle, shook hands with the stalwart fireman, looking up at him as if he were a hero just returned from the proverbial “hundred fights.” Even Emma Ward condescended to shake hands with him at parting.

“Perhaps you’ll be in the middle of a fire this very night,” cried Tom Tippet, following him to the door.

“It is quite possible,” said Frank, with a smile.

Miss Deemas was heard to snort contemptuously at this.

“Perhaps you may even save more lives!” cried Miss Tippet.

“It may be so,” answered Frank, again smiling, but evidently feeling anxious to make his escape, for he was not one of those men who like to be lionised.

“Only think!” exclaimed Miss Tippet as Frank quitted the room.

“Ha!” ejaculated the Eagle, in a tone which was meant to convey her well-known opinion that women would do such things quite as well as men if their muscles were a little stronger.

It is but justice to Miss Deemas to explain that she did not champion and exalt women out of love to her sex. Love was not one of her strong points. Rampant indignation against those whom she bitterly termed “lords of creation” was her strong tower of refuge, in which she habitually dwelt, and from the giddy summit of which she hurled would-be destruction on the doomed males below. Among her various missiles she counted the “wrongs of her sex” the most telling shaft, and was in consequence always busy sharpening and polishing and flourishing this dread weapon in the eyes of her friends as well as her enemies, although, of course, she only launched it at the latter.

Perched on her self-exalted eyrie, Miss Deemas did not know that there was a pretty large number of her own sex in the comparatively humble multitude below, who, while they clearly recognised the “wrongs of women” (and preferred to call them “misfortunes”) did not attribute them solely, or even largely, to the wickedness of men, but to the combined wickedness and folly of society in general, and who were of opinion that such matters were to be put right by patient, persevering, laborious, and persistent efforts on the part of men and women acting in concert, and not by the unwomanly acts and declamation of ladies of the Deemas stamp, whom they counted the worst enemies of the good cause—some wittingly, others unwittingly so. These people among the comparatively humble multitude below, also had the penetration to perceive that the so-called “wrongs” did not lie all on one side, but that there was a pretty large class of the so-called “lords” who went about the world habitually in a sad and disgraceful state of moral semi-nakedness, in consequence of their trousers having been appropriated and put on by their better-halves, and that therefore it was only meet that men and women should be united (as indeed they were from the first intended to be) in their efforts to put each other’s “wrongs” to “rights.”

In addition to all this, these weak-minded (shall we call them?) people, moving in the comparatively humble multitude below, entertained the belief that rising in antagonism to the male sex in this matter was not only unnecessary and unjust and impolitic, but also ungenerous, for they reflected with much calm satisfaction that the “lords” are, after all, “under woman’s control.”

But Miss Deemas and all the ladies of the Eagle stamp did not think so. They did not believe that a strong mind means a mind strong enough to exercise its own powers to the ascertainment and reception of truth and the rejection of falsehood and fallacy; strong enough, under the influence of God’s love, to perceive the paths of duty in all their ramifications, and to resolve to follow them. They did not believe that a high spirit, in the true sense of the word, meant a spirit broken down altogether and brought into subjection to its owner’s, not another’s, will. By no means. A strong mind with the Deemas-eagles meant unutterable and unalterable obstinacy, blind as a bat, with the great guns blazing all round, and the colours nailed to the mast. High spirit with them meant the inclination—ever present, always strong, and often asserted—to seize all the rest of the world, male and female, and lead it by the nose!

The Deemas-eagles as a class receive ready-made opinions, fabricated by someone else, and call them their own—receiving them originally and holding them subsequently, not because they are true, but because they are pleasant to their eyes and sweet to their taste. They hold them stoutly, too, probably because, having no foundation, they would be apt to fall and get broken if not upheld.

Having said thus much in behalf of the Deemas eagles, we now dismiss them, with an apology to the reader.

Chapter Twenty Two.

A Fireman’s Life.

The clocks were striking nine when Frank issued from Miss Tippet’s dwelling and walked briskly away. On turning a corner he came upon one of the numerous fire-escapes that nightly rear their tall heads against the houses all over London, in a somewhat rampant way, as though they knew of the fires that were about to take place, and, like mettlesome war-horses, were anxious to rush into action without delay.

On the pavement, close by the escape, stood a small sentry-box, and the moment Frank came in sight of it he remembered that it was the nocturnal habitation of his friend Conductor Samuel Forest. Sam himself was leaning his arms on the lower half of his divided door, and gazing contemplatively along the street.

“Well, Sam, what news?” inquired Frank as he came up.

“That you, Willders?” said Sam, a quiet smile of recognition playing on his good-humoured features. “I thought it must be the giant they’re exhibitin’ in Saint James’s Hall just now, takin’ a stroll at night to escape the boys. Why, when do you mean to stop growing?”

“I don’t mean to interfere with Nature at all,” replied Frank; “and I believe the world will be big enough to hold me, whatever size I grow to.”

“Well, what’s the news?” inquired Sam, emerging from his narrow residence, and proving in the act, that, though not quite so tall as his friend, he was one who required a pretty fair share of room in the world for himself.

“Nothing particular,” said Frank, leaning against the escape; “only a chimney and a cut-away affair last night, and a false alarm and a first-floor burnt out the day before.”

“How’s Thompson?” asked Forest.

“Poorly, I fear,” said Frank, with a shake of his head. “The sprained ankle he got when he fell off the folding-board is getting well, but the injury to his spine from the engine is more serious.”

“Ah! poor fellow!” said Forest, “he’s just a little too reckless. How came he by the sprain?”

“It was in the basement of a bookbinder’s in Littleton Street,” said Frank, lighting a cigar. “We got the call about 11 p.m., and on getting there found three engines at work. Mr Braidwood ordered our fellows to go down into the basement. It was very dark, and so thick of smoke that I couldn’t see half-an-inch before my nose. We broke through the windows, and found ourselves ankle-deep in water. The engines had been at work flooding the place for some time, and there was more water than we expected; but we had got on the folding-boards without knowing it, an’ before we knew where we were, down went Thompson into water four feet deep. I think myself some of the water-pipes had burst. He rose gasping, and I caught him by the collar and hauled him out. It was in trying to recover himself when he fell that he got the sprain. You’ve heard how he came by the other mishap?”

“Yes, it was gallopin’ down Ludgate Hill, wasn’t it?”

“Ay; the engine went over a barrow, and the jolt threw him off, and before he got up it was on him. By good fortune it did not go over him; it only bruised his back; but it’s worse than we thought it would be, I fear.”

“Ah! one never knows,” said Forest gravely. “There’s one man Jackson, now, only two weeks ago he was up in a third floor in Lambeth, and had brought down two women and a child, and was in the back-rooms groping for more, when the floor above gave way and came down on him. We all thought he was done for, but some of the beams had got jammed, and not five minutes after he steps out of a window all right—only a scratch or two, not worth mentioning; yet that same man fell down a flight of stairs at the same fire, with a boy on his shoulder, and sprained his ankle so bad that he’s bin laid up for three weeks; but he saved the boy.”

“Ah! it was worth the sprain,” said Frank.

“It was,” responded Forest.

“Well, good-night,” said Frank, resuming his walk.

Samuel Forest responded “good-night,” and then, getting into his box, sat down on its little seat, which was warranted not to hold two, trimmed the lamp that hung at his side, and, pulling out a book from a corner, began to peruse it.

Sam was of a literary turn of mind. He read a great deal during his lonely watches, and used often to say that some of his happiest hours were those spent in the dead of night in his sentry-box. His helmet hung on a peg beside him. His hatchet was in his girdle, and a small cap covered his head. Looking at him in his snug and brightly illuminated little apartment, he appeared—by contrast with the surrounding darkness—inexpressibly comfortable. Nevertheless, Sam Forest could have told you that appearances are often deceptive, and that no matter how it looked, his box was but a cold habitation on a biting December night.

While deeply immersed in his book, Sam heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and pricked up his ears. He was a good judge of such sounds. As they drew near, he quietly took off his cap, put on his helmet, and stepped from his box. The street was very silent; and, perhaps, not one of the hundreds of sleepers there thought of the solitary man who held vigil, and was so alert to do them service, if the hour of their extremity should come.

But a cry arose that startled them— “Fire! fire!!”

Another moment, and two men dashed round the corner, yelling at the top of their voices. Gasping for breath, they named the locality. Almost before they had done so, two policemen were on the spot, and in another moment the fire-escape was in motion. Instructed by the conductor, the two strangers and the policemen lent their willing aid. Before ten minutes had passed, the tall machine was run up to a burning house, the lower part of which was blazing; while, from the upper windows, frantic cries were heard for help, and sundry figures in dishabille were seen waving their arms. The escape was run up, and one after another the inmates were rescued from their perilous position.

While this scene was enacting Frank was pursuing his way to the Regent Street Fire Station; but news of the fire got there before him. He arrived just in time to don his helmet and take his place on the engine. Away they went, and in ten minutes after the arrival of the fire-escape, they dashed up, almost running into an engine which appeared from an opposite direction.

The fire was blazing brightly by this time, and the whole neighbourhood was in a state of commotion and excitement.

The two engines were got to work with as little delay as possible. A body of police kept the gathering crowd back, and soon volumes of steam began to mingle with the black smoke of the burning building. The superintendent was early on the scene, and he directed Frank and another fireman to try to persuade the people in the adjoining houses to remain quiet, and not throw their furniture over the window; but this, some of them would not consent to do. It was plain that one or two were mad with fear and excitement; and as the ruling passion is strong in death, so it would seem to be by no means weak in the midst of danger from fire; for many of them bent their whole energies to the saving of their goods and chattels—regardless of their lives.

One stout old gentleman, in particular, was seen at a third-floor window, heaving out chairs and stools and books, and small tables, and clocks, and even quantities of crockery, with desperate energy, to the great danger of the onlookers, at whose feet the various articles fell, and were dashed to atoms!

Frank darted up the stairs that led to this man’s apartments, and burst in upon him.

“Oh! come along, fireman; help me to save my things,” he exclaimed, as he struggled with superhuman efforts to thrust a table through the window, which was too small to permit its passage.

“Stop, sir, are you mad?” cried Frank sternly.

“Help me! help me! Oh! fireman, it will be all burned. Fire! fire! fire!!!”

His voice rose into a fierce yell, as he strove in vain with the table.

“You’re quite safe,” cried Frank, holding him; “your house ain’t alight, and the engines have got it almost under.”

But Frank spoke to deaf ears; so he coolly lifted the man in his arms, carried him kicking downstairs, and placed him in charge of a policeman.

Just then, a cry was raised that there were two kegs of gunpowder in one of the shops on the ground floor. The owner of the shop came up in a frantic state, and corroborated this statement.

“It’ll blow the house to bits, sir,” he said to Mr Braidwood.

“Of course it will,” remarked the latter in a quiet voice. “Come here, my man,” he added, taking the shopkeeper apart from the crowd, and questioning him closely.

Immediately after, he ordered the engines to play on a particular part of the building.

Just then, Frank came up to the superintendent.

“There’s gunpowder in the back-shop somewhere, I’m told, sir; shall I go in for it?”

“No, Willders; you couldn’t find it in the smoke. Take the branch, lad, and get up into that window above the door.”

Frank sprang to obey. At the same time, Mr Braidwood suddenly seized a horse-cloth, and dashed in through the smoke. In a few seconds, he returned with one of the kegs of powder in his arms. Giving it to one of his men, he darted in again, and speedily re-issued with the second keg of powder, amid the frantic cheering of the crowd. Having done this, he continued to superintend the men until the fire was got under, which was soon accomplished, having been attacked promptly and with great vigour soon after it broke out.

“You needn’t wait, Mr Dale,” said Braidwood, going up to his foreman. “It’s all safe now. I’ll keep one engine; but you and your lads get off to your beds as fast as ye can.”

Dale obeyed, and a few minutes after, the engine was galloping homewards.

Willie Willders was in the station when it arrived, and so was Fred Auberly, who, having accompanied Willie, had got into such an interesting talk with the sub-engineer in charge, that he forgot time, and was still in animated conversation when the wheels were heard in the distance.

The three were out at the door in an instant.

On came the engine, the horses’ feet and the wheels crashing harshly in the silent night. They came round the corner with a sharp swing. Either the driver had become careless, or he was very sleepy that night, for he dashed against an iron post that stood at the corner, and carried off two wheels. The engine went full thirty yards on the two off-wheels, before it came to the ground, which it did at last with a terrific crash, throwing the firemen violently to the ground.

The sub-engineer and Fred and Willie sprang forward in great alarm; but the most of the men leaped up at once, and one or two of them laughed, as if to show that they had got no damage. But one of them lay extended on the pavement. It needed not a second glance to tell that it was Frank Willders.

“Lift him gently, lads,” said Dale, who was himself severely bruised.

“Stop,” exclaimed Frank in a low voice; “I’ve got no harm except to my left leg. It’s broken, I think. There’s no use of lifting me till you get a cab. I’ll go straight home, if—” He fainted as he spoke.

“Run for a cab, Willie,” said Fred Auberly.

Willie was off in a moment. At the same instant, a messenger was despatched for Dr Offley, and in a short time after that, Frank Willders was lying on his mother’s sofa, with his left leg broken below the knee.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Mr James Auberly.

With a very stiff cravat, and a dreadfully stiff back, and a painfully stiff aspect, Mr James Auberly sat by the side of a couch and nursed his sick child.

Stiff and starched and stern though he was, Mr Auberly, had a soft point in his nature, and this point had been reached at last, for through all the stiffness and starch there shone on his countenance an expression of deep anxiety as he gazed at Loo’s emaciated form.

Mr Auberly performed the duties of a nurse awkwardly enough, not being accustomed to such work, but he did them with care and with an evident effort to please, which made a deep impression on the child’s heart.

“Dear papa,” she said, after he had given her a drink and arranged her coverings. “I want you to do me a favour.” She said this timidly, for she knew from past experience that her father was not fond of granting favours, but since her illness he had been so kind to her that she felt emboldened to make her request.

“I will do it, dear,” said the stiff man, bending, morally as well as physically, as he had never bent before—for the prospect of Loo’s death had been presented to him by the physicians. “I will do it, dear, if I can, and if the request be reasonable.”

“Oh, then, do forgive Fred, and let him be an artist!” cried Loo, eagerly stretching out one of her thin hands.

“Hush, darling,” said Mr Auberly, with a look of distress; “you must not excite yourself so. I have forgiven Fred long ago, and he has become an artist in spite of my objections.”

“Yes, but let him come home, I mean, and be happy with us again as he used to be, and go to the office with you,” said Loo.

Mr Auberly replied somewhat coldly to this that Fred was welcome to return home if he chose, but that his place in the office had been filled up. Besides, it was impossible for him to be both a painter and a man of business, he said, and added that Loo had better not talk about such things, because she did not understand them. All he could say was that he was willing to receive Fred, if Fred was willing to return. He did not say, however, that he was willing to restore Fred to his former position in regard to his fortune, and as Loo knew nothing about her brother having been disinherited, she felt that she must be satisfied with this cold concession.

“Can you not ask some other favour, such as I could grant?” said Mr Auberly, with a smile, which was not nearly so grim as it used to be before “the fire.” (The family always talked of the burning of Mr Auberly’s house as “the fire,” to the utter repudiation of all other fires—the great one of monumental fame included.)

Loo meditated some time before replying.

“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I have another favour to ask. How stupid of me to forget it. I want you very much to go and see a fairy that lives—”

“A fairy, Loo!” said Mr Auberly, while a shade of anxiety crossed his face. “You—you are rather weak just now; I must make you be quiet, and try to sleep, if you talk nonsense, dear.”

“It’s not nonsense,” said Loo, again stretching out the thin hand, which her father grasped, replaced under the coverings, and held there; “it’s quite true, papa,” she continued energetically! “it is a fairy I want you to go and see—she’s a pantomime fairy, and lives somewhere near London Bridge, and she’s been very ill, and is so poor that they say she’s dying for want of good food.”

“Who told you about her, Loo?”

“Willie Willders,” she replied, “he has been to see her and her father the clown a good many times.”

Mr Auberly, frowned, for the name of Willie Willders did not sound pleasantly in his ears.

“Do go to see her, pray, dear papa,” pleaded Loo with much earnestness, “and give her some money. You know that darling mamma said, just before she was taken away,” (the poor child persistently refused to use the expression “when she died”), “she wanted you to take me sometimes to see poor people when they were sick, and I’ve often thought of that since—especially when I have come to the verse in my Bible which tells me to ‘consider the poor,’ and I have often—oh, so very often—longed to go, but you were always so busy, dear papa, that you never had time, you know,” (the stiff man winced a little at this) “but you seem to have more time now, papa, and although I’m too weak to go with you, I thought I would ask you to go to see this poor fairy, and tell her I will go to see her some day—if—if God makes me strong again.”

The stiff man winced still more at this, but it was only a momentary wince, such as a man gives when he gets a sudden and severe twinge of toothache. It instantly passed away. Still, as in the case of toothache, it left behind an uneasy impression that there might be something very sharp and difficult to bear looming in the not distant future.

Mr Auberly had covered his face with his hand, and leant his elbow on the head of the couch. Looking up quickly with a smile—still tinged with grimness, for evil habits and their results are not to be got rid of in a day—he said:

“Well, Loo, I will go to see this fairy if it will please you; but somewhere near London Bridge is not a very definite address.”

“Oh, but Willie Willders knows it,” said Loo.

“But where is Willie Willders?” objected her father.

“Perhaps at home; perhaps at Mr Tippet’s place.”

“Well, we shall soon find out,” said Mr Auberly, rising and ringing the bell.

Hopkins answered the summons.

Stiff, thin, tall, sedate, powdered, superfine Hopkins, how different from the personage we saw but lately plunging like a maniac at the fire-bell! Could it have been thee, Hopkins? Is it possible that anything so spruce, dignified, almost stately, could have fallen so very low? We fear it is too true, for human nature not unfrequently furnishes instances of tremendous contrast, just as material nature sometimes furnishes the spectacle of the serene summer sky being engulfed in the black thunderstorm!

“Hopkins!” said Mr Auberly, handing him a slip of paper, “go to this address and ask for the boy William Willders; if he is there, bring him here immediately; if not, find out where he is, search for him, and bring him here without delay. Take a cab.”

Hopkins folded the paper delicately with both his little fingers projecting very much, as though they wished it to be distinctly understood that they had no connection whatever with the others, and would not on any account assist the low-born and hard-working forefingers and thumbs in such menial employment. Hopkins’s nose appeared to be affected with something of the same spirit. Then Hopkins bowed—that is to say, he broke across suddenly at the middle, causing his stiff upper man to form an obtuse angle with his rigid legs for one moment, recovered his perpendicular—and retired.

Oh! Hopkins, how difficult to believe that thy back was once as round as a hoop, and thy legs bent at acute angles whilst thou didst lay violent hands on—well, well; let bygones be bygones, and let us all, in kindness to thee, learn the song which says—

“Teach, O teach me to forget.”

Hailing a cab with the air of six emperors rolled into one, Hopkins drove to Mr Tippet’s residence, where he learned that Willie had gone home, so he followed him up, and soon found himself at Notting Hill before the door of Mrs Willders’ humble abode. The door was opened by Willie himself, who stared in some surprise at the stately visitor.

“Is William Willders at ’ome?” said Hopkins.

“I rather think he is,” replied Willie, with a grin; “who shall I say calls on him—eh? You’d better send up your card.”

Hopkins frowned, but, being a good-natured man, he immediately smiled, and said he would walk in.

“I think,” said Willie, interposing his small person in the way, “that you’d as well stop where you are, for there’s a invalid in the drawing-room, and all the other rooms is engaged ’cept the kitchen, which of course I could not show you into. Couldn’t you deliver your message? I could manage to carry it if it ain’t too heavy.”

In a state of uncertainty as to how far this was consistent with his dignity, Hopkins hesitated for a moment, but at length delivered his message, with which Willie returned to the parlour.

Here, on the little sofa, lay the tall form of Frank Willders, arrayed in an old dressing-gown, and with one of his legs bandaged up and motionless. His face was pale, and he was suffering great pain, but a free-and-easy smile was on his lips, for beside him sat a lady and a young girl, the latter of whom was afflicted with strong sympathy, but appeared afraid to show it. Mrs Willders, with a stocking and knitting-wires in her hands, sat on a chair at the head of the bed, looking anxious, but hopeful and mild. An open Bible which lay on a small table at her side, showed how she had been engaged before the visitors entered.

“My good sir,” said the lady, with much earnestness of voice and manner, “I assure you it grieves me to the heart to see you lying in this state, and I’m quite sure it grieves Emma too, and all your friends. When I think of the risks you run and the way you dash up these dreadful fire—fire—things—what-d’ye-call-ums. What do you call them?”

“Fire-escapes, ma’am,” answered Frank, with a smile.

“Ah, fire-escapes (how you ever come down them alive is a mystery to me, I’m sure!) But as I was saying, it makes one shudder to think of; and—and—how does your leg feel now?” said Miss Tippet, forgetting what she had intended to say.

“Pretty well,” replied Frank; “the doctor tells me it has broken without splintering, and that I’ll be all right in a few weeks, and fit for duty again.”

“Fit for duty, young man!” exclaimed Miss Tippet; “do you mean to say that you will return to your dreadful profession when you recover? Have you not received warning enough?”

“Why, madam,” said Frank, “some one must look after the fires, you know, else London would be in ashes in a few months; and I like the work.”

“Like the work!” cried Miss Tippet, in amazement; “like to be almost smoked to death, and burned alive, and tumbled off roofs, and get upset off what’s-its-names, and fall down fire—fire—things, and break all your legs and arms!”

“Well—no, I don’t like all that,” said Frank, laughing; “but I like the vigour and energy that are called forth in the work, and I like the object of the work, which is to save life and property. Why,” exclaimed Frank enthusiastically, “it has all the danger and excitement of a soldier’s life without the bloody work, and with better ends in view.”

“Nay, nay, Frank,” said the peaceful Mrs Willders, “you must not say ‘better ends,’ because it is a great and glorious thing to defend one’s native land.”

“A very just observation,” said Miss Tippet, nodding approval.

“Why, mother, who would have expected to hear you standing up for the red-coats in this fashion?” said Frank.

“I stand up for the blue-jackets too,” observed Mrs Willders meekly; “they fight for their country as well.”

“True, mother,” rejoined Frank; “but I did not refer to ultimate ends, I only thought of the immediate results in connection with those engaged. The warrior fights, and, in so doing, destroys life and property. The fireman fights, and in doing so protects and preserves both.”

“Hear! hear!” interrupted Willie; “but the copy-book says ‘Comparisons are odiows!’ don’t it? Mother, here’s a fathom and two inches or so of humanity as wants me to go with him to Mr Auberly. I s’pose Frank can get along without me for a little while—eh?”

“Certainly, my son; why does he want you?”

“Don’t know. P’raps he’s goin’ to offer to make me his secretary. But you don’t seem at all alarmed at the prospect of my being carried off by a flunkey.”

“You’ll come back, dearie, I doubt not.”

“Don’t you? Oh, very well; then I’ll just look after myself. If I don’t return, I’ll advertise myself in the Times. Good-bye.”

Willie returned to the door and announced that he was ready to go.

“But where is William?” asked Hopkins.

“Mister William Willders stands before you,” said the boy, placing his hand on his heart and making a bow. “Come now, Long-legs,” he added, seizing Hopkins by the arm and pushing him downstairs and into the cab. Leaping in after him he shut the door with a bang. “Now then, cabby, all right, Beverly Square, full split; sixpence extra if you do it within the half!”

Away they went, and in a few seconds were in the Mall driving at a rattling pace.

“See that house?” asked Willie, so suddenly as to startle Hopkins, who was quite overwhelmed by the vigour and energy of his young companion.

“Eh! which! the one with the porch before the door?”

“No, no, stoopid! the old red-brick house with the limbs of a vine all over the front of it, and the skeleton of a Virginia creeper on the wall.”

“Yes, I see it,” said Hopkins, looking out.

“Ah, a friend o’ mine lives there. I’m on wisitin’ terms there, I am. Now then, mind your eye, pump-handle,” cried Willie; “the turn’s rather sharp—hallo!”

As they swung round into the Bayswater Road the cab came in contact with a butcher’s cart, which, being the lighter vehicle, was nearly upset. No serious damage resulted, however, and soon after they drew up at the door of the house next Mr Auberly’s; for that gentleman still occupied the residence of his friend.

“Master Willders,” said Hopkins, ushering him into the presence of Mr Auberly, who still sat at the head of the couch.

Willie nodded to Loo and then to her father.

“Boy,” said the latter, beckoning Willie to approach, “my daughter wishes me to go and visit a poor family near London Bridge. She tells me you know their name and address.”

“The fairy, you know,” said Loo, explaining.

“Ah, the Cattleys,” answered Willie.

“Yes,” resumed Mr Auberly. “Will you conduct me to their abode?”

In some surprise Willie said that he would be happy to do so, and then asked Loo how she did.

While Mr Auberly was getting ready, Willie was permitted to converse with Loo and Mrs Rose, who was summoned to attend her young mistress. Presently Mr Auberly returned, bade Mrs Rose be very careful of the invalid, and then set off with Willie.

At first the boy felt somewhat awed by the remarkably upright figure that stalked in silence at his side, but as they continued to thread their way through the streets he ventured to attempt a little conversation.

“Weather’s improvin’, sir,” said Willie, looking up. “It is,” replied Mr Auberly, looking down in surprise at the boldness of his small guide.

“Good for the country, sir,” observed Willie.

Mr Auberly, being utterly ignorant of rural matters, thought it best to say nothing to this.

We may add that Willie knew just as little (or as much), and had only ventured the remark because he had often heard it made in every possible variety of weather, and thought that it would be a safe observation, replete, for all he knew to the contrary, with hidden wisdom.

There was silence after this for some time.

“D’you know Mr Tippet well, sir?” inquired Willie suddenly.

“Ye—yes; oh yes, I know him pretty well.”

“Ah, he’s a first-rater,” observed Willie, with a look of enthusiasm; “you’ve no notion what a trump he is. Did you hear ever of his noo machine for makin’ artificial butter?”

“No,” said Mr Auberly, somewhat impatiently.

“Ah, it’s a wonderful invention, that is, sir.”

“Boy,” said Mr Auberly, “will you be so good as to walk behind me?”

“Oh, cer’nly, sir,” said Willie, with a profound bow, as he fell to the rear.

They walked on in silence until they came to the vicinity of the Monument, when Mr Auberly turned round and asked Willie which way they were to go now.

“Right back again,” said Willie.

“How, boy; what do you mean?”

“We’ve overshot the mark about half a mile, sir. But, please, I thought you must be wishin’ to go somewhere else first, as you led the way.”

“Lead the way, now, boy,” said Mr Auberly, with a stern look.

Willie obeyed, and in a few minutes they were groping in the dark regions underground which Mr Cattley and his family inhabited. With some difficulty they found the door, and stood in the presence of “the fairy.”

Thin though the fairy had been when Willie saw her last, she might have been called fat compared with the condition in which they now found her. She appeared like a mere shadow, with a delicate skin thrown over it. A bad transparency would have been more substantial in appearance. She lay alone on her lonely pallet with a farthing candle beside her, which cast a light sufficient only to make darkness visible. Being near the poor invalid, it caused her large dark eyes to glitter in an awful manner.

Willie at once forgot his companion, and running up to the fairy, seized her hand, and asked her how she did.

“Pretty well, Willie. It’s kind of you to come and see me so often.”

“Not a bit, Ziza; you know I like it; besides, I’ve only come to-day to show a gentleman the way.”

He pointed to Mr Auberly, who had stopped short in the doorway, but who now advanced and sat down beside the invalid, and put to her several formal questions in a very stately and stiff manner, with a great assumption of patronage. But it was evident that he was not accustomed to the duty of visiting the sick, and, like little boys and girls when they sit down to write a letter, was very much at a loss what to say! He began by asking the fairy about her complaint, and exhausted every point that entered into his imagination in reference to that. Then he questioned her as to her circumstances; after which he told her that he had been sent to see her by his daughter Louisa, who was herself very ill, owing to the effects of a fire in his own house.

At this point the child became interested, and came to his relief by asking a great many eager and earnest questions about Loo. She knew about the fire in Beverly Square and its incidents, Willie having often related them to her during his visits; and she knew Mr Auberly by name, and was interested in him, but his frigid manner had repelled her, until he spoke of Loo having sent him to see her.

“Oh, I’ve been so sorry about Miss Loo, sir,” said Ziza, raising her large eyes full in Mr Auberly’s face; “I’ve heard of her, you know, from Willie, and when I’ve been lying all alone here for hours and hours together, I have wondered how she spent her time, and if there were kind people about her to keep up her spirits. It’s so strange that she and I should have been both hurt by a fire, an’ both of us so different every way. I do hope she’ll get better, sir.”

Mr Auberly became suddenly much interested in the fairy, for just as “love begets love,” so does interest beget interest. His feelings having been roused, his tongue was loosed, and forthwith he enjoyed a delightful conversation with the intelligent child; not that there was any remarkable change as to the matter of what was spoken, but there was a vast change in the manner of speaking it.

Willie also chimed in now and then, and volunteered his opinions in a way that would have called forth a sharp rebuke from his patron half an hour before; but he was permitted to speak, even encouraged, now, for Mr Auberly was being tickled pleasantly; he was having his feelings and affections roused in a way that he had never thought of or tried before; he was gathering golden experiences that he had never stooped to touch before, although the mine had been under his feet all his life, and his path had been strewn with neglected nuggets from the cradle—fortunately not, as yet, to the grave! Ziza’s Bible lay on the counterpane close to her wasted little hand. While she was talking of Loo, with deep sympathy beaming out of her eyes and trembling in her tones, Mr Auberly laid his hand inadvertently on it. She observed the action, and said—

“Are you going to read and pray with me, sir?”

Mr Auberly was taken very much aback indeed by this question.

“Well—no,” said he, “that is—if—fact, I have not brought my prayer-book with me; but—but—I will read to you if you wish it.”

Sympathy was gone now; the fairy felt that, and, not clearly understanding why, wondered at it. She thanked her visitor, however, and shut her eyes, while Mr Auberly opened the Bible and cleared his voice. His confusion was only momentary; still the idea that he could be confused at all by two mere children in such a wretched cellar so nettled the worthy man, that he not only recovered his self-possession, but read a chapter with all the solemn dignity of tone and manner that he would have assumed had he been officiating in Saint Paul’s or Westminster Abbey. This was such a successful essay, and overawed his little congregation so terribly, that for a moment he thought of concluding with the benediction; but, being uncertain whether he could go correctly through it, he wisely refrained.

Thereafter he rose, and bade the fairy good-night.

“Your father does not return till late, I suppose?” he said, while he held her hand.

“No; it is morning generally before he gets away. The pantomimes are hurting him, I fear, for he’s not so active as he once was, and he says he feels the falls very bad.”

“Poor man! It’s very sad; but I suppose it’s the usual way with that class of men. Well, goodnight again.”

“Good-night, sir!” responded the fairy, with a bright smile, “and thank you very much for your visit. Good-night, Willie.”

Willie said good-night in such a sulky tone, and followed Mr Auberly to the door with such a reckless swagger, that the fairy gazed after him in unutterable surprise. After shutting the door with a bang, he suddenly opened it again, and said in a loud voice—

“I say, I’ll get my wages day arter to-morrow. I’ll bring you a couple o’ bobs then. It’s all I can afford just now, for cigars are dear. If you’re hard up for wittles in the meantime, just grin and bear it; you’ll not die, you know, you’ll only get thinner. I have heard that a bit o’ boiled shoe-leather ain’t a bad thing to keep one easy till relief comes.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mr Auberly in the distance, and bustling back as lie spoke; “I quite forgot; how stupid of me! I was directed by my daughter to give you this.”

He took a ten-pound note from his purse, and put it into the fairy’s hand.

“This is from Louisa,” he continued, “and I may add that it is the savings from her pocket-money. I did not wish the dear child to part with it, and said I would give it to you from myself; but she was so urgent, and seemed so distressed when I refused my consent, that I gave in; so you have to thank my daughter, not me.”

Mr Auberly smiled and nodded as he turned to go, and there was really very little grimness in the smile on this occasion—very little indeed! Willie also nodded with great violence and frequency; he likewise winked with one eye, and otherwise sought to indicate that there were within him sundry deep and not easily expressed thoughts and feelings, which were, upon the whole, of a satisfactory nature.

As for the fairy, she never once smiled or thanked Mr Auberly, but simply stared at him with her lustrous eyes open to their very widest, and she continued to stare at the door, as though she saw him through it, for some time after they were gone. Then she turned suddenly to the wall, thanked God, and burst into tears—glad tears, such as only those can weep who have unexpectedly found relief when their extremity was greatest.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Change in Fortune.

There is nothing more surprising in regard to sublunary matters than the way in which unexpected events arise out of what may be called unintentional causes.

When David Boone and his friend Gorman planned the insurance and destruction of the toy shop and its contents, they no more expected that the very first steps towards that end would result in the conversion of a poor into a flourishing business, than they expected that the expression of a wish would convert Poorthing Lane into Beverly Square; yet so it was.

Poor David was rendered so desperate by his straits, and so anxious to escape from the crime into which his friend sought to plunge him, that he meditated suicide; but, lacking the courage to accomplish this, he relieved his feelings by carrying out the details of his business and the preliminary steps of his plan, with the wild and reckless energy of a maniac. The more he thought of the meshes which Gorman had cast around him, the more did he regard escape impossible. He therefore sought relief in action. He not only talked to his neighbours (as per agreement) about his rapidly increasing business, but he made purchases on a scale more extensive than he had ever before contemplated, even in his dreams. Being convinced that ruin, sooner or later, was his doom, he indulged in the most extravagant excesses, with much of the feeling which prompts some seamen, when the ship is sinking, to break into the spirit room and spend the short remnant of life in jollity. He experienced a sort of savage delight in ordering right and left from wholesale dealers in town and country, and even went so far as to write to Germany for toys, using the name of a well-known London house which had hitherto (and justly) believed him to be an honest man. The result of this was that Poorthing Lane was besieged for some time by railway vans, and waggons so huge that apparently an inch more added to their bulk would have rendered their passage impossible. Great deal boxes were constantly being unpacked in front of Mr Boone’s door, much to the annoyance of Miss Tippet, who could not imagine how it happened that her sedate and slow-going landlord had got such a sudden increase of business. Little did she think, poor lady, that this was the fuel with which it was intended to roast her alive!

Some of the smaller accounts for goods thus purchased Boone paid at once with the money furnished to him by Gorman, and thus got credit for being a capitalist. Others he deferred payment of until a more convenient season.

His friend Gorman, who would not have bent the joint of his little finger to have saved him from destruction, was so anxious to get up a good appearance, for the sake of getting the insurance effected advantageously, that he did his best to carry out his part of the plan, and, being a man of energy who in the paths of virtue might have risen to a high position among men, he succeeded beyond his expectation. Crowds of purchasers were sent by him to the shop of “the celebrated toy-man.” Some were mere decoy-ducks, who came and went (for a consideration) pretty frequently, and only “priced” the goods. Others were genuine purchasers, and between the two they created so much traffic in the toy-shop, that the multitude—so difficult to move by mere suasion, but so prone to follow blindly in the wake of a senseless rush, when once the rush takes place—began to move in the direction of the toyshop, and shortly before Christmas the demand for toys was so great, that Boone had to engage two assistants to carry on the business, and even the lane itself began to feel the benefit of the sudden increase of traffic.

All this was patent to the eyes of David Boone, but he was so overwhelmed with a sense of the guilt he was about to incur, and the deception he was even then practising, that he regarded the whole affair as a hollow bubble, which would soon burst and leave nothing behind. Even the rapid increase of the credit-balance in his bank-book did not affect his opinion, for he was not much of a financier, and, knowing that his transactions were founded on deception, he looked on the balance as being deceptive also.

Not so thought Gorman. That wily individual perceived, to his amazement, that things were taking a turn which had never been contemplated, so he silently looked on and wondered, and chuckled and resolved to abide his time.

As prosperity flowed in upon him, David Boone became more insane—for his condition of mind was little, if at all, short of temporary insanity—and his proceedings became more eccentric than ever. Among other things, he became suddenly smitten with a desire to advertise, and immediately in the columns of the tapers appeared advertisements to the effect that “The Celebrated Toy Emporium” was to be found in Poorthing Lane. Finding that this increased his business considerably, he hit upon a plan of advertising which has been practised rather extensively of late years in London. He sent out an army of boys with pots of whitewash and brushes, with directions to print in rough but large legible letters the words, “Who’s Boone?” on all the blank walls of the metropolis, and in the papers he answered the question by having printed under the same title, “Why, the manager of the Toy Emporium, to be sure, in Poorthing Lane.” He also advertised specially that he had in stock, “an assortment of 500 golden-haired dolls from Germany, full-dressed, half-dressed, and naked.”

This last was irresistible. Thousands of young hearts beat high at the mere thought of such numbers—“with golden hair too!” and dozens of mammas, and papas too, visited Poorthing Lane in consequence.

In course of time David Boone’s eyes began to open to the fact that he was rapidly making a fortune.

It was after the bustle of the Christmas season was over that he made this discovery. One of his new assistants, a young man named Lyall, was the means of opening his employer’s eyes to the truth. Lyall was a clever accountant, and had been much surprised from the first that Boone kept no regular system of books. At the end of the year he suggested that it would be well to take stock and find out the state of the business. Boone agreed. Lyall went to work, and in a short time the result of his labours showed, that after all debts were paid, there would remain a satisfactory credit-balance at the bank.

On the evening of the day on which this marvellous fact was impressed on Boone’s mind, Gorman called, and found his friend rubbing his hands, and smiling benignantly in the back room.

“You seem jolly,” said Gorman, sitting down, as usual, by the fire, and pulling out, as usual, the short pipe. “Business gittin’ on well?”

“It is,” said Boone, standing with his back to the fire, and swaying himself gently to and fro; “things don’t look so bad. I can pay you the arrears of rent now.”

“Oh, can you?” said Gorman. “Ah!”

“Yes, and I’m in a position to pay you fifty pounds of the debt I owe you besides,” said Boone.

“And a bill at three months for the balance?” inquired Gorman.

No, he could not venture to do that exactly, but he hoped to pay a further instalment before the end of three months.

“Humph! How much may the profits be?”

Boone could not say precisely, not having had all his accounts squared, but he believed they were considerable.

“I’ll be bound they are,” said Gorman with a growl; “you won’t want to set things alight now, I daresay.”

“Well, I think it’ll be as well to wait a bit, and let us make hay while this sunshine goes on.”

“Let you make hay, you mean?”

“Oh, as to that, the most of it will go to your stack for some time to come, Gorman.”

“H’m! and what about the insurance?”

“Well, you know,” observed Boone, “it’s of no use paying the premium for nothing. As we don’t mean to set the place alight, you know.”

“Ay, but the life insurance, I mean,” said Gorman.

Boone laughed, and observed that he thought it best not to die just at that particular time, whereupon Gorman laughed, too, and said he was about right, and that it would be as well to delay both events in the meantime; after saying which, he took his leave in better humour than usual, for Gorman was what men of his own stamp termed a “deep file.” He saw into futurity—so he thought—a considerable way farther than most men, and in the future of his own imagination he saw such a pleasant picture that his amiable spirit was quite cheered by it. He saw David Boone making money so fast, that his goods might be insured at a much larger amount; he saw him getting into fresh difficulties, of course, because such a business, on such a foundation, could not go on prosperously except under the most able management, and, even though it did prosper in spite of improbabilities, he foresaw that there was an amiable gentleman, much like himself, who would induce Boone to traffic beyond his means, and when money was wanted, the same kind gentleman (he saw that quite clearly) would come forward generously with a loan, for which he would only ask Boone to make over to him in security his two policies of insurance—fire and life; after which—well, we need not go on revealing the future as it appeared to Gorman’s mental vision; suffice it to say, that he saw upon the whole a prospect which gave him great satisfaction.

There were one or two things which he did not see, however, and which might have modified his feelings considerably if he had seen them. Of these we shall say nothing at present.

As for David Boone; his heart rejoiced, for he, too, had visions of the future which charmed him. He saw his debt to Gorman paid, and himself set free from the power of that amiable friend. He saw a toyshop change its locality and its aspect. He saw it transplanted into Regent Street, with plate-glass windows, in which were displayed objects of marvellous ingenuity and transcendent beauty. One window especially exhibiting, not a crowd, but, a very nation of wax-dolls with blue eyes and golden hair! He saw, moreover, a very little old woman, lying in a bed, in an elegant and comfortable apartment, with a Bible beside her, and a contented smile on her face. This old lady resembled his own mother so strongly, that all other prospects of the future faded from his view, and in the fulness of his heart and his success, he resolved then and there to go home and present her with a gift on the strength of the prosperity at that time attained to.

David was sorely perplexed as to what this gift ought to be. He thought of a new silk gown at first; but the remembrance of the fact that his mother was bedridden banished this idea. Owing to the same fact, new boots and gloves were inadmissible; but caps were not—happy thought! He started off at once, and returned home with a cap so gay, voluminous, and imposing, that the old lady, unused though she was to mirth, laughed with amusement, while she cried with joy, at this (not the first) evidence of her son’s affection.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Changes and Mysteries.

Seven years passed away. During that period London revolved in its usual course, reproducing its annual number of events—its births, deaths, and marriages; its plans, plots, and pleasures; its business, bustle, and bungle; its successes, sentiments, and sensations; its facts, fancies, and failures—also its fires; which last had increased steadily, until they reached the imposing number of about twelve hundred in the year.

But although that time elapsed, and many changes took place, for better or for worse, in all circles of society, there had not been much change in the relative positions of the actors in our tale; at least, not much that was apparent. Great alterations, however, had taken place in the physical condition of some of them, as the sequel will show.

One bright morning in the spring-time of the year, a youth with the soft down of early manhood on his lips and cheeks, paced slowly to and fro near the margin of the pond in Kensington Gardens.

Being early, the spot was as complete a solitude as the backwoods of North America, and so thick was the foliage on the noble trees, that no glimpse of the surrounding city could be obtained in any direction. Everything that greeted eye and ear was characteristic of “the woods,” even to the swans, geese, ducks, and other water-fowl which sported on the clear surface of the pond; while the noise of traffic in the mighty metropolis was so subdued by distance as to resemble the deep-toned roar of a great cataract. A stranger, rambling there for the first time would have found it difficult to believe that he was surrounded on all sides by London!

It was one of those soul-stirring mornings in which Nature seems to smile. There was just enough of motion in the air to relieve the effect of what is called a dead calm. The ripple on the water caught the sun’s rays, and, breaking them up, scattered them about in a shower of fragmentary diamonds. Fleecy-white clouds floated in the blue sky, suggesting dreams of fairy-land, and scents of sprouting herbage filled the nostrils, reminding one of the fast-approaching summer.

The youth who sauntered alone by the margin of the pond was broad of shoulder and stout of limb, though not unusually tall—not much above the middle height. His gait was easy, free—almost reckless—as though he cared not a fig for anybody, high or low, rich or poor; yet his eye was bright and his smile kindly, as though he cared for everybody—high, low, rich, and poor. He sauntered with his hands in the pockets of his short coat, and whistled an operatic air in a low melodious tone. He was evidently waiting for someone; and, judging from his impatient gestures, someone who was resolved to keep him waiting.

Presently, a female figure appeared in the far distance, on the broad avenue that leads direct from the Serpentine. She was young and graceful in form; but she walked with a quick step, with her eyes looking down, like one who regarded neither youth nor grace. Curiously enough, this downcast look gave to her fair face a modest, captivating grace, which is never seen to sit upon the lofty brow, or to circle round the elevated nose, of conscious beauty.

The youth at first paid no attention to her (she was not the “someone” for whom he waited); but as she drew near, he became suddenly interested, and threw himself in her way. Just as she was about to pass, she raised her eyes, started, blushed, and exclaimed:

“Mr Willders!”

“Good morning, Miss Ward!” said the youth, advancing with a smile, and holding out his hand; “this is indeed an unexpected pleasure; I did not know that you were addicted to early walking.”

“I am indeed fond of early walking,” replied Emma, with a smile; “but I cannot say that it is so much pleasure as duty which brings me here. I am a day-governess, and pass this pond every morning on my way to Kensington, where the family in which I teach resides.”

“Indeed,” said Willie, with that amount of emphasis which denotes moderate surprise and solicits information.

He paused for a single moment; but, seeing that Emma did not intend to speak of her own affairs, he added quickly:

“I am waiting for my brother Frank. We arranged to meet here this morning. I hope that Miss Tippet is well?”

“Quite well,” replied Emma, with a blush, as she took a sudden interest in a large duck, which swam up to the edge of the pond at that moment, in the hope, no doubt, of obtaining food from her hand. Its hopes were disappointed, however, for Emma only called it a beautiful creature; and then, turning somewhat abruptly to Willie, said, with a slight look of embarrassment, that she feared she should be late and must bid him good-morning.

Willie felt a good deal puzzled, and had he been the same Willie that we introduced at the commencement of our tale, he would have told Emma his mind candidly, and asked her what was the matter; but Willie was a man now, so he smiled, lifted his hat politely, and wished her good-morning.

Five minutes later, Frank appeared in the distance and hurried forward. Seven years had added a little to the breadth of his shoulders, and the firm self-possession of his step and look; but they had made no other perceptible impression on him. There was, indeed, a deep scar on his right temple; but that was the result of accident, not of time. Many a hairbreadth escape had he made during these seven years of fighting with the flames, and often had his life been in imminent danger; but he was fortunate in having escaped, hitherto, with only a broken leg and a variety of small cuts, scalds, and bruises. The cut on his temple was the severest, and most recent of these. He had got it in a fall through a second floor, which gave way under him as he was attempting to rescue an old bedridden man, who lay in an inner chamber. Frank was carried out in a state of insensibility on the broad shoulders of his friend Baxmore, while Dale rescued the old man.

“How goes it, Frank?” cried Willie, advancing and giving his brother’s hand a warm shake; “the cut head mending—eh?”

“Oh, it’s all right,” replied Frank, with a smile, as they sauntered up and down by the margin of the pond; “the headaches have left me now, I’m thankful to say, and the–doctor tells me it won’t leave much of a mark.”

“You don’t need to care much if it does, for it’s an honourable scar, and does not spoil your beauty, old boy.”

“Well, Willie,” said Frank, “here I am at your request. What have you got to tell me; nothing serious, I hope?”

The stalwart fireman looked earnestly into his brother’s face, and exhibited more anxiety than there seemed to be any occasion for.

“No, nothing very serious. It may be serious enough for all I know; but as far as my knowledge goes it’s not bad enough to make you look so anxious. Why, what’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing, Willie. Perhaps my late accident has shaken my nerves a bit.”

Willie burst into a loud laugh, and said that it was so awfully absurd to hear a man like Frank talking of nerves at all that he could not help it.

“Well, but what is the news you’ve got to tell me?” resumed Frank. “You’re not going to be married, are you?”

Frank asked this with a look and expression so peculiar that Willie again laughed and said that really he could not understand him at all; for even suppose he had been going to be married, that was no reason why he should take it so much to heart, as the expression on his face implied he did.

“Perhaps not, Willie,” said Frank with a quiet smile; “but that is not what you want to speak about, then?”

“No, certainly not.”

Frank appeared relieved, and Willie, observing the appearance, said—

“Come, now, I really don’t see why you should be so very much pleased to hear that. I’m young, it is true, but I’m old enough, and I have a good business, with brilliant prospects, and there appears to me no reason on earth why I should not marry if I felt so disposed.”

“None in the world, Willie,” said Frank, with some haste, “but you tell me you are not thinking of that just now; so pray let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”

“Oh! it’s all very well in you, old Blazes, to change the subject in that way, but I’m nettled at your implied objection to my getting married if I choose. However, we won’t quarrel over it, so here goes for the point.”

Willie’s bantering manner instantly left him. He walked in silence for a few seconds, as if he pondered what he had to say.

“There are two points which trouble me just now, Frank, and I want your opinion in regard to them. The first is, Miss Tippet. She is a small point, no doubt, whether we regard her physically or mentally, but she is by no means a small point if we regard her socially, for the good that that little woman does in a quiet, unobtrusive way is almost incredible. D’ye know, Frank, I have a sort of triumphant feeling in regard to the sour, cynical folk of this world—whom it is so impossible to answer in their fallacious and sophistical arguments—when I reflect that there is a day coming when the meek and lowly and unknown workers for the sake of our Lord shall be singled out from the multitude, and their true place and position assigned them. Miss Tippet will stand higher, I believe, in the next world than she does in this. Well, Miss Tippet has been much out of sorts of late, mentally; and Mr Tippet, who is the kindest man alive, has been very anxious about her, and has begged of me to try to counsel and comfort her. Now, it is not an easy matter to comply with this request, because, in the first place, Miss Tippet does not want me to counsel or comfort her, so far as I know; and, in the second place, my motives for attempting to do so might be misunderstood.”

“How so?” exclaimed Frank quickly.

“Well, you know, Miss Ward lives with her,” said Willie, with a modest look.

There was again something peculiar about Frank’s expression and manner, as he said, “Well, it would not signify much, I daresay, if people were to make remarks about you and Miss Ward, for you know it would not be misconstruction after all.”

“What mean you?” asked Willie in surprise.

“You remember what you once said to me about your bosom being on fire,” pursued Frank. “I suppose the fire has not been got under yet, has it?”

Willie burst into a loud laugh.

“Why, Blazes, do you not know—? But, no matter; we came here to talk of business; after that is done we can diverge to love.”

Willie paused here again for a few seconds and then resumed:

“You must know, Frank, that the cause of Miss Tippet’s disturbance just now is the strange conduct of her landlord, David Boone, who has been going on of late in a way that would justify his friends putting him in an asylum. His business affairs are, I fear, in a bad way, and he not only comes with excessive punctuality for Miss Tippet’s rent, but he asks her for loans of money in a wild incoherent fashion, and favours her with cautions and warnings of a kind that are utterly incomprehensible. Only the other night he came to her and asked if she did not intend soon to visit some of her friends; and on being informed that she did not, he went further and advised her to do so, saying that she was looking very ill, and he feared she would certainly get into bad health if she did not. In fact, he even said that he feared she would die if she did not go to the country for a few weeks. Now, all this would be laughable, as being the eccentricity of a half-cracked fellow, if it were not that he exhibits such a desperate anxiety that his advice should be followed, and even begged of the poor lady, with tears in his eyes, to go to visit her friends. What d’ye think of it, Frank? I confess myself utterly nonplussed.”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Frank after a pause. “Either the man must be mad, or he wishes to rob Miss Tippet’s house in her absence.”

Willie admitted that the first supposition might be true, but he held stoutly that the second was impossible, for Boone was too honest for that. They conversed for some time on this point, and both came ultimately to the conclusion that the thing was incomprehensible and mysterious, and that it ought to be watched and inquired into. Willie, moreover, said he would go and consult his friend Barret about it.

“You know Barret, Frank?”

“No; but I have heard of him.”

“Ah, he’s a first-rate fellow—in one of the insurance offices—I forget which. I came to know him when I first went to Mr Tippet’s. He lived then in the floor below us with a drunken companion whom he was anxious to reclaim; but he found him so hard to manage that he at last left him, and went to live in Hampstead. He and I became great friends when he lived under our workshop. He got married two years ago, and I have not seen much of him since, but he’s a sharp fellow, and knows a good deal more of the Tippets than I was aware of. I’ll go and see if he can throw any light on this subject.”

“The next point,” pursued Willie, “is Cattley the clown. Have you seen or heard of him lately?”

Frank said he had not.

“Well, I am greatly troubled about him. He has become a regular drunkard, and leads his poor daughter a terrible life. He is so broken down with dissipation that he can scarcely procure employment anywhere. His son is fortunately a pretty decent fellow, though somewhat wild, and helps in a small way to support his father, having obtained a situation as clown at one of the minor theatres. The daughter, Ziza, has long ago given up the profession, and has been struggling to maintain herself and her father by painting fire-screens, and making artificial flowers; but the work is severe and ill paid, and I see quite well that if the poor girl is not relieved in some way she will not be able to bear up.”

“I grieve to hear this, Willie,” said Frank, “but how comes it that you take so great an interest in these people?”

“Frank,” said Willie, assuming a tone of deep seriousness, while a glow suffused his cheeks, “can you keep a secret?”

“I think so, lad; at least I promise to try.”

“Well, then,” said Willie, “I love Ziza Cattley. I knew her first as a fairy, I know her now as a woman who is worthy of a place among the angels, for none but those who know her well and have seen her fighting the battle of life can have the least idea of the self-denial, the perseverance under difficulties, the sweetness of temper, and the deep-seated love of that devoted girl. She goes every night, after the toil of each day, to the door of the theatre, where she waits to conduct her father safely past the gin-palaces, into which, but for her, he would infallibly stray, and she spends all she has in making him comfortable, but I see well enough that this is killing her. She can’t stand it long, and I won’t stand it at all! I’ve made up my mind to that. Now, Frank, I want your advice.”

To say that Frank was hearty in his assurances that he would do what he could to help his brother, would be a faint way of stating the truth. Frank shook Willie by the hand and congratulated him on having gained the affections of one whom he knew to be a good girl, and then condoled with him on that girl’s unfortunate circumstances; but Willie stopped him short at this point by asking him in a tone of surprise what could be the matter with him, for at first he had been apparently annoyed at the notion of his (Willie’s) being in love, and now he seemed quite pleased about it. In short, his conduct was unaccountable!

Frank laughed, but said eagerly—

“Why. Willie, did you not tell me long ago that there was a fire in your bosom, lit up by a certain young friend of Miss Tippet’s—”

“Oh,” interrupted Willie, “Emma Ward; ah, yes, I confess that I did feel spooney once in that direction when I was a boy, but the fairy displaced her long ago. No, no, Frank, I’m not accountable for boyish fancies. By the way, I have just parted from the fair Emma. We had a tête-à-tête here not half an hour before you arrived.”

“Here!” exclaimed Frank in surprise.

“Ay, here,” repeated Willie; “she passes this pond every morning, she told me, on her way to teach a family in Kensington; by the way, I didn’t think of asking whether the father, mother, and servants were included among her pupils. Why, Frank, what an absent frame of mind you are in this morning! I declare it is not worth a man’s while consulting you about anything.”

“I beg pardon,” cried Frank quickly, “your words caused my mind to wander a bit. Come, what do you think of doing?”

“What do you think I should do? that is the question.”

“You can offer to assist them,” suggested Frank. “I’ve done so,” said the other, “but Ziza won’t accept of assistance.”

“Could we not manage to get her a situation of some sort with light work and good pay?”

“Ah! a fireman’s, for instance,” cried Willie, with a sarcastic laugh; “did you ever hear of a situation with light work and good pay except under Government? I never did; but we might perhaps find steady work and good pay. It would only be required for a time, because I mean to—ah, well, no matter—but how and where is it to be got? Good Mr Tippet is of no use, because he is mad.”

“Mad, Willie!”

“Ay, mad as a March hare. For years back I have suspected it, but now, I am sure of it; in fact I feel that I have gradually come to be his keeper—but more of that anon. Meanwhile, what is to be done for the Cattleys?”

“Could nothing be done with Mr Auberly?”

Willie shook his head.

“No, I fear not. He was in a soft state once—long ago—six or seven years now, I think—when the dear fairy was ill and he seemed as if he were going to become a man; but his daughter Loo had just begun to be ill at that time. She’s been so long ill now that he has got used to it, and has relapsed again into an oyster.”

“He might be reached through Loo yet,” said Frank.

“Perhaps,” replied Willie, “but I doubt it, for he’s a blunt old fellow in his feelings, however sharp he may be in his business; besides, Loo is so weak now that very few are allowed to see her except Ziza, and Miss Tippet, and Emma Ward.”

The brothers remained silent after this for some time, for neither of them could see his way out of their difficulties; at last Frank suggested that Willie should go home and consult his mother.

“She is wise, Willie, and has never given us bad advice yet.”

“I know what her first advice will be,” said Willie.

“What?” asked Frank.

“To go and pray about it,” answered Willie.

“Well, she might give worse advice than that,” said Frank, with much earnestness. “In fact, I doubt if she could give better.”

“True,” assented Willie, “and now, old fellow, I’m off. Mr Tippet likes punctuality. I’ll look in at the station in passing if anything turns up to clear my mind on these matters; meanwhile good-bye.”

It is a remarkable fact that Frank Willders took an early walk, as frequently as possible, in Kensington Gardens, near the pond, after this conversation with his brother, and it is a still more remarkable fact, that he always felt like a guilty man on these occasions, as if he were taking some mean advantage of some one; yet it was certain that he took advantage of no one, for nobody ever met him there by any chance whatever! A fact even more remarkable still was, that never, after that day, did Emma Ward go to her duties through Kensington Gardens, but always by the Bayswater Road, although the latter was dusty and unpicturesque compared with the former; and it is a circumstance worthy of note, as savouring a little of mystery, that Emma acted as if she too were a guilty creature during her morning walks, and glanced uneasily from side to side as she went along, expecting, apparently, that a policeman or a detective would pounce upon her suddenly and bear her off to prison. But, whether guilty or not guilty, it is plain that no policeman or detective had the heart to do it, for Miss Ward went on her mission daily without molestation.

It is not easy to say what was the cause of these unaccountable proceedings. We might hazard an opinion, but we feel that our duty is accomplished when we have simply recorded them. Perhaps love had something to do with them—perhaps not—who knows?

Chapter Twenty Six.

What Drink will do.

Time passed on, as time is wont to do, and Christmas came again. The snow was deep in London streets and thick on the roofs and chimneys. It curled over the eaves of the houses in heavy white folds ready to fall and smother the unwary passengers. It capped the railings everywhere with little white knobs, and rounded off the corners of things so, that wherever the eye alighted, the same impressions were invariably conveyed to it, namely, whiteness and rotundity. Corinthian capitals were rendered, if possible, more ornate than ever by snow; equestrian statues were laden with it so heavily, that the horses appeared to stagger beneath their trappings and the riders, having white tips to their noses, white lumps on their heads and shoulders, and white patches on their cheek-bones and chins, looked ineffably ridiculous, and miserably cold. Everything, in fact, was covered and blocked up with snow, and Londoners felt as if they had muffled drums in their ears.

It was morning. The sky was clear, the air still, and the smoke of chimneys perpendicular. Poulterers’ shops were in their holiday attire; toy-shops were in the ascendant, and all other shops were gayer than usual. So were the people who thronged the streets and beat their hands and stamped their feet—for it was unusually cold.

Street boys were particularly lively, and chaff was flying as thickly as snow-flakes had fallen the night before. Even the roughs—who forsook their dens, and, with shovels and brooms on their shoulders, paraded the streets, intent on clearing door-steps with or without the leave of inhabitants—seemed to be less gruff than usual, and some of them even went the length of cutting jokes with the cabmen and the boys. Perhaps their spirits were elevated by the proud consciousness of being for once in the way of earning an honest penny!

“I say, Ned,” observed one of these roughs (a lively one), who was very rough indeed, to a companion, who was rougher still and gloomy, “look at that there gal cleanin’ of her steps with a fire-shovel! Ain’t that economy gone mad? Hallo, young ’ooman, what’s the use o’ trying to do it with a teaspoon, when there’s Ned and me ready to do it with our shovels for next to nothin’?”

The servant-girl declined the assistance thus liberally offered, so the two men moved slowly on, looking from side to side as they went, in expectation of employment, while a small boy, in a man’s hat, who walked behind them, nodded to the girl, and said she was a “sensible thrifty gal,” and that she might be sure there was “some feller unknown who would bless the day he was born after he’d got her.”

Fifty yards farther on, a stout, red-faced, elderly gentleman was observed to look out at the street door and frown at things in general.

“Have your door-steps cleaned, sir?” asked the lively rough, taking the shovel off his shoulder.

The elderly gentleman being angry, on private and unknown grounds (perhaps bad digestion), vouchsafed no reply, but looked up at the sky and then over the way.

“Do it cheap, sir,” said the lively rough.

“No!” said the elderly gentleman, with a sort of snapping look, as he turned his gaze up the street and then down it.

“Snow’s wery deep on the steps, sir,” said the rough.

“D’you suppose I’m an ass?” exclaimed the elderly gentleman, in a sudden burst.

“Well, sir,” said the lively rough, in the grave tone and manner of one who has had a difficult question in philosophy put to him, “well, sir, I don’t know about that.”

His large mouth expanded gradually from ear to ear after this reply. The elderly gentleman’s face became scarlet and his nose purple, and retreating two paces, he slammed the door violently in the rough’s face.

“Ah, it all comes of over-feedin’, poor feller,” said the lively man, shouldering his shovel and resuming his walk beside his gloomy comrade, who neither smiled nor frowned at these pleasantries.

“A warm old g’n’l’m’n!” remarked the boy in the man’s hat as he passed.

The lively man nodded and winked.

“Might eat his wittles raw an’ cook ’em inside a’most!” continued the boy; “would advise him to keep out of ’yde Park, though, for fear he’d git too near the powder-magazine!”

At this point the gloomy rough—who did not appear, however, to be a genuine rough, but a pretty good imitation of one, made of material that had once seen better days—stopped, and said to his comrade that he was tired of that sort of work, and would bid him good-day. Without waiting for an answer he walked away, and his companion, without vouchsafing a reply, looked after him with a sneer.

“A rum cove!” he remarked to the small boy in the man’s hat, as he continued his progress.

“Rayther,” replied the boy.

With this interchange of sentiment these casual acquaintances parted, to meet probably no more!

Meanwhile the gloomy rough, whom the lively one had called Ned, walked with rapid steps along several streets, as though he had a distinct purpose in view. He turned at last into a narrow, quiet street, and going up to the door of a shabby-genteel house, applied the knocker with considerable vigour.

“Now then, go along with you; we don’t want your services here; we clear off our own snow, we do. Imprence! to knock, too, as if he was a gentleman!”

This was uttered by a servant-girl who had thrust her head out of a second-floor window to take an observation of the visitor before going down to open the door.

“Is he at home, Betsy dear?” inquired the gloomy man, looking up with a leer which proved that he could be the reverse of gloomy when he chose.

“Oh, it’s you, is it? I don’t think he wants to see you; indeed, I’m sure of it,” said the girl.

“Yes he does, dear; at all events I want to see him; and, Betsy, say it’s pressing business, and not beggin’.”

Betsy disappeared, and soon after, reappearing at the door, admitted the man, whom she ushered into a small apartment, which was redolent of tobacco, and in which sat a young man slippered and dressing-gowned, taking breakfast.

“How are you, doctor?” said the visitor, in a tone that did not accord with his soiled and ragged garments, as he laid down his hat and shovel, and flung himself into a chair.

“None the better for seeing you, Hooper,” replied the doctor sternly.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Ned, “what a world we live in, to be sure! It was ‘Hail fellow! well met,’ when I was well off; now,” (he scowled here) “my old familiars give me the cold shoulder because I’m poor.”

“You know that you are unjust,” said the doctor, leaning back in his chair, and speaking less sternly though not less firmly; “you know, Ned, that I have helped you with advice and with money to the utmost extent of my means, and you know that it was a long, long time before I ceased to call you one of my friends; but I do not choose to be annoyed by a man who has deliberately cast himself to the dogs, whose companions are the lowest wretches in London, and whose appearance is dirty and disgusting as well as disreputable.”

“I can’t help it,” pleaded Hooper; “I can get no work.”

“I don’t wonder at that,” replied the doctor; every friend you ever had has got you work of one kind or another during the last few years, and you have drunk yourself out of it every time. Do you imagine that your friends will continue to care for a man who cares not for himself?

Ned did not reply, but hung his head in moody silence.

“Now,” continued the doctor, “my time is a little more valuable than yours; state what you have got to say, and then be off. Stay,” he added, in a softened tone, “have you breakfasted?”

“No,” answered Ned, with a hungry glance at the table.

“Well, then, as you did not come to beg, you may draw in your chair and go to work.”

Ned at once availed himself of this permission, and his spirits revived wonderfully as he progressed with the meal, during which he stated the cause of his visit.

“The fact is,” said he, “that I want your assistance, doctor—”

“I told you already,” interrupted the other, “that I have assisted you to the utmost extent of my means.”

“My good fellow, not so sharp, pray,” said Ned, helping himself to another roll, the first having vanished like a morning cloud; “I don’t want money—ah: that is to say, I do want money, but I don’t want yours. No; I came here to ask you to help me to get a body.”

“A body. What do you mean?”

“Why, what I say; surely you’ve cut up enough of ’em to know ’em by name; a dead body, doctor,—a subject.”

The doctor smiled.

“That’s a strange request, Ned. You’re not going to turn to my profession as a last resort, I hope?”

“No, not exactly; but a friend of mine wants a body—that’s all, and offers to pay me a good round sum if I get one for him.”

“Is your friend a medical man?” asked the doctor.

“N–no, he’s not. In fact, he has more to do with spirits than bodies; but he wants one of the latter—and I said I’d try to get him one—so, if you can help me, do so, like a good fellow. My friend is particular, however; he wants a man one, above six feet, thin and sallow, and with long black hair.”

“You don’t suppose I keep a stock of assorted subjects on hand, do you?” said the doctor. “I fear it won’t be easy to get what you want. Do you know what your friend intends to do with it?”

“Not I, and I don’t care,” said Ned, pouring out another cup of coffee. “What does a body cost?”

“Between two and three pounds,” replied the doctor.

“Dear me, so cheap,” said Ned, with a look of surprise; “then that knocks on the head a little plan I had. I thought of offering myself for sale at Guy’s or one of the hospitals, and drinking myself to death with the money, leaving my address, so that they might know where to find me; but it’s not worth while to do it for so little; in fact, I don’t believe I could accomplish it on three pounds’ worth of dissipation.”

“Don’t jest about your besetting sin,” said the doctor gravely; “it’s bad enough without that.”

“Bad enough,” exclaimed Ned, with a sudden flash of ferocity; “ay, bad enough in all conscience, and the worst of it is, that it makes me ready to jest about anything—in heaven, earth, or hell. Oh, drink! accursed drink!”

He started up and clutched the hair of his head with both hands for a moment; but the feeling passed away, and he sat down again and resumed breakfast, while he said in a graver tone than he had yet used—

“Excuse me, doctor; I’m subject to these bursts now and then. Well, what say you about the body? My friend offers me twenty pounds, if I get the right kind. That would be seventeen pounds of profit on the transaction. It’s worth an effort. It might put me in the way of making one more stand.”

Ned said this sadly, for he had made so many stands in time past, and failed to retain his position, that hope was at dead low-water of a very neap-tide now.

“I don’t like the look of the thing,” said the doctor. “There’s too much secrecy about it for me. Why don’t your friend speak out like a man; state what he wants it for, and get it in the regular way?”

“It mayn’t be a secret, for all I know,” said Ned Hooper, as he concluded his repast. “I did not take the trouble to ask him; because I didn’t care. You might help me in this, doctor.”

“Well, I’ll put you in the way of getting what you want,” said the doctor, after a few moments reflection; “but you must manage it yourself. I’ll not act personally in such an affair; and let me advise you to make sure that you are not getting into a scrape before you take any steps in the matter. Meanwhile, I must wish you good-day. Call here again to-night, at six.”

The doctor rose as he spoke, and accompanied Ned to the door. He left a coin of some sort in his palm, when he shook hands.

“Thankee,” said Ned.

“If you had come to beg, you should not have got it,” said the doctor. “God help him!” he added as he shut the door; “it is an awful sight to see an old companion fall so low.”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

An Old Plot.

It is evening now. The snow is still on the ground; but it looks ruddy and warm in the streets, because of the blaze of light from the shop-windows, and it looks colder than it did on the house-tops, by reason of the moon which sails in the wintry sky.

The man in the moon must have been in good spirits that night, for his residence seemed almost fuller than the usual full moon, and decidedly brighter—to many, at least, of the inhabitants of London. It looked particularly bright to Miss Tippet, as she gazed at it through the windows of her upper rooms, and awaited the arrival of “a few friends” to tea. Miss Tippet’s heart was animated with feelings of love to God and man; and she had that day, in obedience to the Divine precept, attempted and accomplished a good many little things, all of which were, either directly or indirectly, calculated to make human beings happy.

Emma Ward, too, thought the moon particularly bright that night; in fact she might almost have been regarded as a lunatic; so steadily did she gaze at the moon, and smile to herself without any apparent motive. There was reason for her joy, however, for she had come to know, in some mysterious way, that Frank Willders loved her; and she had known, for a long time past, that she loved Frank Willders.

Frank had become a foreman of the Fire Brigade, and had been removed from his former station and comrades to his new charge in the city. But Frank had not only risen in his profession; he had also risen intellectually. His mother had secured to him a pretty good education to begin with, and his own natural taste and studious habits had led him to read extensively. His business required him to sit up and watch when other men slept. He seldom went to bed before four o’clock any morning, and when he did take his rest he lay down like the soldier in an enemy’s country, ready to rush to arms at the first sound of the bugle. His bugle, by the way, was a speaking-trumpet, one end of which was close to the head of his bed, the other end being in the lobby where the men on duty for the night reposed.

During these long watches in the silent lobby, with the two men belted and booted on their tressels, the clock ticking gently by his side, like the soft quiet voice of a chatty but not tiresome friend, Frank read book after book with absorbing interest. History, poetry, travel, romance—all kinds were equally devoured. At the particular time of which we write, however, he read more of poetry than of anything else.

The consequence was that Frank, who was one of nature’s gentlemen, became a well-informed man, and might have moved in any circle of society with credit to himself, and profit as well as pleasure to others.

Frank was by nature grave, sedate, earnest, thoughtful. Emma was equally earnest—more so perhaps—but she was light-hearted (not light headed, observe) and volatile. The result was mutual attraction. Let philosophers account for the mutual attraction of these qualities as they best may, we simply record the fact. History records it; nature records it; experience—everything records it; who has the temerity, or folly, to deny it?

Emma and Frank felt it, and, in some mysterious way, Frank had come to know something or other about Emma’s feelings, which it is not our business to inquire into too particularly.

So, then, Frank also gazed—no, not at the moon; it would have required him to ascend three flights of stairs, and a ladder, besides passing through a trap to the roof of the station, to enable him to do that; but there was a lamp over the fireplace, with a tin reflector, which had quite a dazzling effect of its own—not a bad imitation of the moon in a small way—so he gazed at that, and thought it very bright indeed; brighter than usual.

We may as well put the reader out of suspense at once by saying that we do not intend to describe Miss Tippet’s evening with “a few friends.” Our own private opinion in regard to the matter is, that if they had been fewer than they were, and more worthy of the name of friends, the evening might have been worth recording, but it is sufficient to say that they all came; acted as usual, spoke as usual, felt as usual, “favoured the company” with songs, as usual, and—ah—yes—enjoyed themselves as usual till about half-past eleven o’clock, when they all took their leave, with the exception of Miss Deemas, who, in consideration of the coldness of the weather, had agreed to spend the night with her “dear friend.”

Miss Deemas was one of those unfortunates with whom it is impossible for any one to sleep. Besides being angular and hard, she had a habit of kicking in her slumbers, and, being powerful, was a dangerous bedfellow. She knew this herself, and therefore wisely preferred, when visiting her friends, to sleep alone. Hence it happened that Miss Tippet and Emma went to bed in the back room with the green hangings, while Miss Deemas retired to the front room with the blue paper.

There is a common fallacy in naval matters founded on poetical license, to the effect that the mariner is separated from death by a single plank; whereas, the unpoetical truth is, that the separation consists of many hundreds of planks, and a solid bulwark of timbers more than a foot thick, besides an inner “skin,” the whole being held together by innumerable iron and oaken bolts and trenails, and tightened with oakum and pitch. We had almost fallen into this error—or poetical laxity of expression—by saying that, on the night of which we write, little did Miss Tippet know that she was separated from, not death exactly, but from something very awful, by a single plank; at least, by the floor of her own residence, and the ceiling of the house below—as the sequel will show.

That same night, David Boone, gaunt, tall, and cadaverous as of old, sat in his back parlour, talking with his friend Gorman.

“Now, Boone,” said the latter, with an oath, “I’m not goin’ to hang off and on any longer. It’s more than seven years since we planned this business, the insurances have been effected, you’ve bin a prosperous man, yet here you are, deeper in my debt than ever.”

“Quite true,” replied Boone, whose face was so pale that he might have easily been mistaken for a ghost, “but you know I have paid up my premiums quite regular, and your interest too, besides clearin’ off some of the principal. Come, don’t be hard on me, Gorman. If it had not been that trade has got worse of late, I would have cleared off all I owe you, but indeed, indeed I have not been so successful of late, and I’m again in difficulties. If you will only wait—”

“No,” cried Gorman, “I’ll not wait. I have waited long enough. How long would you have me wait—eh? Moreover, I’m not hard on you. I show you an easy way to make a good thing of it, and you’re so chicken-hearted that you’re afraid to do it.”

“It’s such a mean thing to do,” said Boone.

“Mean! Why, what do you call the style of carrying on business that you started with seven years ago, and have practised more or less ever since?”

“That is mean, too,” said Boone; “I’m ashamed of it; sorry for it. It was for a time successful no doubt, and I have actually paid off all my creditors except yourself, but I don’t think it the less mean on that account, and I’m thoroughly ashamed of it.”

There was a good deal of firmness in Boone’s tone as he said this, and his companion was silent for a few minutes.

“I have arranged,” he said at last, “about your making over your policies of insurance to me as security for the debt you owe me. You won’t have to pay them next half-year, I’ll do that for you if necessary.” He laughed as he said this. “I have now come to ask you to set the house alight, and have the plan carried out, and the whole affair comfortably settled.”

Gorman said this in an encouraging voice, assuming that his dupe was ready to act.

“B–but it’s awful to think of,” said Boone; “suppose it’s found out?”

“How can it be found out?”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s wonderful how crime is discovered,” said Boone despondingly; “besides, think of the risk we run of burning the people who live above, as well as my two clerks who sleep in the room below us; that would be murder, you know. I’m sure I have tried my very best to get Miss Tippet to go from home for a short time, I’ve almost let the cat out of the bag in my anxiety, but she won’t take the hint.”

“Oho!” exclaimed Gorman, with a laugh.

“Well, have you made the arrangements as I directed you last night?”

“Yes, I’ve got a lot of tarry oakum scattered about, and there is a pile of shavings,” he added, pointing to a corner of the room; “the only thing I’m anxious about is that my young man Robert Roddy caught me pouring turpentine on the walls and floor of the shop. I pretended that it was water I had in the can, and that I was sprinkling it to lay the dust before sweeping up. Roddy is a slow, stupid youth; he always was, and, I daresay, did not notice the smell.”

Gorman was himself filled with anxiety on hearing the first part of this, but at the conclusion he appeared relieved.

“It’s lucky you turned it off so,” said he, “and Roddy is a stupid fellow. I daresay he has no suspicion. In fact, I am sure of it.”

“It’s not of much importance now, however,” said Boone, rising and confronting his friend with more firmness than he had ever before exhibited to him, “because I have resolved not to do it.”

Gorman lit his pipe at the fire, looking at the bowl of it with a scornful smile as he replied—

“Oh! you have made up your mind, have you?”

“Yes, decidedly. Nothing will move me. You may do your worst.”

“Very good,” remarked Gorman, advancing with the lighted paper towards the heap of shavings.

Boone sprang towards him, and, seizing his arms, grasped the light and crushed it out.

“What would you do, madman?” he cried. “You can only ruin me, but do you not know that I will have the power to denounce you as a fire-raiser?”

Gorman laughed, and returned to the fireplace, while Boone sat down on a chair almost overcome with terror.

“What! you dare to defy me?” said Gorman, with an air of assumed pity. “A pretty case you would have to make out of it. You fill your shop with combustibles, you warn your tenant upstairs to get out of the premises for a time in a way that must be quite unaccountable to her (until the fire accounts for it), and your own clerk sees you spilling turpentine about the place the day before the fire occurs, and yet you have the stupidity to suppose that people will believe you when you denounce me!”

Poor David Boone’s wits seemed to be sharpened by his despair, for he said suddenly, after a short pause—

“If the case is so bad it will tell against yourself, Gorman, for I shall be certainly convicted, and the insurance will not be paid to you.”

“Ay, but the case is not so bad as it looks,” said Gorman, “if you only have the sense to hold your tongue and do what you are told; for nobody knows all these things but you and me, and nobody can put them together except ourselves—d’ye see?”

“It matters not,” said Boone firmly; “I won’t do it—there!”

Both men leaped up. At the same moment there was a sound as of something falling in the shop. They looked at each other.

“Go see what it is,” said Gorman.

The other stepped to the door.

“It’s only two of my wax-dolls tumbled off the shelf,” he said on returning.

An exclamation of horror escaped him, for he saw that the heap of shavings had been set on fire during his momentary absence, and Gorman stood watching them with a demoniacal grin.

Boone was struck dumb. He could not move or speak. He made a feeble effort to stretch out his hands as if to extinguish the fire, but Gorman seized him in his powerful grasp and held him fast. In a few seconds the flames were leaping up the walls, and the room was so full of smoke that they were driven into the front shop.

“Now, then,” said Gorman in a fierce whisper, “your only chance is to act out your part as wisely as you can. Shout fire! now till you’re black in the face—fire! Fire!! Fire!!!”

David Boone obeyed with all his might, and, when Gorman released him, ran back into the parlour to try to extinguish the flames, but he was driven back again, scorched and half-choked, while Gorman ran off at full speed to the nearest station, gave the alarm, received the shilling reward for being first to give the call, and then went leisurely home to bed.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

At the Post of Duty.

Fire! There is something appalling in the cry to most ears; something deadly in the sound; something that tells of imminent danger and urgent haste. After David Boone’s first alarm was given, other voices took it up; passers-by became suddenly wild, darted about spasmodically and shouted it; late sitters-up flung open their windows and proclaimed it; sleepers awoke crying, “What! where?” and, huddling on their clothes, rushed out to look at it; little boys yelled it; frantic females screamed it, and in a few minutes the hubbub in Poorthing Lane swelled into a steady roar.

Among the sound sleepers in that region was Miss Deemas. The fair head of that lady reposed on its soft pillow all unconscious of the fact that she was even then being gently smoked before being roasted alive.

Miss Tippet, on the very first note of alarm, bounced out of bed with an emphatic “There!” which was meant to announce the triumphant fulfilment of an old prophecy which she had been in the habit of making for some time past; namely, that Matty Merryon would certainly set the house on fire if she did not take care!

The energy with which Miss Tippet sprang to the floor and exclaimed “There!” caused Emma Ward to open her eyes to the utmost possible extent, and exclaim, “Where?”

Without waiting for a reply she too bounded out of bed like an indiarubber ball, and seeing (for there was always a night-light in the room) that Miss Tippet’s face was as white as her night-dress, she attempted to shriek, but failed, owing to a lump of some kind that had got somehow into her throat, and which refused to be swallowed on any terms.

The repetition of the cry, “Fire! fire!” outside, induced both ladies at once to become insane. Miss Tippet, with a touch of method even in her madness, seized the counterpane, wrapped it round her, and rushed out of the room and downstairs. Emma followed her example with a blanket, and also fled, just as Matty Merryon, who slept in an attic room above, tumbled down her wooden staircase and burst into the room by another door, uttering a wild exclamation that was choked in the bud partly by terror, partly by smoke. Attempting in vain to wrap herself in a bolster, Matty followed her mistress. All three had utterly forgotten the existence of Miss Deemas. That strong-minded lady being, as we have hinted, a sound sleeper, was not awakened by the commotion in the street. In fact, she was above such weaknesses. Becoming aware of a crackling sound and a sensation of smoke, she smiled sweetly in her slumbers, and, turning gently on her other side, with a sigh, dreamed ardently of fried ham and eggs—her usual breakfast.

While these events were occurring the cry of fire had reached the ears of one of London’s guardians; our friend Samuel Forest. That stout-hearted man was seated at the time rapping the sides of his sentry-box with his head, in a useless struggle with sleep. He had just succumbed, and was snoring out his allegiance to the great conqueror, when the policeman on the beat dashed open his door and shouted “Fire!”

Sam was a calm, self-possessed man. He was no more flurried by this sudden, unexpected, and fierce shout of “Fire,” than he would have been if the policeman had in a mild voice made a statement of water. But, although self-possessed and cool, Sam was not slow. With one energetic effort he tripped up and floored the conqueror with one hand, as it were, while he put on his black helmet with the other, and in three minutes more the fire-escape was seen coming up the lane like a rampant monster of the antediluvian period.

It was received by the crowd with frantic cheers, because they had just become aware that a lady was asleep in one of the upper rooms, which were by that time unapproachable, owing to the lower part of the staircase having caught fire.

The fact was made known with a sudden look of horror by Miss Tippet, who, with Emma Ward, had been rescued from the first-floor window by a gallant policeman. This man, having procured a ladder, entered the house at considerable personal risk, and carried the ladies out in safety, one after the other; an event, we may remark in passing, which is not of rare occurrence at London fires, where the police are noted for their efficient services and for the daring of some of the members of the force, many of whom have received medals and other rewards for acts of personal daring in attempting to save life before the firemen had arrived on the ground.

Having put Miss Tippet and Emma in a place of security, the policeman was about to make a desperate attempt to reach the upper floor by rushing through the flames, when the escape came up and rendered it unnecessary.

Dozens of tongues and hundreds of voices directed Sam Forest to the right window. He pointed his escape towards it, but so vigorous was the uninvited assistance lent by the crowd that the head of the machine went crashing through it and dashed the frame into the middle of the room.

To say that Miss Deemas was horror-struck by such an awakening would be to use a mild expression. Her strong mind was not strong enough to prevent her strong body from trembling like an aspen leaf, as she lay for a few moments unable to cry or move. Suddenly she believed that she was dreaming, and that the instrument which had burst through her window was a nightmare or a guillotine, and she made dreadful efforts to pinch herself awake without success. Next moment a man’s head, looking very grim in the light of a bull’s-eye lamp, appeared at the top of the guillotine. So far this was in keeping with her idea; but when the head leapt into the room, followed by its relative body, and made a rush at her, Miss Deemas cast courage and philosophy to the dogs, gave herself over to abject fear, uttered a piercing shriek, dipped her head under the bedclothes, and, drawing her knees up to her mouth, clasped her hands over them in agony.

“Come, ma’am, don’t take on so; no time to lose; floor’s goin’ down!” said Sam. He coughed as he said it, for the smoke was getting thicker every moment.

Shriek upon shriek was the only answer vouchsafed by the terrified Eagle. A wild cheer from the mob outside seemed to be a reply of encouragement to her; but it was not so; it was called forth by the sudden appearance of a fire-engine dashing round the corner of the lane.

“Be quiet, my good lady,” said Sam Forest in a voice of tenderness; but if his voice was tender his actions were the reverse, for it was now a matter of life or death; so he grasped the Eagle, bedclothes and all, in his arms, and bore her to the window.

It is probable that this act revived in Miss Deemas some reminiscences of her childhood, for she suddenly straightened herself out and struggled violently, after the manner of those sweet little ones who won’t be made to sit on nurse’s knees. Being a tall, heavy woman, she struggled out of Sam’s grasp and fell to the floor; but her victory was short-lived. Another moment and that bold man had her round the waist, in a grasp from which she could not free herself. Sam was considerate, however, and polite even in this extremity. He begged pardon as he wrapped the bedclothes round his victim, and lifting her into the head of the escape, let her go.

No swoop that the Eagle ever made (mentally) down upon base, unworthy, arrogant man, was at all comparable to the descent which she made (physically) on that occasion into the arms of an expectant fireman! She held her breath, also the blankets, tightly, as she went down like a lightning-flash, and felt that she was about to be dashed to pieces, but to her surprise soft cushions received her, and she was immediately borne, by another of these desperate men in helmets, into an adjoining house, and left unhurt in the arms of her sympathetic friend Miss Tippet.

“Oh, my dear, dear Julia!” exclaimed Miss Tippet, shutting the door of the room into which they had been ushered, and assisting her friend to disentangle herself from the bedclothes. “Oh! what a mercy we’ve not all been roasted alive like beef steaks—or—oh! what a sight you are, my darling! You must have got it coming down that dreadful thing—the what’s-’is-name, you know. Shall I ring for water?”

“Tut, nonsense!” exclaimed the Eagle, panting as well from nervous excitement as exhaustion; “you are always so fussy, Emelina. Please assist me to tie this string, Miss Ward.”

“Yes, I know I’m fussy, dear Julia!” exclaimed Miss Tippet, bustling nervously about the room; “but I can’t help it, and I’m so thankful for—; but it was so bold in these noble fellows to risk their lives to—”

“Noble fellows!” shouted Miss Deemas, with flashing eyes, “d’you call it noble to pull me out of bed, and roll me in a blanket and shoot me down a—a—I don’t know what, like a sack of coals? Noble fellows, indeed! Brutes!”

Here Miss Deemas clasped her hands above her head in a passion of conflicting feelings, and, being unable to find words for utterance, burst into a flood of tears, dropped into a chair, and covered her face with both hands.

“Dear, dear, darling Julia!” said Miss Tippet soothingly.

“Don’t speak to me!” sobbed the Eagle passionately, and stamping her foot; “I can’t bear to think of it.”

“But you know, dear,” persevered her friend, “they could not help being—being—what d’you call it?—energetic, you know, for it was not rough. We should all have been roasted to death but for them, and I feel very, very grateful to them. I shall respect that policeman as long as I live.”

“Ah, sure an’ he is a dacent boy now,” said Matty Merryon, who entered the room just then; “the way he lifted you an’ Miss Emma up an’ flung ye over his showlder, as aisy as if ye was two bolsters, was beautiful to look at; indade it was. Shure it remimbered me o’ the purty pottery ye was readin’ just the other night, as was writ by O’Dood or O’Hood—”

“Hood,” suggested Miss Tippet.

“P’r’aps it was,” said Matty; “he’d be none the worse of an O before his name anyhow. But the pottery begood with— ‘Take her up tinderly, lift her with care,’ if I don’t misremimber.”

“Will you hold your tongue!” cried the Eagle, looking up suddenly and drying her eyes.

“Surely, miss,” said Matty, with a toss of her head; “anything to plaize ye.”

It is due to Matty to say that, while the policeman was descending the ladder with her mistress, she had faithfully remained to comfort and encourage Emma; and after Emma was rescued she had quietly descended the ladder without assistance, having previously found time to clothe herself in something a little more ample and appropriate than a bolster.

But where was David Boone all this time? Rather say, where was he not? Everywhere by turns, and nowhere long, was David to be seen, in the frenzy of his excitement. Conscience-smitten, for what he had done, or rather intended to do, he ran wildly about, making the most desperate efforts to extinguish the fire.

No one knows what he can do till he is tried. That is a proverb (at least if it is not it ought to be) which embraces much deep truth. The way in which David Boone set personal danger at defiance, and seemed to regard suffocation by smoke or roasting by fire as terminations of life worth courting, was astounding, and rendered his friends and neighbours dumb with amazement.

David was now on the staircase among the firemen, fighting his way up through fire and smoke, for the purpose of saving Miss Tippet, until he was hauled forcibly back by Dale or Baxmore—who were in the thick of it as usual. Anon, down in the basement, knee-deep in water, searching for the bodies of his two shopmen, both of whom were standing comfortably outside, looking on. Presently he was on the leads of the adjoining house, directing, commanding, exhorting, entreating, the firemen there to point their branch at the “blue bedroom.” Soon after he was in the street, tearing his hair, shouting that it was all his fault; that he did it, and that it would kill him.

Before the fire was put out, poor Boone’s eyelashes and whiskers were singed off; little hair was left on his head, and that little was short and frizzled. His clothes, of course, were completely soaked; in addition to which, they were torn almost to shreds, and some of his skin was in the same condition. At last he had to be forcibly taken in charge, and kept shut up in an adjoining house, from the window of which he watched the destruction of his property and his hopes.

Almost superhuman efforts had been made by the firemen to save the house. Many a house in London had they saved that year, partially or wholly; as, indeed, is the case every year, and many thousands of pounds’ worth of property had they rescued; but this case utterly defied them. So well had the plot been laid; so thoroughly had the combustibles been distributed and lubricated with inflammable liquids, that all the engines in the metropolis would have failed to extinguish that fire.

David Boone knew this, and he groaned in spirit. The firemen knew it not, and they worked like heroes.

There was a shout at last among the firemen to “look out!” It was feared one of the partition walls was coming down, so each man beat a hasty retreat. They swarmed out at the door like bees, and were all safe when the wall fell—all safe, but one, Joe Corney, who, being a reckless man, took things too leisurely, and was knocked down by the falling bricks.

Moxey and Williams ran back, and carried him out of danger. Then, seeing that he did not recover consciousness, although he breathed, they carried him at once to the hospital. The flames of the burning house sprang up, just then, as if they leaped in triumph over a fallen foe; but the polished surface of poor Joe’s helmet seemed to flash back defiance at the flames as they bore him away.

After the partition wall fell, the fire sank, and in the course of a few hours it was extinguished altogether. But nothing whatever was saved, and the firemen had only the satisfaction of knowing that they had done their best, and had preserved the adjoining houses, which would certainly have gone, but for their untiring energy.

By this time, David Boone, besides being mad, was in a raging fever. The tenant of the house to which he had been taken was a friend, as well as a neighbour of his own—a greengrocer, named Mrs Craw, and she turned out to be a good Samaritan, for she insisted on keeping Boone in her house, and nursing him; asserting stoutly, and with a very red face (she almost always asserted things stoutly, and with a red face), that Mister Boone was one of ’er best an’ holdest friends, as she wouldn’t see ’im go to a hospital on charity—which she despised, so she did—as long as there was a spare bed in her ’ouse, so there was—which it wasn’t as long as could be wished, considerin’ Mister Boone’s height; but that could be put right by knocking out the foot-board, and two cheers, so it could—and as long she had one copper to rub on another; no, though she was to be flayed alive for her hospitality. By which round statement, Mrs Craw was understood to imply a severe rebuke to Mrs Grab—another greengrocer over the way (and a widow)—who had been heard to say, during the progress of the fire, that it served Boone right, and that she wouldn’t give him a helping hand in his distress on any account whatever.

Why Mrs Grab was so bitter and Mrs Craw so humane is a matter of uncertainty; but it was generally believed that the former having had a matrimonial eye on Boone, and that Boone having expressed general objections to matrimony—besides having gone of late to Mrs Craw for his vegetables—had something to do with it.

Next day, D. Gorman happened, quite in a casual way of course, to saunter into Poorthing Lane; and it was positively interesting to note—as many people did note—the surprise and consternation with which he received the news of the fire from the people at the end of the lane who first met him, and who knew him well.

“Wery sad, ain’t it, sir?” said a sympathetic barber. “He was sitch a droll dog too. He’ll be quite a loss to the neighbourhood; won’t he, sir?”

“I hope he won’t,” said Gorman, loud enough to be heard by several persons who lounged about their doors. “I hope to see him start afresh, an’ git on better than ever, poor fellow; at least, I’ll do all I can to help him.”

“Ah! you’ve helped him already, sir, more than once, I believe; at least so he told me,” said the barber, with an approving nod.

“Well, so I have,” returned Gorman modestly, “but he may be assured that any trifle he owes me won’t be called for just now. In fact, my small loan to him is an old debt, which I might have got any time these last six years, when he was flourishing; so I’m not going to press him now, poor fellow. He’s ill, you say?”

“Yes, so I’m told; raither serious too.”

“That’s very sad; where is he?”

“With Mrs Craw, sir, the greengrocer.”

“Ah, I’ll go and see him. Good-day.”

Gorman passed on, with as much benignity thrown into his countenance as it could contain; and the barber observed, as he re-entered his shop, that, “that man was a better fellow than he looked.”

But Gorman’s intentions, whatever they might have been, were frustrated at that time; for he found Boone in high fever, and quite delirious. He did not, however, quit the house without putting, as he expressed it, at least one spoke in his wheel; for he conducted himself in such a way towards Mrs Craw, and expressed so much feeling for her friend “and his,” that he made quite a favourable impression on that worthy woman. He also left a sovereign, wherewith to purchase any little luxuries for the sick man, that might be conducive to his health and comfort, and went away with the assurance that he would look in to inquire for him as often as he could.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Willie Willders in Difficulties.

Mr Thomas Tippet, beaming and perspiring as of old, was standing at his bench, chisel in hand, and Willie Willders was standing with his back to the fire, and his legs pretty wide apart; not because he preferred that dégagé attitude, but because Chips and Puss were asleep side by side between his feet.

It must not be supposed that although Willie had changed so much since the first day he stood there, an equal change had taken place in Mr Tippet. By no means. He was a little stouter, perhaps, but in all other respects he was the same man. Not a hair greyer, nor a wrinkle more.

The workshop, too, was in exactly the same state, only a little more crowded in consequence of numerous models having been completed and shelved during the last seven years. There was, however something new in the shape of a desk with some half-finished plans upon it; for Willie had gradually introduced a little genuine engineering into the business.

At first, naturally enough, the boy had followed his employer’s lead, and, as we have said before, being very ingenious, as well as enthusiastic, had entered with all his heart and head into the absurd schemes of his patron; but as he became older he grew wiser. He applied himself to reading and study at home in the evenings with indomitable perseverance.

The result of his application was twofold. In the first place he discovered that he was very ignorant and that there existed a huge illimitable field of knowledge worth entering on seriously. His early training having been conducted (thanks to his mother) “in the fear of the Lord,” he regarded things that are spiritual, and have God and man’s duty to Him for their object, as part—the chief part—of that great field of knowledge; not as a separate field which may or may not be entered on according to taste. In the second place, he began to discover that his kind-hearted employer was a monomaniac. In other words, that, although sane enough in all other matters, he was absolutely mad in regard to mechanical discoveries and inventions, and that most of the latter were absolutely nonsensical.

This second discovery induced him to prosecute his studies with all the more energy, in order that he might be prepared for the battle of life, in case his existing connection with Mr Tippet should be dissolved.

His studies naturally took an engineering turn, and, being what is termed a thorough-going fellow, he did not rest until he had dived into mathematics so deep that we do not pretend to follow him, even in the way of description. Architecture, surveying, shipbuilding, and cognate subjects, claimed and obtained his earnest attention; and year after year, on winter nights, did he sit at the side of the fire in the little house at Notting Hill, adding to his stores of knowledge on these subjects; while his meek old mother sat darning socks or patching male attire on the other side of the fire with full as much perseverance and assiduity. One consequence of this was that Willie Willders, having begun as a Jack-of-all trades, pushed on until he became a philosopher-of-all-trades, and of many sciences too, so that it would have been difficult to find his match between Charing Cross and Primrose Hill.

And Willie was not changeable. True to his first love, he clung with all the ardour of youth to fire, fire-engines, and the fire-brigade. He would have become a member of the latter if he could, but that was in the circumstances impossible. He studied the subject, however, and knew its history and its working details from first to last. He did his best to invent new engines and improve on old ones; but in such matters he usually found that his inventions had been invented, and his improvements made and improved upon, long before. Such checks, however, did not abate his ardour one jot. He persevered in his varied courses until he worked himself into a species of business which could exist only in London, which it would be difficult to describe, and which its practitioner styled “poly-artism” with as much boldness as if the word were in Johnson’s Dictionary!

Standing on the hearth, as we have said, Willie related to his friend all he knew in regard to the Cattley family, and wound up with an anxious demand what was to be done for them.

Mr Tippet, leaning on his bench and looking into Willie’s face with a benignant smile, said—

“Done, my boy? why, help ’em of course.”

“Ay, but how?” asked Willie.

“How?” cried Mr Tippet; “why, by giving ’em money. You are aware that I stopped their allowance because Cattley senior went and drank it as soon as he got it, and Cattley junior is able to support himself, and I was not until now aware that the poor daughter was killing herself to support her father; but as I do know it now I’ll continue the allowance and increase it, and we shall give it into the daughter’s hands, so that the father won’t be able to mis-spend it.”

Mr Tippet’s visage glowed with ardour as he stated this arrangement, but the glow was displaced by a look of anxiety as he observed that Willie shook his head and looked as perplexed as ever.

“If that plan would have availed I would have tried it long ago,” said he, with a sad smile, “for my income is a pretty good one, thanks to you, sir—”

“Thanks to your own genius, Willie, for the remarkable and prolific offshoots which you have caused to sprout from this dry old root,” said Mr Tippet, interrupting, as he glanced round the room with an air of affection, which showed that he loved the root dearly, despite its age and dryness.

“Not the less thanks to you, sir,” said Willie, in the deferential tone which he had assumed involuntarily towards his patron almost from the commencement of their intercourse; “but Z–—a—Miss Cattley positively refuses to accept of money from anyone in charity, as long as she can work.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr Tippet, shaking his head slowly, “pride, simple pride. Not laudable pride, observe. She deceives herself, no doubt, into the belief that it is laudable, but it is not; for, when a girl cannot work without working herself into her grave, it is her duty not to work, and it is the duty as well as the privilege of her friends to support her. Truth is truth, Willie, and we must not shrink from stating it because a few illogical thinkers are apt to misunderstand it, or because there are a number of mean-spirited wretches who would be too glad to say that they could not work without injuring their health if they could, by so doing, persuade their friends to support them. What! are those whom God has visited with weakness of body to be made to toil and moil far beyond their strength in order to prove that they do not belong to the class of deceivers and sycophants? Yet public opinion in regard to this matter of what is called self-respect and proper pride compels many hundreds who urgently require assistance to refuse it, and dooms many of them to a premature grave, while it does not shut the maw of a single one of the other class. Why, sir, Miss Cattley is committing suicide; and, in regard to her father, who is dependent on her, she is committing murder—murder, sir!”

Mr Tippet’s eyes flashed with indignation, and he drove the chisel deep down into the bench, as if to give point and force to his sentiment, as well as an illustration of the dreadful idea with which he concluded.

Willie admitted that there was much truth in Mr Tippet’s observations, but did not quite agree with him in his sweeping condemnation of Ziza.

“However,” continued Mr Tippet, resuming his quiet tone and benignant aspect, “I’ll consider the matter. Yes, I’ll consider the matter and see what’s to be done for ’em.”

He leaped from the bench with a quiet chuckle as he said this and began to saw vigorously, while Willie went to his desk in the corner and applied himself to an abstruse calculation, considerably relieved in mind, for he had unbounded belief in the fertility of Mr Tippet’s imagination, and he knew well that whatever that old gentleman promised he would certainly fulfil.

Chapter Thirty.

The Best-Laid Plans.

There were other men besides Mr Tippet who could be true to their promises when it suited them.

D. Gorman was true to his, in so far as they concerned David Boone. He visited that unfortunate invalid so frequently, and brought him so many little “nice things” for the alleviation of his sufferings, and exhibited altogether such nervous anxiety about his recovery, that worthy Mrs Craw was quite overwhelmed, and said, in the fulness of her heart, that she never did see a kinder friend, or one who more flatly gave the lie-direct to his looks, which, she was bound to admit, were not prepossessing.

But, despite his friend’s solicitude, and his doctor’s prescriptions, and his nurse’s kindness, David Boone continued steadily to sink, until at last the doctor gave it as his opinion that he would not recover.

One afternoon, soon after the expression of this opinion, Gorman called on his friend, and was shown as usual into his chamber. It was a wet, cold, stormy afternoon, and the window rattled violently in its frame.

Boone was much better that afternoon. It seemed as if he had just waited for the doctor to pronounce his unfavourable opinion in order to have the satisfaction of contradicting it.

“He’s better to-day, sir,” said Mrs Craw, in a whisper.

“Better!” exclaimed Gorman with a look of surprise, “I’m glad to hear that—very glad.”

He looked as if he were very sorry, but then, as Mrs Craw said, his looks belied him.

“He’s asleep now, sir; the doctor said if he slept he was on no account to be waked up, so I’ll leave you to sit by him, sir, till he wakes, and, please, be as quiet as you can.”

Mrs Craw left the room on tip-toe, and Gorman went to the bedside and looked on the sick man’s wasted features with a frown.

“Ha! you’re asleep, are you, and not to be waked up—eh? Come, I’ll rouse you.”

He shook him violently by the shoulder, and Boone awoke with a start and a groan.

“Hope I didn’t disturb you, Boone,” said his friend in a quiet voice. “I came to inquire for you.”

Boone started up in his bed and stared wildly at some object which appeared to be at the foot of the bed. Gorman started too, and turned pale as his eyes followed those of the invalid.

“What is it you see, Boone?”

“There, there!” he whispered hoarsely, clutching Gorman’s arm as if for protection, “look, I heard his voice just now; oh! save me from that man; he—he—wants to kill me!”

“Come, David,” said Gorman soothingly, “it’s only a fancy—there’s nobody there—nobody in the room but me.”

“And who are you?” inquired the sick man, falling back exhausted, while he gazed vacantly at his friend.

“Don’t you know me, David?”

“Never mind, shut your eyes now and try to sleep. It’ll be time to take your physic soon.”

“Physic!” cried Boone, starting up in alarm, and again clutching Gorman’s arm. “You won’t let him give it me, will you? Oh! say you won’t—promise to give it me yourself!”

Gorman promised, and a very slight but peculiar smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he did so.

Boone again sank back on his pillow, and Gorman sat down on a chair beside him. His villainous features worked convulsively, for in his heart he was meditating a terrible deed. That morning he had been visited by Ned Hooper, who in the most drunken of voices told him, “that it wash ’mposh’ble to git a body f’r love or munny, so if ’e wanted one he’d better cut’s own throat.”

His plans having miscarried in this matter, Gorman now meditated taking another and more decided step. He looked at the sick man, and, seeing how feeble he was, his fingers twitched as if with a desire to strangle him. So strong was the feeling upon him that he passed his fingers nervously about his own throat, as if to ascertain the formation of it and the precise locality of the windpipe. Then his hand dropped to his side, and he sat still again, while Boone rolled his poor head from side to side and moaned softly.

Evening drew on apace, and the shadows in the sick-room gradually became deeper and deeper until nothing could be seen distinctly. Still Gorman sat there, with his features pale as death, and his fingers moving nervously; and still the sick man lay and rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. Once or twice Gorman rose abruptly, but he as often sat down again without doing anything.

Suddenly a ray of bright light shot through the window. Gorman started and drew back in alarm. It was only a lamp-lighter who had lighted one of the street-lamps, and the ray which he had thus sent into the sick-chamber passed over the bed. It did not disturb Boone, for the curtains were between him and it, but it disturbed Gorman, for it fell on the chimney-piece and illuminated a group of phials, one of which, half full of a black liquid, was labelled “Poison!”

Gorman started up, and this time did not sit down, but with a trembling step moved to the fireplace. He stretched out his hand to grasp the bottle, and almost overturned it, for just at the moment his own figure intercepted the ray of light, and threw the spot where it stood into deep shadow.

“What’s that?” asked Boone.

“It’s only me,” said Gorman, “getting you your physic. I almost upset it in the dark. Here now, drink it off. I can’t find the cup, but you can take it out of the bottle.”

“You won’t let him come near when you give it, will you?” asked Boone anxiously.

“No, no; come, open your mouth.”

Boone hesitated to do so, but Gorman used a little force. His hands were steady now! His heart was steeled to the deed, and the cry which Boone was about to utter was choked by the liquid flowing down his throat.

Gorman had flung him back with such violence that he lay stunned, while the murderer replaced the bottle on the chimney-piece and hurried to the door. A gentle knock at it arrested him, but his indecision was momentary. He opened the door softly, and going out, said to Mrs Craw in a whisper—

“He’s sleeping now. I found it hard to get him to give up talking, for he waked up soon after I went in; but he’s all right now. I suppose the medicine is beginning to operate; he told me he took it himself just before I came in.”

“Took it himself!” exclaimed Mrs Craw. “Impossible.”

“Well, I don’t know, but he’s better now. I would let him rest a while if I were you.”

“Stay, sir! I’ll go fetch a light,” said Mrs Craw.

“Never mind; I know the stair well,” said Gorman hurriedly; “don’t mind a light; I shan’t want it.”

He was right. If any man ever wanted darkness rather than light—thick, heavy, impenetrable darkness—it was D. Gorman at that time.

“Took it himself!” repeated Mrs Craw in unabated surprise as she closed the street door. “It’s impossible. He’s got no more strength than an unborn hinfant. I must go an’ see to this.”

Lighting a candle, she went softly into the sick chamber and looked at the invalid, who was apparently asleep, but breathing heavily. She then went to the chimney-piece and began to examine the phials there.

“My!” she exclaimed suddenly, with a look of alarm, “if he han’t bin an’ drunk up all the tinctur’ o’ rhubarb! An’ the laudanum-bottle standin’ close beside it too! What a mercy he didn’t drink that! Well, lucky for him there wasn’t much in it, for an overdose of anything in his state would be serious.”

Full of her discovery, Mrs Craw set the candle on the table, and sat down on the chair by the bedside to think about it; but the more she thought about it the more puzzled she was.

“Took it himself,” she said, reverting to Gorman’s words. “Impossible!”

She continued to shake her head and mutter “Impossible” for some time, while she stared at the candle as if she expected that it would solve the mystery. Then she got up and examined the bedclothes, and found that a good deal of the rhubarb had been spilt on the sheets, and that a good deal more of it had been spilt on Boone’s chin and chest; after which her aspect changed considerably, as, setting down the candle, she resumed her seat and said—

“Took it himself! Impossible!”

Darkness! If ever a man sought darkness in vain, and found light, bright blazing light, everywhere, it was Gorman. At first, in a burst of frenzy, he rushed away at full speed. It was well for him that the wind had increased to a hurricane and the rain was blinding, else had he been stopped on suspicion, so fierce was his mien, so haggard his look, so wild his race. Gradually his pace slackened, and gradually as well as naturally he gravitated to his old familiar haunts; but go where he would, there was light everywhere except within his own breast. It was all darkness there.

It is true the sky was dark enough, for the war of elements was so great that it seemed to have been blotted out with ink, but the shops appeared to have been lit up more brilliantly than usual. Every lamp poured a flood of light around it. The lanterns of the cabs and omnibuses sent rich beams of light through the air, and the air itself, laden as it was with moisture, absorbed a portion of light, and invested everything with a halo. Light, light! all round, and the light of conscience within rendering the darkness there visible, and shining on the letters of a word written in dark red—“Murderer!”

Gorman tried to extinguish the light, but it was a fire that would not be put out. He cursed the shop-windows and the lamps for shining so brightly on him; he cursed the few people whose curiosity induced them to pause and look back at him, and he cursed himself for being such a fool.

On reaching Cheapside he began to recover his self-possession, and to walk in the storm as other men did. But in proportion as his composure returned the enormity of his crime became more apparent to him, and the word written in red letters became so bright that he felt as if every passer-by must read it, unless he dropt his eyes to prevent their seeing through them into his soul.

At London Bridge he became nervously apprehensive. Each unusually quick footstep startled him. Every policeman was carefully avoided, and anything approaching to a shout behind caused him to start into an involuntary run. Despite his utmost efforts to control himself, the strong man was unmanned; a child could have made him fly.

He was about to cross London Bridge, when he observed a policeman taking shelter under the parapet, and apparently watching those who passed him. Gorman could not make up his mind to go on, so he turned aside and descended the nearest stairs.

The policeman had doubtless been watching for someone, or suspected Gorman because of his undecided movements, for he followed him. The latter observed this and quickened his pace. The instant he was hidden from his pursuer, he darted away at full speed, and did not halt until he stood at the foot of one of the stairs where wherries are usually to be found. The sight that met his gaze there might have overawed the most reckless of men.

A hurricane was raging such as is not often experienced in our favoured island. The wind blew, not in gusts and squalls, but in one continuous roar, lashing the Thames into crested waves, tearing ships from their moorings, and dashing them against other ships, which were likewise carried away, and swept downward with the tide. Dozens of barges were sunk, and the shrieks of their crews were heard sometimes rising above the storm.

The gale was at its height when Gorman came into full view of the Thames. A waterman, who was crouching for shelter in the angle of a warehouse, observed him, and came forward.

“An awful night, sir,” he said.

“Yes,” answered Gorman curtly. He started as he spoke, for he heard, or he fancied he heard, a shout behind him.

“Is that your boat?” said he.

“It is,” replied the waterman in surprise, “you don’t want to go on the water on such a night, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Gorman, trembling in every limb; “come, jump in, and shove off.”

At that moment a policeman came running down towards them.

“Are you mad?” exclaimed the man, grasping Gorman by the arm as he sprang toward the boat.

In a moment, Gorman struck him to the ground, and leaping into the boat pushed off, just as the policeman came up. He was whirled away instantly.

Grasping one of the oars, he was just in time to prevent the boat being dashed against one of the wooden piers of a wharf. He was desperate now. Shipping both oars he pulled madly out into the stream, but in a few moments he was swept against the port-bow of a large vessel, against the stem of which the water was curling as if the ship had been breasting the Atlantic waves before a stiff breeze. One effort Gorman made to avoid the collision, then he leaped up, and just as the boat struck, sprang at the fore-chains. He caught them and held on, but his hold was not firm; the next moment he was rolling along the vessel’s side, tearing it with his nails in the vain attempt to grasp the smooth hull. He struck against the bow of the vessel immediately behind and was swept under it.

Rising to the surface, he uttered a wild shriek, and attempted to stem the current. He was a powerful swimmer, and despair lent him energy to buffet the waves for a short time; but he was again swept away by the irresistible tide, and had almost given up hope of being saved, when his forehead was grazed by a rope which hung from a vessel’s side. Seizing this, he held on, and with much difficulty succeeded in gaining the vessel’s deck.

With his safety Gorman’s fear of being captured returned. He hid himself behind some lumber, and while in this position wrung some of the water out of his clothes. In a few minutes he summoned courage to look about him, and discovered that the vessel was connected with the one that lay next to it by a plank. No one appeared to be moving, and it was so dark that he could not see more than four or five yards before him. To pass from one vessel to the other was the work of a few seconds. Finding that the second vessel lay moored to the quay, he sprang from it with all his might and alighted safely on the shore. From the position of the shipping he knew that he stood on the south bank of the river, having been swept right across the Thames, so he had now no further difficulty in hiding his guilty head in his own home.

Chapter Thirty One.

New Lights of Various Kinds.

Time sped on apace, and in its train came many changes.

To the confusion of the doctor and despite the would-be murderer, David Boone recovered. But that brought no relief to Gorman, whose remorse increased daily, insomuch that he became, if not quite, very nearly, insane, and his fear of being caught was so great that he never ventured near the quarter of London in which Boone dwelt. He therefore remained in ignorance of the failure of his murderous attempt. What would he not have given to have known the truth! to have had the dreadful word removed from the light which shone upon it brighter and brighter every day until it was made red-hot, as it were, and became within him as a consuming fire! Preferring darkness to light more than ever, Gorman kept in secret places during the day, and only ventured out, with other human vultures, at night. The wretched man feared the darkness, too, although he sought it, and what between the darkness that he feared yet courted, and the light that he feared and fled from, and the light within that he feared but could not fly from, he became one of the most miserable of all the outcasts in London.

As for his deep-laid plans they were all scattered to the winds. In the presumption of ignorance he had fancied that he knew his own power, and so in one sense he did, but he was not aware of his own want of power. He knew, indeed, that he had the brute courage to dare and do anything desperate or dastardly, but he did not know that he lacked the moral courage to bear the consequences of his deeds. The insurance policies, therefore, lay unclaimed—even uncared for!

Another change for the worse effected by time was the death of Loo Auberly. Gradually and gently her end approached. Death was so slow in coming that it was long expected, yet it was so very slow that when it came at last it took her friends by surprise. James Auberly continued stiff and stately to the last. He refused to believe that his child was dying, and spared no expense to provide everything that money could procure to restore her health. He also refused to be reconciled to his son Fred, who had succeeded in his loved profession beyond his expectations, and who had sought, again and again, to propitiate his father. At last Fred resolved to go abroad and study the works of the ancient masters. He corresponded regularly with Loo for some time, but his letters suddenly ceased to make their appearance, and nothing was heard of him for many months.

During the long and weary illness Loo had three friends whose visits were to her soul like gleams of sunshine on a cloudy day—Miss Tippet, Emma Ward, and a poor artificial-flower maker named Ziza Cattley.

Those three, so different yet so like, were almost equally agreeable to the poor invalid. Miss Tippet was “so funny but so good,” and Emma’s sprightly nature seemed to charm away her pain for a time; while grave, gentle, earnest Ziza made her happy during her visits, and left a sensation of happiness after she went away. All three were equally untiring in talking with her about the “old, old story”—the Love of Jesus Christ.

Yes, it comes to this at last, if not at first, with all of us. Even the professed infidel, laugh as he may in the spring-tide of life, usually listens to that “old, old story” when life’s tide is very low, if not with faith at least with seriousness, and with a hope that it may be true. May be true! Why, if the infidel would only give one tithe of the time and trouble and serious inquiry to the investigation of that same old story and its credentials that he gives so freely to the study of the subtleties of his art or profession, he would find that there is no historical fact whatever within his ken which can boast of anything like the amount or strength of evidence in favour of its truth, that exists in favour of the truth of the story of the Life, Death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord.

When Loo died the stateliness and stiffness of James Auberly gave way, and the stern man, leaning his head upon the coffin, as he sat alone in the darkened room, wept as if he had been a little child.

There was yet another change brought about by that great overturner Time. But as the change to which we refer affects those who have yet to take a prominent part in our tale, we will suffer them to speak for themselves.

One afternoon, long after the occurrence of those changes to which reference has just been made, Mrs Willders, while seated quietly at her own fireside (although there was no fire there, the month being June), was interrupted in her not unusual, though innocent, occupation of darning socks by the abrupt entrance of her son Frank, who flung his cap on the table, kissed his mother on the forehead, and then flung himself on the sofa, which piece of furniture, being old and decrepit, groaned under his weight.

“Mother,” he exclaimed with animation, “I’ve got strange news to tell you. Is Willie at home?”

“No, but I expect him every minute. He promised to come home earlier to-day, and won’t be long, for he is a boy of his word.”

Mrs Willders persisted in calling her strapping sons “boys,” despite the evidence to the contrary on their cheeks and chins.

“Here he comes!” cried Frank, as a rapid step was heard.

Next moment the door burst open and Willie, performing much the same ceremony that Frank had done, and in a wonderfully similar way, said he had come home with something strange to tell, though not altogether strange either, as his mother, he said, knew something about it already.

Mrs Willders smiled and glanced at Frank.

“Which is to begin first?” she asked.

“What! do you know about it, too?” cried Willie, turning to his brother.

“Know about what?” said Frank. “You have not told me what it is; how can I answer you?”

“About Mr Auberly,” said Willie.

Frank said that he knew nothing new or peculiar about him, except that he was—no, he wouldn’t say anything bad of him, for he must be a miserable man at that time.

“But out with your news, Willie,” he added, “mine will keep; and as yours is, according to yourself, partly known already to my mother, it’s as well to finish off one subject before we begin to another.”

“Oh, then, you have news, too, have you?” said Willie.

Frank nodded.

“Strange coincidence!” exclaimed Willie.

“Did you ever hear of a coincidence that was not strange, lad? Go on with your news, else I’ll begin before you.”

Thus admonished, Willie began.

“Oh, mother, you’re a nice deceiver; you’re a sly old lady, ain’t you? and you sit there with a face as meek and sweet and smiling as if you had never deceived anybody in all your life, not to speak of your two sons. O, fy!”

As Mrs Willders still smiled and went on with her knitting serenely, without vouchsafing a reply, Willie continued with an off-hand air—“Well, then, I may as well tell you that I have just had an interview with Uncle Auberly—hallo! you seem surprised.”

Mrs Willders was indeed surprised. Her serenity of aspect fled in an instant.

“Oh, Willie, how comes it that you know? I’m sure I did not mean to tell you. I promised I never would. I must have let it out inadvertently, or when I was asleep.”

“Make yourself quite easy, mother,” said Willie; “I’ll explain it all presently. Just go on with your knitting, and don’t put yourself into a state.”

The widow, recovering herself a little, resumed her work, and Frank, who had listened with an amused smile up to this point—supposing that his brother was jesting—elongated his face and opened his eyes wider and wider as he listened.

“You must know,” resumed Willie, “that I received a note from Mr Auberly last night, asking me to call on him some time this afternoon. So I went, and found him seated in his library. Poor man, he has a different look now from what he had when I went last to see him. You know I have hardly ever seen him since that day when I bamboozled him so about ‘another boy’ that he expected to call. But his spirit is not much improved, I fear. ‘Sit down, Mr Willders,’ he said. ‘I asked you to call in reference to a matter which I think it well that the parties concerned should understand thoroughly. Your brother Frank, I am told, has had the presumption to pay his addresses to Miss Ward, the young lady who lives with my relative, Miss Tippet.’ ‘Yes, Mr Auberly,’ I replied, ‘and Miss Ward has had the presumption to accept him—’”

“It was wrong of you to answer so,” interrupted Mrs Willders, shaking her head.

“Wrong, mother! how could I help it? Was I going to sit there and hear him talk of Frank’s presumption as if he were a chimney-sweep?”

“Mr Auberly thinks Miss Ward above him in station, and so deems his aspiring to her hand presumption,” replied the widow gently. “Besides, you should have remembered the respect due to age.”

“Well, but, mother,” said Willie, defending himself, “it was very impudent of him, and I did speak very respectfully to him in tone if not in words. The fact is I felt nettled, for, after all, what is Miss Ward? The society she mingles in is Miss Tippet’s society, and that’s not much to boast of; and her father, I believe, was a confectioner—no doubt a rich one, that kept his carriage before he failed, and left his daughter almost a beggar. But riches don’t make a gentleman or a lady either, mother; I’m sure you’ve often told me that, and explained that education, and good training, and good feelings, and polite manners, and consideration for others, were the true foundations of gentility. If that be so, mother, there are many gentlemen born who are not gentlemen bred, and many lowly born who—”

“Come, lad, don’t bamboozle your mother with sophistries,” interrupted Frank, “but go on to the point, and don’t be so long about it.”

“Well, mother,” resumed Willie, “Mr Auberly gave me a harder rebuke than you have done, for he made no reply to my speech at all, but went on as quietly and coolly as if I had not opened my lips. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘I happen to have a particular regard for Miss Ward. I intend to make her my heir, and I cannot consent to her union with a man who has nothing.’ ‘Mr Auberly,’ said I (and I assure you, mother, I said this quite respectfully), ‘my brother is a man who has little money, no doubt, but he has a good heart and a good head and a strong arm; an arm, too, which has saved life before now.’ I stopped at that, for I saw it went home. ‘Quite true,’ he replied; ‘I do not forget that he saved my lost child’s life; but—but—the thing is outrageous—that a penniless man should wed the lady who is to be my heir! No, sir, I sent for you to ask you to say to your brother from me, that however much I may respect him I will not consent to this union, and if it goes on despite my wishes I shall not leave Miss Ward a shilling.’ He had worked himself up into a rage by this time, and as I felt I would only make matters worse if I spoke, I held my tongue; except that I said I would deliver his message at once, as I expected to meet my brother at home. He seemed sorry for having been so sharp, however, and when I was about to leave him he tried to smile, and said, ‘I regret to have to speak thus to you, sir, but I felt it to be my duty. You talk of meeting your brother to-night at home; do you not live together?’ ‘No, sir,’ I replied; ‘my brother lodges close to his station, and I live with my mother in Notting Hill.’

“‘Notting Hill!’ he cried, falling back in his chair as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. ‘Your mother,’ he gasped, ‘Mrs Willders—my sister-in-law—the waterman’s widow?’ ‘A sailor’s widow, sir,’ said I, ‘who is proud of the husband, who rose to the top of his profession.’

“‘Why did you deceive me, sir?’ cried Mr Auberly, with a sudden frown. ‘I would have undeceived you,’ said I, ‘when we first met, but you dismissed me abruptly at that time, and would not hear me out. Since then, I have not thought it worth while to intrude on you in reference to so small a matter—for I did not know till this day that we are related.’ He frowned harder than ever at this, and bit his lip, and then said, ‘Well, young man, this will make no difference, I assure you. I desire you to convey my message to your brother. Leave me now.’ I was just on the point of saying ‘Good-bye, uncle,’ but he covered his face with his hands, and looked so miserable, that I went out without a word more. There, you’ve got the whole of my story. What think you of it?”

“It’s a curious one, and very unexpected, at least by me,” said Frank, “though, as you said, part of it must have been known to mother, who, no doubt, had good reasons for concealing it from us; but I rather think that my story will surprise you more, and it’s a better one than yours, Willie, in this respect, that it is shorter.”

“Come, then, out with it,” said Willie, with a laugh; “why, this is something like one of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.”

“Well, mother,” said Frank, laying his hand gently on the widow’s shoulder, “you shan’t darn any more socks if I can help it, for I’m a man of fortune now!”

“How, Frank?” said Mrs Willders, with a puzzled look.

“The fact is, mother, that Mrs Denman, the poor old lady whom I carried down the escape, I forget how many years ago, is dead, and has left me her fortune, which, I believe, amounts to something like twenty thousand pounds!”

“You don’t mean that!” cried Willie, starting up.

“Indeed, I do,” said Frank earnestly.

“Then long life to ye, my boy!” cried Willie, wringing his brother’s hand, “and success to the old—well, no, I don’t exactly mean that, but if she were alive I would say my blessing on the old lady. I wish you joy, old fellow! I say, surely the stately man won’t object to the penniless fireman now—ha! ha! Well, it’s like a dream; but tell us all about it, Frank.”

“There is very little to tell, lad. I got a very urgent message the day before yesterday to go to see an old lady who was very ill. I obtained leave for an hour, and went at once, not knowing who it was till I got there, when I found that it was Mrs Denman. She looked very ill, and I do assure you I felt quite unmanned when I looked into her little old face. ‘Young man,’ she said in a low voice, ‘you saved my life; I am dying, and have sent for you to thank you. God bless you.’ She put out her thin hand and tried to shake mine, but it was too feeble; she could only press her fingers on it. That was all that passed, and I returned to the station feeling quite in low spirits, I do assure you. Well, next day a little man in black called, and said he wished to have a few words with me. So I went out, and he introduced himself as the old lady’s lawyer, told me that she was gone, and that she had, almost with her last breath, made him promise to go, the moment she was dead, and see the fireman who had saved her life, and tell him that she had left her fortune to him. He congratulated me; said that there were no near relations to feel aggrieved or to dispute my rights, and that, as soon as the proper legal steps had been taken—the debts and legacies paid, etcetera,—he would have the pleasure of handing over the balance, which would probably amount to twenty thousand pounds.”

“It’s like a dream,” said Willie.

“So it is,” replied Frank, “but it’s well that it is not a dream, for if I had been the penniless man that Mr Auberly thinks me, I would have been obliged in honour to give up Emma Ward.”

“Give her up!” exclaimed Willie in amazement. “Why?”

“Why! because I could not think of standing in the way of her good fortune.”

“Oh, Frank! oh, Blazes,” said Willie sadly, “has money told on you so fearfully already? Do you think that she would give you up for the sake of Auberly’s dross?”

“I believe not, lad; but—but—well—never mind, we won’t be troubled with the question now. But, mother, you don’t seem to think much of my good fortune.”

“I do think much of it, Frank; it has been sent to you by the Lord, and therefore is to be received with thanksgiving. But sudden good fortune of this kind is very dangerous. It makes me anxious as well as glad.”

At that moment there came a loud knocking at the door, which startled Mrs Willders, and caused Willie to leap up and rush to open it.

Frank rose and put on his cap with the quiet promptitude of a man accustomed to alarms.

“That’s a fire, mother; the kind of knock is quite familiar to me now. Don’t be alarmed; we hear that kind of thing about two or three times a day at the station; they knew I was here, and have sent a messenger.”

“A fire!” cried Willie, running into the room in great excitement.

“Tut, lad,” said Frank, with a smile, as he nodded to his mother and left the room, “you’d never do for a fireman, you’re too excitable. Where’s the messenger?—ah, here you are. Well, where is it?”

“Tooley Street,” exclaimed a man, whose condition showed that he had run all the way.

Frank started, and looked very grave as he said hurriedly to his brother—

“Good-night, lad. I won’t likely be able to get out to-morrow to talk over this matter of the fortune. Fires are usually bad in that neighbourhood. Look well after mother. Good-night.”

In another moment he was gone.

And well might Frank look grave, for when a fireman is called to a fire in Tooley Street, or any part of the docks, he knows that he is about to enter into the thickest of the Great Fight. To ordinary fires he goes light-heartedly—as a bold trooper gallops to a skirmish, but to a fire in the neighbourhood of the docks he goes with something of the feeling which must fill the breast of every brave soldier on the eve of a great battle.

Chapter Thirty Two.

The Fire in Tooley Street.

One of those great calamities which visit us once or twice, it may be, in a century, descended upon London on Saturday, the 22nd of June, 1861. It was the sudden, and for the time, overwhelming, attack of an old and unconquerable enemy, who found us, as usual, inadequately prepared to meet him.

Fire has fought with us and fed upon us since we became a nation, and yet, despite all our efforts, its flames are at this day more furious than ever. There are more fires daily in London now than there ever were before. Has this foe been properly met? is a question which naturally arises out of this fact. Referring to the beautiful organisation of the present Fire Brigade, the ability of its chiefs and the courage of its men, the answer is, Yes, decidedly. But referring to the strength of the brigade; to the munitions of war in the form of water; to the means of conveyance in the form of mains; to the system of check in the shape of an effective Act in reference to partition-walls and moderately-sized warehouses; to the means of prevention in the shape of prohibitions and regulations in regard to inflammable substances—referring to all these things, the answer to the question, “Has the foe been properly met?” is emphatically, No.

It is not sufficient to reply that a special inquiry has been made into this subject; that steps are being actually taken to remedy the evils of our system (or rather of our want of system) of fire prevention. Good may or may not result from this inquiry: that is yet to be seen. Meanwhile, the public ought to be awakened more thoroughly to the fact that an enemy is and always has been abroad in our land, who might be, if we chose, more effectively checked; who, if he has not yet attacked our own particular dwelling, may take us by surprise any day when we least expect him, and who does at all times very materially diminish our national wealth and increase our public burdens. Perhaps we should not style fire an enemy, but a mutinous servant, who does his work faithfully and well, except when neglected or abused!

About five o’clock on Saturday afternoon intelligence of the outbreak of fire in Tooley Street reached the headquarters of the brigade in Watling Street.

Fire in Tooley Street! The mere summons lent energy to the nerves and spring to the muscles of the firemen. Not that Tooley Street in itself is more peculiarly dangerous in regard to fire than are the other streets of shops in the City. But Tooley Street lies in dangerous neighbourhood. The streets between it and the Thames, and those lying immediately to the west of it, contain huge warehouses and bonded stores, which are filled to suffocation with the “wealth of nations.” Dirty streets and narrow lanes here lead to the fountain-head of wealth untold—almost inconceivable. The elegant filigree-work of West End luxury may here be seen unsmelted, as it were, and in the ore. At the same time the rich substances on which fire feeds and fattens are stored here in warehouses which (as they are) should never have been built, and in proximities which should never have been permitted. Examine the wharves—Brooks’ Wharf, Beal’s Wharf, Cotton’s Wharf, Chamberlain’s Wharf, Freeman’s Wharf, Griffin’s Wharf, Stanton’s Wharf, and others. Investigate the lanes—Hay’s Lane, Mill Lane, Morgan’s Lane; and the streets—Bermondsey, Dockhead, Pickle Herring Street, Horsleydown, and others—and there, besides the great deposit and commission warehouses which cover acres of ground, and are filled from basement to ridge-pole with the commodities and combustibles of every clime, you will find huge granaries and stores of lead, alum, drugs, tallow, chicory, flour, rice, biscuit, sulphur, and saltpetre, mingled with the warehouses of cheese-agents, ham-factors, provision merchants, tarpaulin-dealers, oil and colour merchants, etcetera. In fact, the entire region seems laid out with a view to the raising of a bonfire or a pyrotechnic display on the grandest conceivable scale.

Little wonder, then, that the firemen of Watling Street turned out all their engines, including two of Shand and Mason’s new land-steam fire-engines, which had at that time just been brought into action. Little wonder that the usual request for a man from each station was changed into an urgent demand for every man that could possibly be spared.

The fire began in the extensive wharves and warehouses known as Cotton’s Wharf, near London Bridge, and was first observed in a warehouse over a counting-room by some workmen, who at once gave the alarm, and attempted to extinguish it with some buckets of water. They were quickly driven back, however, by the suffocating smoke, which soon filled the various floors so densely that no one could approach the seat of the fire.

Mr Braidwood, who was early on the spot, saw at a glance that a pitched battle was about to be fought, and, like a wise general, concentrated all the force at his command. Expresses were sent for the more distant brigade engines, and these came dashing up, one after another, at full speed. The two powerful steam floating-engines which guard the Thames from fire were moored off the wharf, two lengths of hose attached to them, and led on shore and brought to bear on the fire. A number of land-engines took up a position in Tooley Street, ready for action, but these were compelled to remain idle for nearly an hour before water was obtainable from the fire-plugs. O London! with all your wealth and wisdom, how strange that such words can be truly written of you!

The vessels which were lying at the wharf discharging and loading were hauled out of danger into the stream.

In course of time the engines were in full play, but the warehouse burst into flames from basement to roof in spite of them, and ere long eight of the great storehouses were burning furiously. The flames made rapid work of it, progressing towards the line of warehouses facing the river, and to the lofty building which adjoined on the Tooley Street side.

Dale and his men were quickly on the scene of action, and had their engine soon at work. Before long, Frank Willders joined them. They were playing in at the windows of a large store, which was burning so furiously that the interior appeared to be red-hot.

“Relieve Corney, lad,” said Dale, as Frank came forward.

“Och, it’s time!” cried Corney, delivering up the branch to Frank and Moxey; “sure Baxmore and me are melted intirely.”

Frank made no reply. He and Moxey directed the branch which the others resigned, turning their backs as much as possible on the glowing fire, and glancing at it over their shoulders; for it was too hot to be faced.

Just then the Chief of the brigade came up.

“It’s of no use, sir,” said Dale; “we can’t save these.”

“True, Dale, true,” said Mr Braidwood, in a quick, but quiet tone; “this block is doomed. Take your lads round to the nor’-east corner; we must try to prevent it spreading.”

As he surveyed the progress of the fire, with a cool, practical eye, and hurried off to another part of the battle-field to post his men to best advantage, little did the leader of the forces think that he was to be the first to fall that day!

Engines were now playing on the buildings in all directions; but the flames were so fierce that they made no visible impression on them, and even in the efforts made to check their spreading, little success appeared to attend them at first. Warehouse after warehouse ignited.

To make matters worse, a fresh breeze sprang up, and fanned the flames into redoubled fury; so that they quickly caught hold of vast portions of the premises occupied by the firm of Scovell and Company.

“There’s not a chance,” said Frank to Dale, while he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat down for a few seconds to recover breath; for he had just issued from a burning building, driven back by heat and smoke—

“There’s not a chance of saving that block; all the iron doors that were meant to keep the fire from spreading have been left open by the workmen!”

“Chance or no chance, we must do our best,” said Dale. “Come, lad, with me; I think we may get at a door inside the next warehouse, through which we might bring the branch to bear. Are you able?”

“All right,” exclaimed Frank, leaping up, and following his leader through the smoke.

“Have a care!” cried Frank, pausing as a tremendous explosion caused the ground to tremble under their feet.

“It’s sulphur or saltpetre,” said Dale, pushing on; “there are tons upon tons of that stuff in the cellars all round.”

This was indeed the case. It was said that upwards of 2,000 tons of saltpetre were in the vaults at the time; and several explosions had already taken place, though fortunately, without doing injury to any one.

Dale had already partially examined the warehouse, into which he now led Frank; and, therefore, although it was full of smoke, he moved rapidly along the narrow and intricate passages between the bales of goods, until he reached an iron door.

“Here it is; we’ll open this and have a look,” he said, grasping the handle and swinging the heavy door open.

Instantly, a volume of black smoke drove both the men back, almost suffocating them. They could not speak; but each knew that the re-closing of that iron door was all-important, for the fire had got nearer to it than Dale had imagined.

They both darted forward; but were again driven back, and had to rush to the open air for breath. Frank recovered before his comrade, in consequence of the latter having made a more strenuous and prolonged effort to close the door which he had so unfortunately opened.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he sprang into the warehouse again; regained and partially closed the door, when the stifling smoke choked him, and he fell to the ground. A few seconds later, Dale followed him, and found him there. Applying his great strength with almost superhuman energy to the door, it shut with a crash, and the communication between the buildings was cut off! Dale then seized Frank by the collar, and dragged him into the open air, when he himself almost sank to the ground. Fresh air, however, soon restored them both, and in a few minutes they were actively engaged at another part of the building.

Bravely and perseveringly though this was done, it availed not, for nothing could withstand the fury of the fire. The warehouse caught, and was soon a glowing mass like the others, while the flames raged with such violence that their roaring drowned the shouting of men, and the more distant roar of the innumerable multitude that densely covered London Bridge, and clustered on every eminence from which a safe view of the great fire could be obtained.

The floating fire-engines had now been at work for some time, and the men in charge of their branches were suffering greatly from the intense heat. About this time, nearly seven o’clock in the evening, Mr Braidwood went to these men to give them a word of encouragement. He proceeded down one of the approaches to the river from Tooley Street, and stopped when nearly half way to give some directions, when a sudden and tremendous explosion, took place, shaking the already tottering walls, which at this place were of great height. A cry was raised, “Run! the wall is falling!” Every one sprang away at the word. The wall bulged out at the same time; and one of the firemen, seeing that Mr Braidwood was in imminent danger, made a grasp at him as he was springing from the spot; but the heavy masses of brick-work dashed him away, and, in another moment, the gallant chief of the Fire Brigade lay buried under at least fifteen feet of burning ruin.

Any attempt at rescue would have been impossible as well as unavailing, for death must have been instantaneous. The hero’s warfare with the flames, which had lasted for upwards of thirty-eight years, was ended; and his brave spirit returned to God Who gave it.

That a man of no ordinary note had fallen was proved, before many hours had passed, by the deep and earnest feeling of sorrow and sympathy which was manifested by all classes in London, from Queen Victoria downwards, as well as by the public funeral which took place a few days afterwards, at which were present the Duke of Sutherland, the Earl of Caithness, the Reverend Doctor Cumming, and many gentlemen connected with the insurance offices; the committee and men of the London Fire Brigade; also those of various private and local brigades; the secretary and conductors of the Royal Society for the Protection of Life from Fire; the mounted Metropolitan and City police; the London Rifle Brigade (of which Mr Braidwood’s three sons were members); the superintendents and men of the various water companies; and a long string of private and mourning carriages: to witness the progress of which hundreds of thousands of people densely crowded the streets and clustered in the windows and on every available eminence along the route; while in Cheapside almost all the shops were shut and business was suspended; and in the neighbourhood of Shoreditch toiling thousands of artisans came forth from factory and workshop to “see the last of Braidwood,” whose name had been so long familiar to them as a “household word.” The whole heart of London seemed to have been moved by one feeling, and the thousands who thronged the streets “had” (in the language of one of the papers of the day) “gathered together to witness the funeral, not of a dead monarch, not of a great warrior, not of a distinguished statesman, not even of a man famous in art, in literature, or in science, but simply of James Braidwood, late superintendent of the London Fire-Engine Establishment”—a true hero, and one who was said, by those who knew him best, to be an earnest Christian man.

But at the moment of his fall his men were engaged in the thick of battle. Crushing though the news of his death was, there was no breathing time to realise it.

The fierce heat had not only driven back the firemen on shore, but had compelled the floating fire-engines to haul off, in consequence of the flaming matter which poured over the wharf wall and covered the surface of the river the entire length of the burning warehouses; while the whole of the carriageway of Tooley Street was ankle deep in hot oil and tallow. After the fall of their Chief, Messrs Henderson and Fogo, two of the principal officers of the brigade, did their utmost to direct the energies of the men.

Night closed in, and the flames continued to rage in all their fury and magnificence. News of this great fire spread with the utmost rapidity over the metropolis. Indeed, it was visible at Hampstead while it was yet daylight. When darkness set in, one of the most extraordinary scenes that London ever produced was witnessed. From all quarters the people came pouring in, on foot, in omnibus, cab, pleasure-van, cart, and waggon—all converging to London Bridge. At nine o’clock the bridge and its approaches presented all the appearance of the Epsom Road on the Derby Day. Cabs and ’buses plied backwards and forwards on the bridge all night, carrying an unlimited number of passengers at 2 pence and 3 pence each, and thousands of persons spent the night in thus passing to and fro. The railway terminus, Billingsgate Market, the roof of the Coal Exchange, the Monument, the quays, the windows, the house-tops, the steeples, and the chimney-stalks—all were crowded with human beings, whose eager upturned faces were rendered intensely bright against the surrounding darkness by the fierce glare of the fire. But the Thames presented the most singular appearance of all—now reflecting on its bosom the inky black clouds of smoke; anon the red flames, as fresh fuel was licked up by the devouring element, and, occasionally, sheets of silver light that flashed through the chaos when sulphur and saltpetre explosions occurred. Mountains of flame frequently burst away from the mass of burning buildings and floated upward for a few moments, and the tallow and tar which flowed out of the warehouses floated away blazing with the tide and set the shipping on fire, so that land and water alike seemed to be involved in one huge terrific conflagration.

The utmost consternation prevailed on board the numerous craft on the river in the vicinity of the fire, for thick showers of sparks and burning materials fell incessantly. Gusts of wind acted on the ruins now and then, and at such moments the gaunt walls, cracked and riven out of shape, stood up, glowing with intense white heat in the midst of a sea of fire from which red flames and dark clouds of smoke were vomited, as from the crater of some mighty volcano, with a roar that mingled with the shouts of excited thousands, and drowned even the dull incessant thumpings of the engines that worked in all directions.

Moored alongside of Chamberlain’s Wharf was a small sloop. Little blue blisters of light broke out on her rigging; soon these increased in size, and in a few minutes she was on fire from stem to stern. Immediately after, there came a barge with flowing sails, borne on the rising tide. She passed too near to the conflagration. Her crew of three men became panic-stricken and lost control of her. At sight of this a great shout was raised, and a boat put off and rescued the crew; but almost before they were landed their barge was alight from stem to stern. The tremendous cheer that burst from the excited multitude at sight of this rescue rose for a moment above the roaring of the conflagration. Then another barge was set on fire by the blazing tallow which floated out to her, but she was saved by being scuttled.

In the midst of such a scene it was to be expected that there would be damage to life and limb. The firemen, besides being exposed to intense heat for hours, were almost blinded and choked by the smoke emitted from the burning pepper—more especially the cayenne—of which there was a large quantity in the warehouses. Some of the men who were working the engines fell into the river and were drowned. A gentleman who was assisting the firemen had his hand impaled on an iron spike. A poor Irishman had his neck broken by the chain of the floating-engine, and several of the police force and others were carried to hospital badly burned and otherwise injured.

Some of the casualties occurred in places where only a few persons were there to witness them, but others were enacted on the river, and on spots which were in full view of the vast multitudes on London Bridge. A boat containing five men put off to collect the tallow which floated on the water, but it got surrounded by tallow which had caught fire, and the whole of its occupants were either burned to death or drowned. Later in the night a small skiff rowed by a single man was drawn by the tide into the vortex of the fire. Another boat ran out and saved the man, but a second boat which was pulled off by a single rower for the same purpose was drawn too near the fire, and its brave occupant perished. So eager were the multitude on the bridge to witness these scenes that some of themselves were forced over the parapet into the river and drowned.

Comical incidents were strangely mingled with these awful scenes, although it is but justice to say the prevailing tone of the crowd was one of solemnity. Itinerant vendors of ginger-beer, fruit, cakes, and coffee ranged themselves along the pavements and carried on a brisk trade—especially after the public-houses were closed, many of which, however, taking advantage of the occasion, kept open door all night.

Among these last was the “Angel,” belonging to Gorman.

That worthy was peculiarly active on this occasion. He never neglected an opportunity of turning an honest penny, and, accordingly, had been engaged from an early hour in his boat collecting tallow; of which plunder a considerable amount had been already conveyed to his abode.

Besides Gorman, several of the other personages of our tale found their way to the great centre of attraction, London Bridge, on that night. Among them was John Barret, who, on hearing of the fire, had left his snug little villa and pretty little wife to witness it.

He had already made one or two cheap trips on one of the omnibuses, and, about midnight, got down and forced his way to a position near the south side of the bridge. Here he was attracted to a ginger-beer barrow which an unusually adventurous man had pushed through the crowd into a sheltered corner. He forced his way to it, and, to his amazement, found the owner to be his former friend Ned Hooper.

“Hallo! Barret.”

“Why, Ned!” were the exclamations that burst simultaneously from their lips.

“This is a strange occupation,” said Barret with a smile.

“Ah, it may seem strange to you, no doubt, but it’s familiar enough to me,” replied Ned, with a grin.

The demand for beer was so great at this time that Ned could not continue the conversation.

“Here, boy,” he said to an urchin who stood near, “you draw corks as fast as you can and pour out the beer, and I’ll give you a copper or two and a swig into the bargain.”

The boy accepted the post of salesman with alacrity, and Ned turned to his friend and seized his hand.

“Barret,” said he, in a low, earnest voice, “if I succeed in holding out, I own my salvation, under God, to you. I’ve tasted nothing but ginger-beer for many a long day, and I really believe that I have got my enemy down at last. It’s not a lucrative business, as you may see,” he added with a sad smile, glancing at his threadbare garments, “nor a very aristocratic one.”

“My dear Ned,” cried Barret, interrupting, and suddenly thrusting his hand into his pocket.

“No, Barret, no,” said Ned firmly, as he laid his hand on the other’s, arm; “I don’t want money; I’ve given up begging. You gave me your advice once, and I have taken that—it has been of more value to me than all the wealth that is being melted into thin air, John, by yonder fire—”

Ned was interrupted at this point by a burst of laughter from the crowd. The cause of their mirth was the appearance of a tall, thin, and very lugubrious-looking man who had come on the bridge to see the fire. He had got so excited that he had almost fallen over the parapet, and a policeman had kindly offered to escort him to a place of safety.

“Why, what d’ye mean?—what d’ye take me for?” cried the tall man angrily; “I’m an honest man; my name is David Boone; I’ve only come to see the fire; you’ve no occasion to lay hold o’ me!”

“I know that,” said the policeman; “I only want to get you out of danger. Come along now.”

Just then a thickset man with a red handkerchief tied round his head came forward to the stall and demanded a glass of beer. The moment his eyes encountered those of Boone he became pale as death and staggered back as if he had received a deadly blow.

“Is that you, Gorman?” cried David, in a voice and with an expression of amazement.

Gorman did not reply, but gazed at his former friend with a look of intense horror, while his chest heaved and he breathed laboriously. Suddenly he uttered a loud cry and rushed towards the river.

Part of the crowd sprang after him, as if with a view to arrest him, or to see what he meant to do. In the rush Barret and Boone were carried away.

A few moments later a deep murmur of surprise rose from the thousands of spectators on the bridge, for a boat was seen to dash suddenly from the shore and sweep out on the river. It was propelled by a single rower—a man with a red kerchief tied round his head. The murmur of the crowd suddenly increased to a shout of alarm, for the man was rowing, his boat straight towards a mass of tallow which floated and burned on the water.

“Hold on!” “Lookout ahead!” shouted several voices, while others screamed “Too late!” “He’s gone!” and then there arose a wild cry, for the man rowed straight into the centre of the burning mass and was enveloped in the flames. For one moment he was seen to rise and swing his arms in the air—then he fell backwards over the gunwale of his boat and disappeared in the blazing flood.

Fiercer and fiercer raged the fire. The night passed—the day came and went, and night again set in—yet still the flames leaped and roared in resistless fury, and still the firemen fought them valiantly. And thus they fought, day and night, hand to hand, for more than a fortnight, before the battle was thoroughly ended and the victory gained.

How the firemen continued to do their desperate work, day and night, almost without rest, it is impossible to tell. Frank Willders said that, after the first night, he went about his work like a man in a dream. He scarcely knew when, or how, or where he rested or ate. He had an indistinct remembrance of one or two brief intervals of oblivion when he supposed he must have been asleep, but the only memory that remained strong and clear within him was that of constant, determined fighting with the flames. And Willie Willders followed him like his shadow! clad in a coat and helmet borrowed from a friend in the Salvage Corps. Willie fought in that great fight as if he had been a trained fireman.

On the fourth day, towards evening, Frank was ordered down into a cellar where some tar-barrels were burning. He seized the branch, and was about to leap down the stair when Dale stopped him.

“Fasten the rope to your belt,” he said.

Frank obeyed without speaking and then sprang forward, while Dale himself followed, ordering Corney, Baxmore, and one or two others, to hold on to the ropes. Willie Willders also ran in, but was met by such a dense cloud of smoke that he was almost choked. Rushing back, he shouted, “Haul on the ropes!”

The men were already hauling them in, and in a few seconds Dale and Frank were dragged by their waist-belts into the open air, the former nearly, and the latter quite, insensible.

In a few minutes they both recovered, and another attempt was made to reach the fire in the cellar, but without success.

The public did not witness this incident. The firemen were almost surrounded by burning ruins, and none but comrades were there.

Indeed, the public seldom see the greatest dangers to which the fireman is exposed. It is not when he makes his appearance on some giddy height on a burning and tottering house, and is cheered enthusiastically by the crowd, that his courage is most severely tried. It is when he has to creep on hands and knees through dense smoke, and hold the branch in the face of withering heat, while beams are cracking over his head, and burning rubbish is dropping around, and threatening to overwhelm him—it is in such circumstances, when the public know nothing of what is going on, and when no eye sees him save that of the solitary comrade who shares his toil and danger, that the fireman’s nerve and endurance are tested to the uttermost.

After leaving the cellar, Dale and his men went to attempt to check the fire in a quarter where it threatened to spread, and render this—the greatest of modern conflagrations—equal to the great one of 1666.

“We might reach it from that window,” said Dale to Frank, pointing to a house, the sides of which were already blistering, and the glass cracking with heat.

Frank seized the branch and gained the window in question, but could not do anything very effective from that point. He thought, however, that from a window in an adjoining store he might play directly on a house which was in imminent danger. But the only means of reaching it was by passing over a charred beam, thirty feet beneath which lay a mass of smouldering ruins. For one moment he hesitated, uncertain whether or not the beam would sustain his weight. But the point to be gained was one of great importance, so he stepped boldly forward, carrying the branch with him. As he advanced, the light of the fire fell brightly upon him, revealing his tall figure clearly to the crowd, which cheered him heartily.

At that moment the beam gave way. Willie, who was about to follow, had barely time to spring back and gain a firm footing, when he beheld his brother fall headlong into the smoking ruins below.

In another moment he had leaped down the staircase, and was at Frank’s side. Baxmore, Dale, Corney, and others, followed, and, in the midst of fire and smoke, they raised their comrade in their arms and bore him to a place of safety.

No one spoke, but a stretcher was quickly brought, and Frank was conveyed in a state of insensibility to the nearest hospital, where his manly form—shattered, burned, and lacerated—was laid on a bed. He breathed, although he was unconscious and evinced no sign of feeling when the surgeons examined his wounds.

A messenger was despatched for Mrs Willders, and Willie remained to watch beside him while his comrades went out to continue the fight.

Chapter Thirty Three.

The Last.

For many months Frank Willders lay upon his bed unable to move, and scarcely able to speak. His left leg and arm had been broken, his face and hands were burned and cut, and his once stalwart form was reduced to a mere wreck.

During that long and weary time of suffering he had two nurses who never left him—who relieved each other day and night; smoothed his pillow and read to him words of comfort from God’s blessed book. These were, his own mother and Emma Ward.

For many weeks his life seemed to waver in the balance, but at last he began to mend. His frame, however, had been so shattered that the doctors held out little hope of his ever being anything better than a helpless cripple, so, one day, he said to Emma:

“I have been thinking, Emma, of our engagement.” He paused and spoke sadly—as if with great difficulty.

“And I have made up my mind,” he continued, “to release you.”

“Frank!” exclaimed Emma.

“Yes, dear. No one can possibly understand what it costs me to say this, but it would be the worst kind of selfishness were I to ask you to marry a poor wretched cripple like me.”

“But what if I refuse to be released, Frank?” said Emma, with a smile; “you may, indeed, be a cripple, but you shall not be a wretched one if it is in my power to make you happy; and as to your being poor—what of that? I knew you were not rich when I accepted you, and you know I have a very, very small fortune of my own which will at least enable us to exist until you are able to work again.”

Frank looked at her in surprise, for he had not used the word poor with reference to money.

“Has mother, then, not told you anything about my circumstances of late?” he asked.

“No, nothing; what could she tell me that I do not already know?” said Emma.

Frank made no reply for a few moments, then he said with a sad yet gratified smile—

“So you refuse to be released?”

“Yes, Frank, unless you insist on it,” replied Emma.

Again the invalid relapsed into silence and shut his eyes. Gradually he fell into a quiet slumber, from which, about two hours later, he awoke with a start under the impression that he had omitted to say something. Looking up he found that his mother had taken Emma’s place. He at once asked why she had not told Emma about the change in his fortunes.

“Because I thought it best,” said Mrs Willders, “to leave you to tell her yourself, Frank.”

“Well, mother, I depute you to tell her now, and pray do it without delay. I offered to give her up a short time ago, but she refused to listen to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied the widow with a smile. “I always thought her a good, sensible girl.”

“Hm! so did I,” said Frank, “and something more.”

Once again he became silent, and, as an inevitable consequence, fell fast asleep. In which satisfactory state we will leave him while we run briefly over the events of his subsequent history.

In direct opposition to the opinion of all his doctors, Frank not only recovered the use of all his limbs, but became as well and strong as ever—and the great fire in Tooley Street left no worse marks upon him than a few honourable scars.

His recovery, however, was tedious. The state of his health, coupled with the state of his fortune, rendered it advisable that he should seek the benefit of country air, so he resigned his situation in the London Fire Brigade—resigned it, we may add, with deep regret, for some of his happiest days had been spent in connection with that gallant corps.

Rambling and fishing among the glorious mountains of Wales with his brother Willie, he speedily regained health and strength. While wandering with delight through one of the most picturesque scenes of that wild and beautiful region, he came suddenly one day on a large white umbrella, under which sat a romantic-looking man, something between an Italian bandit and an English sportsman, who was deeply engrossed with a sheet of paper on which he was depicting one of the grandest views in the splendid pass of Llanberis. At this man Willie rushed with a shout of surprise, and found that he answered at once to the name of Fred Auberly! Fred was thrown into such a state of delight at the sight of his old friends that he capsized the white umbrella, packed up his paints, and accompanied them to their inn. Here, on being questioned, he related how that, while in Rome he had been seized with a fever which laid him prostrate for many weeks; that, on his recovery, he wrote to Loo and his father, but received no reply from either of them; that he afterwards spent some months in Switzerland, making more than enough of money with his brush to “keep the pot boiling,” and that, finally, he returned home to find that dear Loo was dead, and that the great Tooley Street fire had swept away his father’s premises and ruined him. As this blow had, however, been the means of softening his father, and effecting a reconciliation between them, he was rather glad than otherwise, he said, that the fire had taken place. Fred did not say—although he might have said it with truth—that stiff and stately Mr Auberly had been reduced almost to beggary, and that he was now dependent for a livelihood on the very palette and brushes which once he had so ruthlessly condemned to the flames!

After this trip to Wales, Frank returned home and told his mother abruptly that he meant to marry Emma Ward without delay, to which Mrs Willders replied that she thought he was quite right. As Emma appeared to be of the same mind the marriage took place in due course. That is to say, Miss Tippet and Emma managed to put it off as long as possible and to create as much delay as they could. When they had not the shadow of an excuse for further delay—not so much as a forgotten band or an omitted hook of the voluminous trousseau—the great event was allowed to go on—or, “to come off.”

Many and varied were the faces that appeared at the church on that auspicious occasion. Mr Auberly was there to give away the bride, and wonderfully cheerful he looked, too, considering that he gave her to the man whom he once thought so very unworthy of her. Willie was groomsman, of course, and among the bridesmaids there was a little graceful, dark-eyed and dark-haired creature, whom he regarded as an angel or a fairy, or something of that sort, and whom everybody else, except Frank and Mrs Willders, thought the most beautiful girl in the church. In the front gallery, just above this dark-eyed girl, sat an elderly man who gazed at her with an expression of intense affection. His countenance was careworn and, had a somewhat dissipated look upon it. Yet there was a healthy glow on it, too, as if the dissipation were a thing of the distant past. The dark-eyed girl once or twice stole a glance at the elderly man and smiled on him with a look of affection quite as fervent as his own. There was a rather stylish youth at this man’s elbow whose muscles were so highly developed that they appeared about to burst his superfine black coat. He was observed to nod familiarly to the dark-eyed girl more than once, and appeared to be in a state of considerable excitement—ready, as it were, to throw a somersault over the gallery on the slightest provocation.

Of course, Miss Tippet was there in “such a love of a bonnet,” looking the picture of happiness. So was Mr Tippet, beaming all over with joy. So was Miss Deemas, scowling hatred and defiance at the men. So was David Boone, whose circumstances had evidently improved, if one might judge from the self-satisfied expression of his face and the splendour of his attire. John Barret was also there, and, close beside him stood Ned Hooper, who appeared to shrink modestly from observation, owing, perhaps, to his coat being a little threadbare. But Ned had no occasion to be ashamed of himself, for his face and appearance showed clearly that he had indeed been enabled to resist temptation, and that he had risen to a higher position in the social scale than a vendor of ginger-beer.

In the background might have been seen Hopkins—tall and dignified as ever, with Matty Merryon at his side. It was rumoured “below-stairs” that these two were engaged, but as the engagement has not yet advanced to anything more satisfactory, we hold that to be a private matter with which we have no right to meddle.

Close to these stood a group of stalwart men in blue coats and leathern belts, and with sailor-like caps in their hands. These men appeared to take a lively interest in what was going forward, and evidently found it difficult to restrain a cheer when Frank took Emma’s hand. Once or twice during the service one or two other men of similar appearance looked into the church as if in haste, nodded to their comrades, and went out again, while one of them appeared in the organ loft with a helmet hanging on his arm and his visage begrimed with charcoal, as if he were returning from a recent fire. This man, feeling, no doubt, that he was not very presentable, evidently wished to see without being seen. He was very tall and stout, and was overheard to observe, in very Irish tones, that “it was a purty sight intirely.”

When the carriage afterwards started from the door, this man—who bore a strong resemblance to Joe Corney—sprang forward and called for three cheers, which call was responded to heartily by all, but especially by the blue-coated and belted fellows with sailor-like caps, who cheered their old comrade and his blooming bride with those deep and thrilling tones which can be produced in perfection only by the lungs and throats of true-blue British tars!

Now, it must not be supposed that this was the end of Frank’s career. In truth, it was only the beginning of it, for Frank Willders was one of those men who know how to make a good use of money.

His first proceeding after the honeymoon was to take a small farm in the suburbs of London. He had a tendency for farming, and he resolved at least to play at it if he could make nothing by it. There was a small cottage on the farm, not far from the dwelling-house. This was rented by Willie, and into it he afterwards introduced Ziza Cattley as Mrs William Willders. The widow inhabited another small cottage not a hundred yards distant from it, but she saw little of her own home except at night, being constrained to spend most of her days with one or other of her “boys.”

As the farm was near a railway station, Willie went to town every morning to business—Saturdays and Sundays excepted—and returned every evening. His business prospered and so did Mr Tippet’s. That eccentric old gentleman had, like Mr Auberly, been ruined by the great fire, but he did not care—so he said—because the other business kept him going! He was not aware that Willie’s engineering powers turned in all the money of that other business, and Willie took care never to enlighten him, but helped him as of old in planning, inventing, and discovering, to the end of his days.

There was one grand feature which Frank introduced into his suburban establishment which we must not omit to mention. This was a new patent steam fire-engine. He got it not only for the protection of his own farm, but, being a philanthropic man, for the benefit of the surrounding district, and he trained the men of his farm and made them expert firemen. Willie was placed in command of this engine, so that the great wish of his early years was realised! There was not a fire within ten miles round them at which Willie’s engine was not present; and the brothers continued for many years to fight the flames together in that neighbourhood.

As for stout George Dale, and sturdy Baxmore, and facetious Joe Corney, with his comrades Moxey, Williams, and Mason, and Sam Forest, those heroes continued to go on the even tenor of their way, fighting more battles with the flames in six months than were fought with our human enemies by all our redcoats and blue-jackets in as many years, and without making any fuss about it, too, although danger was the element in which they lived, and wounds or death might have met them any day of the year.

For all we know to the contrary, they may be carrying on the war while we pen this chronicle, and, unless more vigorous measures are adopted for preventing fire than have been taken in time past, there can be no question that these stout-hearted men will in time to come have more occasion than ever for—fighting the flames.

The End.

Chapter One.

Wet, worn and weary—with water squeaking in his boots, and a mixture of charcoal and water streaking his face to such an extent that, as a comrade asserted, his own mother would not have known him—a stout young man walked smartly one morning through the streets of London towards his own home.

He was tall and good-looking, as well as stout, and, although wet and weary, had a spring in his step which proved beyond all question that he was not worn-out. As the comrade above referred to would have said, “there was plenty of go in him still.” His blue and belted coat, sailor’s cap, and small hatchet, with the brass helmet swinging by its chin strap on his left arm, betokened him a member of “The Red Brigade,”—a London fireman—one of those dare-anything characters who appear to hold their lives remarkably cheap, for they carry these lives in their hands, as the saying goes, night and day; who seem to be able to live in smoke as if it were their native element; who face the flames as if their bodies were made of cast iron; and whose apparent delight in fire is such that one is led to suspect they must be all more or less distantly connected with the family of Salamander.

The young man’s expression of countenance, as far as it could be discerned through the charcoal and water, was hearty, and his name—Dashwood—was in keeping with his profession. The comrade, whose opinion we have already quoted, was wont to say that he ought to change it to Dashwater, that being his chief occupation in life. We need scarcely say that this comrade was rather fond of his joke.

Arrived at a small street, not far from the Regent Circus, young Dashwood entered a fire-station there, and found the comrade above referred to in the act of disposing himself on a narrow tressel-bed, on which there was no bedding save one blanket. The comrade happened to be on duty that night. It was his duty to repose on the tressel-bedstead, booted and belted, ready at a moment’s notice to respond to “calls.” Another fireman lay sleeping at his side, on another tressel-bed, similarly clothed, for there were always two men on duty all night at that station. The guard-room, or, as it was styled, the “lobby,” in which they lay, was a very small room, with a bright fire in the grate, for it was winter; a plain wooden desk near the window; a plain deal table near the door, on which stood four telegraphic instruments; and having the walls ornamented with a row of Wellington boots on one side, and a row of bright brass helmets on the other, each helmet having a small hatchet suspended by a belt below it.

The comrade, who looked very sleepy, glanced at a small clock, whose tick was the only sound that fell upon the ear, and whose hands indicated the hour of half-past two.

On hearing the door open, the comrade, whose name was Bob Clazie, raised himself on one elbow.

“Ah, Joe,—that you?” he said, with a somewhat violent yawn.

“All that’s left of me, anyhow,” replied Joe Dashwood, as he hung up his helmet and axe on his own particular peg. “Bin much doin’, Bob?”

“Not much,” growled Bob; “but they don’t give a poor fellow much chance of a sleep with them telegraphs. Roused me four times already within the last hour—stops for chimbleys.”

“Ha! very inconsiderate of ’em,” said Dashwood, turning towards the door. “It’s time I had a snooze now, so I’ll bid ’ee good night, Bob.”

Just as he spoke, one of the sharp little telegraphic bells rang viciously. He waited to ascertain the result while Clazie rose—quickly but not hurriedly—and went to read the instrument with sleepy eyes.

“Another stop for a chimbley,” he muttered, with a remonstrative growl. By this he meant that the head office in Watling Street had telegraphed that a chimney had gone on fire in some part of London; that it was being looked after, and that he and his comrades were to stop where they were and pay no attention to it, even although some one should rush into the office like a maniac shouting that there was a fire in that particular place. This use of the telegraph in thus stopping the men of the Brigade from going out in force to trifling fires, is of the greatest service, because it not only prevents them from being harassed, the engines from being horsed, and steam got up needlessly, but it prevents rascals from running from station to station, and getting several shillings, instead of the one shilling which is due to the first intimator of any fire.

Having acknowledged the message, Bob Clazie lay down once more, gave another expostulatory grunt, and drew his blanket over him; while Joe Dashwood went home.

Joe’s home consisted of a small apartment round the corner of the street, within a few seconds’ run of the station. Off the small apartment there was a large closet. The small apartment was Dashwood’s drawing-room, dining-room, and kitchen; the large closet was his bed-room.

Dashwood had a wife, “as tight a little craft, with as pretty a figurehead,” he was wont to say, “as you could find in a day’s walk through London.” That was saying a good deal, but there was some truth in it. When Joe entered, intending to go to bed for the night, he found that Mary had just got up for the day. It was “washing-day,” or something of that sort, with Mary, which accounted for her getting up at about three in the morning.

“Hallo, lass, up already!” exclaimed the strapping fireman as he entered the room, which was a perfect marvel of tidiness, despite washing-day.

“Yes, Joe, there’s plenty to do, an’ little May don’t give me much time to do it,” replied Mary, glancing at a crib where little May, their first-born, lay coiled up in sheets like a rosebud in snow.

Joe, having rubbed the water and charcoal from his face with a huge jack-towel, went to the wash-tub, and imprinted a hearty kiss on Mary’s rosy lips, which she considerately held up for the purpose of being saluted. He was about to do the same to the rosebud, when Mary stopped him with an energetic “Don’t!”

“W’y not, Molly?” asked the obedient man.

“’Cause you’ll wake her up.”

Thus put down, Joe seated himself humbly on a sea-chest, and began to pull off his wet boots.

“It’s bin a bad fire, I think,” said Mary, glancing at her husband.

“Rather. A beer-shop in Whitechapel. House of five rooms burnt out, and the roof off.”

“You look tired, Joe,” said Mary.

“I am a bit tired, but an hour’s rest will put me all to rights. That’s the third fire I’ve bin called to to-night; not that I think much about that, but the last one has bin a stiff one, an’ I got a fall or two that nigh shook the wind out o’ me.”

“Have something to eat, Joe,” said Mary, in a sympathetic tone.

“No thankee, lass; I need sleep more than meat just now.”

“A glass of beer, then,” urged Mary, sweeping the soap suds off her pretty arms and hands, and taking up a towel.

The fireman shook his head, as he divested himself of his coat and neckcloth.

“Do, Joe,” entreated Mary; “I’m sure it will do you good, and no one could say that you broke through your principles, considerin’ the condition you’re in.”

Foolish Mary! she was young and inexperienced, and knew not the danger of tempting her husband to drink. She only knew that hundreds of first-rate, sober, good, trustworthy men took a glass of beer now and then without any evil result following, and did not think that her Joe ran the slightest risk in doing the same. But Joe knew his danger. His father had died a drunkard. He had listened to earnest men while they told of the bitter curse that drinking had been to thousands, that to some extent the tendency to drink was hereditary, and that, however safe some natures might be while moderately indulging, there were other natures to which moderate drinking was equivalent to getting on those rails which, running down a slight incline at first—almost a level—gradually pass over a steep descent, where brakes become powerless, and end at last in total destruction.

“I don’t require beer, Molly,” said Dashwood with a smile, as he retired into the large closet; “at my time o’ life a man must be a miserable, half-alive sort o’ critter, if he can’t git along without Dutch courage. The sight o’ your face and May’s there, is better than a stiff glass o’ grog to me any day. It makes me feel stronger than the stoutest man in the brigade. Good night, lass, or good mornin’. I must make the most o’ my time. There’s no sayin’ how soon the next call may come. Seems to me as if people was settin’ their houses alight on purpose to worry us.”

The tones in which the last sentences were uttered, and the creaking of the bedstead indicated that the fireman was composing his massive limbs to rest, and scarcely had Mrs Dashwood resumed her washing, when his regular heavy breathing proclaimed him to be already in the land of Nod.

Quietly but steadily did Mrs Dashwood pursue her work. Neat little under-garments, and fairy-like little socks, and indescribable little articles of Lilliputian clothing of various kinds, all telling of the little rosebud in the crib, passed rapidly through Mary’s nimble fingers, and came out of the tub fair as the driven snow. Soon the front of the fire-place became like a ship dressed with flags, with this difference, that the flags instead of being gay and parti-coloured, were white and suggestive of infancy and innocence. The gentle noise of washing, and the soft breathing of the sleepers, and the tiny ticking of the clock over the chimney-piece, were the only audible sounds, for London had reached its deadest hour, four o’clock. Rioters had exhausted their spirits, natural and artificial, and early risers had not begun to move.

Presently to these sounds were added another very distant sound which induced Mary to stop and listen. “A late cab,” she whispered to herself. The rumbling of the late cab became more distinct, and soon proved it to be a hurried cab. To Mary’s accustomed ear this raised some disagreeable idea. She cast a look of anxiety into the closet, wiped her hands quickly, and taking up a pair of dry boots which had been standing near the fire, placed them beside her husband’s coat. This was barely accomplished when the hurried cab was heard to pull up at the neighbouring fire-station. Only a few seconds elapsed when racing footsteps were heard outside. Mary seized her husband’s arm—

“Up, Joe, up,” she cried and darted across the room, leaped on a chair, and laid violent hands on the tongue of the door-bell, thereby preventing a furious double ring from disturbing the rosebud!

At the first word “up,” the bed in the closet groaned and creaked as the fireman bounded from it, and the house shook as he alighted on the floor. Next moment he appeared buttoning his braces, and winking like an owl in sunshine. One moment sufficed to pull on the right boot, another moment affixed the left. Catching up his half-dried coat with one hand, and flinging on his sailor’s cap with the other, he darted from the house, thrust himself into his coat as he ran along and appeared at the station just as four of his comrades drew the fire-engine up to the door, while two others appeared with three horses, which they harnessed thereto—two abreast, one in front—with marvellous rapidity. The whole affair, from the “Up, Joe, up,” of Mrs Dashwood, to the harnessing of the steeds, was accomplished in less than five minutes. By that time Joe and several of his mates stood ready belted, and armed with brass helmets on their heads, which flashed back the rays of the neighbouring street lamp and the engine lanterns.

There was wonderfully little noise or fuss, although there was so much display of promptitude and energy; the reason being that all the men were thoroughly drilled, and each had his particular duty to perform; there was, therefore, no room for orders, counter-orders, or confusion.

The moment the call was given, Bob Clazie, having received no telegraphic “stop,” had at once run to ring up the men, who, like Dashwood, had been sleeping close at hand. He rang up the driver of the engine first. At the same moment his comrade on duty had run round to the stable, where the horses stood ready harnessed, and brought them out. Thus the thing was done without a moment’s delay. The driver, when roused, flung on his coat and helmet, and ran to the engine. It was a steam fire-engine; that is, the pumps were worked by steam instead of by hand. The firing was ready laid, and the water kept nearly at the boiling point by means of a jet of gas. He had scarcely applied a light to the fire and turned off the gas, when four comrades ran into the shed, seized the red-painted engine, and dragged her out, as we have seen.

Much shorter time did it take to do all this than is required to describe it.

When the driver mounted his box, the others sprang on the engine. Crack! went the whip, fire flew from the paving-stones, fire poured from the furnace, the spirited steeds tore round the corner into Regent Street, and off they went to the fire, in the dark winter morning, like a monster rocket or a vision of Roman gladiators whirled away by a red fiery dragon!

Mrs Dashwood heard them go, and turned with a little sigh to her washing-tub. She was very proud of Joe, and she had good reason to be, for he was one of the best men in the Red Brigade, and, what was of more importance to her, he was one of the best husbands in the world. Perhaps this was largely owing to the fact that she was one of the best of wives! His career as a fireman had been short, but he had already become known as one of the daring men, to whom their Chief looked when some desperate service had to be performed. On several occasions he had, while in charge of the fire-escape, been the means of saving life. Upon the whole, therefore, it is not surprising that Mary was proud of her husband—almost as proud of him as she was of the little rosebud; but in regard to this she was never quite sure of the exact state of her mind.

Meditating on Joe, and giving an occasional glance at May, whose sweet upturned face seemed nothing short of angelic, Mrs Dashwood continued energetically to scrub the fairy-like habiliments, and make the soapsuds fly.

Meanwhile, the red engine whirled along its fiery course at full gallop, like a horrible meteor, clattering loudly in the deserted streets of the great city. So it would have sped in its wild career even if it had been broad day, for the loss of a single moment in reaching a fire is important; but in this case the men, instead of sitting like brazen-headed statues, would have stood up and increased the din of their progress by shouting continuously to clear the crowded thoroughfares. As it was, they had it all to themselves. Sometimes the corner of a window-blind was hastily lifted, showing that some wakeful one had curiosity enough to leap out of bed to see them pass. Here and there a policeman paused, and followed them with his eye as long as the tail of sparks from the furnace was visible. Occasionally a belated toper stopped in his staggering progress to gaze at them, with an idiotical assumption of seriousness and demand, “Wash ey maki’n sh’ a ’orrible row for?” Now and then a cat, with exploratory tendencies, put up its back and greeted them with a glare and a fuff, or a shut-out cur gave them a yelping salute; but the great mass of the London population let them go by without notice, as they would have treated any other passing thunderbolt with which they had nothing to do.

And yet they had something to do with that engine, or, rather, it had to do with them. But for it, and the rest of the Red Brigade, London would have long ago been in ashes. It is only by unremitting vigilance and incessant action that the London fires can be kept within bounds. There are nearly two thousand fires in the year in the metropolis, and the heroic little army which keeps these in check numbers only three hundred and seventy-eight men. That this force is much too small for the work to be done is proved by the fact, that the same men have sometimes to turn out three, four or five times in a night, to work of the most trying and dangerous nature. There is no occupation in which the lives of the men employed are so frequently risked, and their physical endurance so severely tried, as that of a London fireman. As there are, on the average, five fires every night all the year round, it follows that he is liable to be called out several times every night; and, in point of fact, this actually takes place very often. Sometimes he has barely returned from a fire, and put off his drenched garments, when he receives another “call,” and is obliged to put them on again, and go forth weary—it may be fasting—to engage in another skirmish with the flames. In all weathers and at all seasons—hot or cold, wet or dry—he must turn out at a moment’s notice, to find himself, almost before he is well awake, in the midst of stifling smoke, obliged to face and to endure the power of roasting flames, to stand under cataracts of water, beside tottering walls and gables, or to plunge through smoke and flames, in order to rescue human lives. Liability to be called occasionally to the exercise of such courage and endurance is severe enough; it is what every soldier is liable to in time of war, and the lifeboat-man in times of storm; but to be liable to such calls several times every day and night all round the year is hard indeed, and proves that the Red Brigade, although almost perfect in its organisation and heroic in its elements, is far too small. Paris has about seven hundred fires a year; New York somewhere about three hundred; yet these cities have a far larger body of firemen than London, which with little short of two thousand fires a year, does her work of extinction with only three hundred and seventy-eight men!

She succeeds because every man in the little army is a hero, not one whit behind the Spartans of old. The London fireman, Ford, who, in 1871, at one great fire rescued six lives from the flames, and perished in accomplishing the noble deed, is a sample of the rest. All the men of the Brigade are picked men—picked from among the strapping and youthful tars of the navy, because such men are accustomed to strict discipline; to being “turned out” at all hours and in all weathers, and to climb with cool heads in trying circumstances, besides being, as a class, pre-eminently noted for daring anything and sticking at nothing. Such men are sure to do their work well, however hard; to do it without complaining, and to die, if need be, in the doing of it. But ought they to be asked to sacrifice so much? Surely Londoners would do well to make that complaint, which the men will never make, and insist on the force being increased, not only for the sake of the men, but also for the sake of themselves; for, although there are three hundred and seventy-eight heroes who hold the fiery foe so well in check, there are limits to heroic powers of action, and it stands to reason that double the number would do it better.

But we are wandering from our point. The engine has been tearing all this time at racing speed along the Bayswater Road. It turns sharp round a corner near Notting Hill Gate—so sharp that the feat is performed on the two off wheels, and draws from Bob Clazie the quiet remark, “Pretty nigh on our beam-ends that time, Joe.” A light is now seen glaring in the sky over the house-tops; another moment, and the engine dashes into Ladbroke Square, where a splendid mansion is in a blaze, with the flames spouting from the windows of the second floor.

The engine pulls up with a crash; the reeking horses are removed and led aside. “Look alive, lads!” is the only word uttered, and the helmeted heroes, knowing their work well, go into action with that cool promptitude which is more than half the battle in attacking the most desperate odds or the fiercest foe.

Chapter Two.

The house on fire was, as we have said, an elegant mansion—one of those imposing edifices, with fresh paint outside, and splendid furniture within, which impress the beholder with the idea of a family in luxurious circumstances.

No one could tell how the fire originated. In the daily “report” of fires, made next day by the chief of the Red Brigade, wherein nine fires were set down as having occurred within the twenty-four hours, the cause of this fire in Ladbroke Square was reported “unknown.” Of the other eight, the supposed causes were, in one case, “escape of gas,” in another, “paraffin-lamp upset,” in another “intoxication,” in another, “spark from fire,” in another, “candle,” in another, “children playing with matches,” and so on; but in this mansion none of these causes were deemed probable. The master of the house turned off the gas regularly every night before going to bed, therefore it could not have been caused by escape of gas. Paraffin-lamps were not used in the house. Candles were; but they were always carefully handled and guarded. As to intoxication, the most suspicious of mortals could not have dreamed of such a cause in so highly respectable a family. The fires were invariably put out at night, and guards put on in every room, therefore, no spark could have been so audacious as to have leaped into being and on to the floor. There were, indeed, “matches” in the house, but there were no children, except one old lady, who, having reached her second childhood, might perhaps have been regarded as a child. It is true there was a certain Betty, a housemaid, whose fingers were reported by the cook to be “all thumbs,” and who had an awkward and incurable tendency to spill, and break, and drop, and fall over things, on whom suspicion fastened very keenly at first; but Betty, who was young and rather pretty, asserted so earnestly that she had been unusually happy that night in having done nothing whatever of a condemnable nature, and backed her asseverations with such floods of tears, that she was exonerated, and, as we have said, the cause was reported “unknown.”

It was not, however, so completely unknown as was at first supposed. There was a certain grave, retiring, modest individual who knew the gentleman of the house and his doings a little more thoroughly than was agreeable to the said gentleman, and who had become aware, in some unaccountable way, which it is impossible to explain, that he, the said gentleman, had very recently furnished the house in a sumptuous style, and had insured it much beyond its value. The said individual’s knowledge ultimately resulted in the said gentleman being convicted and transported for arson!

But with all this we have nothing to do. Whatever the uncertainty that afterwards arose as to the cause of the fire, there could be no uncertainty as to the fire itself at the time. It blazed and roared so furiously, that the inside of the house resembled a white-hot furnace. Flames spouted from the windows and chimneys, glaring fiercely on the spectators, who assembled rapidly from all quarters, as if defying them all, and daring the firemen to do their worst. Sparks enough to have shamed all the Roman candles ever made in or out of Rome were vomited forth continuously, and whirled away with volumes of dense black smoke into the wintry sky.

“It’s well alight,” observed a chimney-sweep to a policeman.

The policeman made no reply, although it did seem as if it would have been quite safe, even for a policeman, to admit that the sweep was thoroughly correct. It was “well alight,” so well, that it seemed absolutely ridiculous to suppose that the firemen could make any impression on it at all.

But the firemen did not appear to think the attempt ridiculous. “Never give in” was, or might have been, their motto. It was their maxim to attack the enemy with promptitude and vigour, no matter what his strength might be. When he crept out like a sneaking burglar from under a hearth-stone, or through an over-heated flue, they would “have at him” with the hand-pumps and quench him at once. When he came forth like a dashing party of skirmishers, to devastate a wood-yard, or light up a music-hall with unusual brilliancy, they sent an engine or two against him without delay, and put him down in an hour or two. When he attacked “in force,” they despatched engine after engine—manuals and steamers—to the front, until he was quelled, and if the prey already seized could not be wrenched from his grasp, they, at all events, killed him before he could destroy more. When he boldly and openly declared war, attacking the great combustible warehouses of Tooley Street, threatening a descent on the shipping, and almost setting the Thames on fire, they sent out the whole available army from every quarter of the metropolis with all their engines of war—manuals, steamers, and floating batteries, or spouteries, and fought him tooth and nail, till he gave in. They might be terribly over-matched—as in the case of the great fire when the gallant Braidwood fell—they might lose men, and might have to fight day and night for weeks, but they would “never say die,” until the enemy had died and left them, tired and torn, but still tough and triumphant victors on the field of battle.

Before the engine from Regent Street came on the ground, two manual engines from Kensington and Notting Hill had arrived, and opened water on the foe. At first their shot fell harmlessly on the roaring furnace; but by the time the “steamer” had got ready for action, some little effect was beginning to be produced. When this great gun, so to speak, began to play, and sent a thick continuous stream through the windows, like an inexhaustible water mitrailleuse, clouds of white steam mingled with the black smoke, and varied the aspect of the fire, but did not appear to lessen its fury in any degree. Just then another manual engine dashed into the square at full gallop, and formed up. Before it had well taken a position, another “steamer,” with three horses, came swinging round the corner, and fell into the ranks. The panting steeds were unharnessed, the bold charioteers leaped down, the suction-pipe was dipped into the water-trough, and the hose attached. As two engines cannot “drink” at the same plug, a canvas trough with an iron frame is put over the plug, having a hole in its bottom, which fits tightly round the plug. It quietly fills, and thus two or more engines may do their work convivially—dip in their suction-pipes, and “drink” simultaneously at the same fountain.

“Down with her!” shouted the man who held the “branch,” or nozzle, at the end of the hose.

A steam whistle gives a shrill, short reply; the engine quivers under the power of man’s greatest servant, and another battery opens on the foe.

But London firemen are not content to play at long bowls. While the artillery goes thus vigorously into action, the helmets of the men are seen gleaming and glancing everywhere amid the smoke, searching for weak points, turning the enemy’s flanks, and taking him in rear. Hose are dragged through neighbouring houses, trailing their black coils like horrid water snakes, through places were such things were never meant to be. If too short, additional lengths are added, again and again, till the men who hold the branches gain points of vantage on adjoining roofs or outhouses, until, at last from below, above, in front, and behind, cataracts of water dash into the glowing furnace.

The fire-escape had been first to reach the ground after the alarm was given, this being the instrument nearest to the scene of conflagration. It happened that night to be in charge of David Clazie, a brother of Comrade Bob. Being a smart young fellow, David, had—with the assistance of two early risers who chanced to be at hand, and the policeman on the beat—run up his escape, and put it in position before the fire had gained its full force. The gentleman of the house had already got out, and fled in his night garments; but the fire had rendered the staircase impassable, so that the cook, the many-thumbed Betty, and the old lady, who was the gentleman’s mother, were imprisoned in the upper floor.

David Clazie did not learn this from the gentleman, however. That amiable character had received such a fright, that he had taken himself off, no one—except the individual aforementioned—knew whither. Fortunately, Betty announced the fact of her existence by rushing to a window and shrieking. David ran his escape towards the window, mounted the ladder, carried the damsel down, bore her, kicking, into a neighbouring house, and left her in fits. Meanwhile the cook rushed to the same window, shrieked, and fell back half-suffocated with the smoke which just then surrounded her. A policeman gallantly ran up the escape, jumped into the room, gathered up the cook with great difficulty—for she was unusually fat and the smoke very suffocating—carried her down, bore her to the same house where Betty lay, and left her there in violent hysterics.

As neither of them could answer questions, it could not be ascertained whether there were any more people in the burning house. David therefore explored it as far as was possible in the circumstances, and much more than was safe for himself, but found no one. After nearly choking himself, therefore, he drew aside the escape to prevent its being burned.

When the engines came up, however, it was again brought into play, to enable the firemen to get up with their “branches” to the upper windows.

“Try that window, Dashwood,” said the officer of the station to which Joe belonged, pointing to a window on the second floor. “There ain’t much smoke coming out.”

Before he had done speaking, Joe and a comrade had pushed the escape towards the window in question. He ascended and leaped into the room, but could scarcely see for the smoke. Knowing that the air in a burning house is clearer near the floor, he stooped as low as possible, and went round the room guiding himself by the walls. Coming to a door he seized the handle and tried to open it, but found it locked, and the handle so hot that he was forced to let go abruptly. He seized a chair, tried to burst it open with a blow, and shivered the chair to atoms, but did not force the door. A powerful effort with his foot also failed. Rushing to the window he got out on the escape, and shouted:—

“The axe, lads, look sharp and pass up the hose. We’ll get at it here.”

A large heavy axe was handed up by one fireman, while another let down a rope, to which the end of the hose was attached and hauled up.

Joe seized the axe, returned to the door, and, with one blow, dashed it open.

Flames leaped upon him, as if they had been eagerly awaiting the opportunity, licked hungrily round his legs, and kissed his whiskers—of which, by the way, he was rather proud; and with good reason, for they were very handsome whiskers. But Joe cared no more for them at that moment than he did for his boots. He was forced to retreat, however, to the window, where Bob Clazie had already presented his branch and commenced a telling discharge on the fire.

“That’s the way to do it,” muttered Bob, as he directed the branch and turned aside his head to avoid, as much as possible, the full volume of the smoke.

“Let’s get a breath o’ fresh air,” gasped Joe Dashwood, endeavouring to squeeze past his comrade through the window.

At that moment a faint cry was heard. It appeared to come from an inner room.

“Some one there, Joe,” said Bob Clazie in a grave tone, but without diverting his attention for an instant from the duty in which he was engaged.

Joe made no reply, but at once leaped back into the room, and, a second time, felt his way round the walls. He came on another door. One blow of the ponderous axe dashed it in, and revealed a bed-room not quite so densely filled with smoke as the outer room. Observing a bed looming through the smoke, he ran towards it, and struck his head against one of the posts so violently that he staggered. Recovering he made a grasp at the clothes, and felt that there was a human being wrapped tightly up in them like a bundle. A female shriek followed. Joe Dashwood was not the man to stand on ceremony in such circumstances. He seized the bundle, straightened it out a little, so as to make it more portable, and throwing it over his shoulder, made a rush towards the window by which he had entered. All this the young fireman did with considerable energy and haste, because the density of the smoke was increasing, and his retreat might be cut off by the flames at any moment.

“Clear the way there!” he gasped, on reaching the window.

“All right,” replied Bob Clazie, who was still presenting his branch with untiring energy at the flames.

Joe passed out, got on the head of the escape, and, holding the bundle on his shoulder with one hand, grasped the rounds of the ladder with the other. He descended amid the cheers of the vast multitude, which had by this time assembled to witness the fire.

As Joe hurried towards the open door of the nearest house, Betty, with the thumbs, rushed frantically out, screaming, “Missis! oh! my! she’ll be burnt alive! gracious! help! fire! back room! first floor! oh, my!”

“Be easy, lass,” cried Joe, catching the flying domestic firmly by the arm, and detaining her despite her struggles.

“Let me go; missis! I forgot her!”

“Here she is,” cried Joe, interrupting, “all safe. You come and attend to her.”

The reaction on poor Betty’s feelings was so great that she went into fits a second time, and was carried with her mistress into the house, where the cook still lay in violent hysterics.

Joe laid the bundle gently on the bed, and looked quickly at the bystanders. Observing several cool and collected females among them, he pointed to the bundle, which had begun to exhibit symptoms of life, and said briefly, “She’s all right, look after her,” and vanished like a wreath of that smoke into which in another moment he plunged.

He was not a moment too soon, for he found Bob Clazie, despite his fortitude and resolution, on the point of abandoning the window, where the smoke had increased to such a degree as to render suffocation imminent.

“Can’t stand it,” gasped Bob, scrambling a few paces down the ladder.

“Give us the branch, Bob, I saw where it was in fetchin’ out the old woman,” said Joe in a stifled voice.

He grasped the copper tube from which the water spouted with such force as to cause it to quiver and recoil like a living thing, so that, being difficult to hold, it slipped aside and nearly fell. The misdirected water-spout went straight at the helmet of a policeman, which it knocked off with the apparent force of a cannon shot; plunged into the bosom of a stout collier, whom it washed whiter than he had ever been since the days of infancy, and scattered the multitude like chaff before the wind. Seeing this, the foreman ordered “Number 3” engine, (which supplied the particular branch in question), to cease pumping.

Joe recovered the erratic branch in a moment, and dragged it up the escape, Bob, who was now in a breatheable atmosphere, helping to pass up the hose. The foreman, who seemed to have acquired the power of being in several places at one and the same moment of time, and whose watchful eye was apparently everywhere, ordered Bob’s brother David and another man named Ned Crashington, to go up and look after Joe Dashwood.

Meanwhile Joe shouted, “Down with Number 3;” by which he meant, “up with as much water as possible from Number 3, and as fast as you can!” and sprang into the room from which he had just rescued the old woman. In passing out with her he had observed a glimmer of flame through the door which he had first broken open, and which, he reflected while descending the escape, was just out of range of Bob Clazie’s branch. It was the thought of this that had induced him to hurry back so promptly; in time, as we have seen, to relieve his comrade. He now pointed the branch at the precise spot, and hit that part of the fire right in its heart. The result was that clouds of steam mingled with the smoke. But Joe was human after all. The atmosphere, or, rather, the want of atmosphere, was too much for him. He was on the point of dropping the branch, and rushing to the window for his life, when Ned Crashington, feeling his way into the room, tumbled over him.

Speech was not required in the circumstances. Ned knew exactly what to do, and Joe knew that he had been sent to relieve him. He therefore delivered the branch to Ned, and at once sprang out on the escape, where he encountered David Clazie.

“Go in, Davy, he can’t stand it long,” gasped Joe.

“No fears of ’im,” replied Davy, with a smile, as he prepared to enter the window; “Ned can stand hanythink a’most. But, I say, send up some more ’ands. It takes two on us to ’old that ’ere branch, you know.”

The brass helmets of more hands coming up the escape were observed as he spoke, for the foreman saw that this was a point of danger, and, like a wise general, had his reserves up in time.

David Clazie found Ned standing manfully to the branch. Ned was noted in the Red Brigade as a man who could “stand a’most anything,” and who appeared to cherish a martyr-like desire to die by roasting or suffocation. This was the more surprising that he was not a boastful or excitable fellow, but a silent, melancholy, and stern man, who, except when in action, usually seemed to wish to avoid observation. Most of his comrades were puzzled by this compound of character, but some of them hinted that Crashington’s wife could have thrown some light on the subject. Be this as it may, whenever the chief or the foreman of the Brigade wanted a man for any desperate work, they invariably turned to Ned Crashington. Not that Ned was one whit more courageous or willing to risk his life than any of the other men, all of whom, it must be remembered, were picked for courage and capacity for their special work; but he combined the greatest amount of coolness with the utmost possible recklessness, besides being unusually powerful, so that he could be depended on for wise as well as desperate action. Joe Dashwood was thought to be almost equal to Ned—indeed, in personal activity he was superior; but there was nothing desperate in Joe’s character. He was ever ready to dare anything with a sort of jovial alacrity, but he did not appear, like Ned, to court martyrdom.

While Ned and David subdued the flames above, Joe descended the escape, and being by that time almost exhausted, sat down to rest with several comrades who had endured the first shock of battle, while fresh men were sent to continue the fight.

“Have a glass, Joe?” said one of the firemen, coming round with a bottle of brandy.

“No, thank ’ee,” said Joe, “I don’t require it.”

“Hand it here,” said a man who stood leaning against the rails beside him, “my constitution is good, like the British one, but it’s none the worse for a drop o’ brandy after such tough work.”

There was probably truth in what the man said. Desperate work sometimes necessitates a stimulant; nevertheless, there were men in the Red Brigade who did their desperate work on nothing stronger than water, and Joe was one of these.

In three hours the fire was subdued, and before noon of that day it was extinguished. The “report” of it, as published by the chief of the Fire-Brigade next morning, recorded that a house in Ladbroke Square, occupied by Mr Blank, a gentleman whose business was “private”—in other words, unknown—had been set on fire by some “unknown cause,” that the whole tenement had been “burnt out” and “the roof off,” and that the contents of the building were “insured in the Phoenix.”

Some of the firemen were sent home about daybreak, when the flames first began to be mastered.

Joe was among these. He found Mary ready with a cup of hot coffee, and the rosebud, who had just awakened, ready with a kiss. Joe accepted the second, swallowed the first, stretched his huge frame with a sigh of weariness, remarked to Mary that he would turn in, and in five minutes thereafter was snoring profoundly.

Chapter Three.

One pleasant afternoon in spring David Clazie and Ned Crashington sat smoking together in front of the fire in the lobby of the station, chatting of hair-breadth escapes by flood and fire.

“It’s cold enough yet to make a fire a very pleasant comrade—w’en ’e’s inside the bars,” observed David.

“H’m,” replied Crashington.

As this was not a satisfactory reply, David said so, and remarked, further, that Ned seemed to be in the blues.

“Wotever can be the matter wi’ you, Ned,” said David, looking at his companion with a perplexed air; “you’re a young, smart, ’ealthy fellar, in a business quite to your mind, an’ with a good-lookin’ young wife at ’ome, not to mention a babby. W’y wot more would you ’ave, Ned? You didn’t ought for to look blue.”

“Pr’aps not,” replied Ned, re-lighting his pipe, and puffing between sentences, “but a man may be in a business quite to his mind and have a good-looking wife, and a babby, and health to boot, without bein’ exactly safe from an attack of the blues now and then, d’ye see? ‘It ain’t all gold that glitters.’ You’ve heard o’ that proverb, no doubt?”

“Well, yes,” replied Clazie.

“Ah. Then there’s another sayin’ which mayhap you’ve heard of too: ‘every man’s got a skeleton in the cupboard.’”

“I’ve heard o’ that likewise,” said Clazie, “but it ain’t true; leastways, I have got no skeleton in none o’ my cupboards, an’, wot’s more, if I ’ad, I’d pitch him overboard.”

“But what if he was too strong for you?” suggested Ned.

“Why, then—I don’t know,” said Clazie, shaking his head.

Before this knotty point could be settled in a satisfactory manner, the comrades were interrupted by the entrance of a man. He was a thick-set, ill-favoured fellow, with garments of a disreputable appearance, and had a slouch that induced honest men to avoid his company. Nevertheless, Ned Crashington gave him a hearty “good afternoon,” and shook hands.

“My brother-in-law, Clazie,” said Ned, turning and introducing him, “Mr Sparks.”

Clazie was about to say he “was ’appy to,” etcetera, but thought better of it, and merely nodded as he turned to the grate and shook the ashes out of his pipe.

“You’ll come and have a cup of tea, Phil? Maggie and I usually have it about this time.”

Phil Sparks said he had no objection to tea, and left the station with Ned, leaving David Clazie shaking his head with a look of profound wisdom.

“You’re a bad lot, you are,” growled David, after the man was gone, “a werry bad lot, indeed!”

Having expressed his opinion to the clock, for there was no one else present, David thrust both hands into his pockets, and went out to take an observation of the weather.

Meanwhile Ned Crashington led his brother-in-law to his residence, which, like the abodes of the other firemen, was close at hand. Entering it he found his “skeleton” waiting for him in the shape of his wife. She was anything but a skeleton in aspect, being a stout, handsome woman, with a fine figure, an aquiline nose, and glittering black eyes.

“Oh, you’ve come at last,” she said in a sharp, querulous tone, almost before her husband had entered the room. “Full ten minutes late, and I expected you sooner than usual to-night.”

“I didn’t know you expected me sooner, Maggie. Here’s Phil come to have tea with us.”

“Oh, Phil, how are you?” said Mrs Crashington, greeting her brother with a smile, and shaking him heartily by the hand.

“Ah, if you’d only receive me with a smile like that, how different it might be,” thought Ned; but he said nothing.

“Now, then, stoopid,” cried Mrs Crashington, turning quickly round on her husband, as if to counteract the little touch of amiability into which she had been betrayed, “how long are you going to stand there in people’s way staring at the fire? What are you thinking of?”

“I was thinking of you, Maggie.”

“H’m! thinking no good of me, I dare say,” replied Maggie, sharply.

“Did your conscience tell you that?” asked Ned, with a heightened colour.

Maggie made no reply. One secret of her bad temper was that she had all her life been allowed to vent it, and now that she was married she felt the necessity of restraining it very irksome. Whenever she had gone far enough with Ned, and saw that he was not to be trifled with, she found that she possessed not only power to control her temper, but the sense, now and then, to do so! On the present occasion she at once busied herself in preparing tea, while Ned sat down opposite his brother-in-law, and, taking Fred, his only child, a handsome boy of about five years of age, on his knee, began to run his fingers through his jet black curly hair.

“Did you get your tasks well to-day, Fred?” asked Ned.

“No, father.”

“No?” repeated Ned in surprise; “why not?”

“Because I was playin’ with May Dashwood, father.”

“Was that a good reason for neglecting your dooty?” demanded Ned, shaking his head reproachfully, yet smiling in spite of himself.

“Iss, father,” replied the boy boldly.

“You’re wrong, Fred. No doubt you might have had a worse reason, but play is not a good reason for neglect of dooty. Only think—what would be said to me if I was called to a fire, and didn’t go because I wanted to play with May Dashwood?”

“But I was sent for,” pleaded Fred. “Mrs Dashwood had a big—oh, such a big washin’, an’ sent to say if I might be let go; an’ mother said I might, so I went.”

“Ah, that alters the case, Fred,” replied his father, patting the boy’s head. “To help a woman in difficulties justifies a’most anything. Don’t it, Phil?”

Thus appealed to, Phil said that he didn’t know, and, what was more, he didn’t care.

“Now don’t sit talkin’ nonsense, but sit in to tea,” said Mrs Crashington.

The stout fireman’s natural amiability had been returning like a flood while he conversed with Fred, but this sharp summons rather checked its flow; and when he was told in an exasperating tone to hand the toast, and not look like a stuck pig, it was fairly stopped, and his spirit sank to zero.

“Have you got anything to do yet?” he asked of Phil Sparks, by way of cheering up a little.

“No, nothin’,” replied Sparks; “leastways nothin’ worth mentionin’.”

“I knew his last application would fail,” observed Maggie, in a quietly contemptuous tone.

His last application had been made through Ned’s influence and advice, and that is how she came to know it would fail.

Ned felt a rising of indignation within him which he found it difficult to choke down, because it was solely for his wife’s sake that he had made any effort at all to give a helping hand to surly Phil Sparks, for whom he entertained no personal regard. But Ned managed to keep his mouth shut. Although a passionate man, he was not ill-tempered, and often suffered a great deal for the sake of peace.

“London,” growled Sparks, in a tone of sulky remonstrance, “ain’t a place for a man to git on in. If you’ve the luck to have friends who can help you, an’ are willin’, why it’s well enough; but if you haven’t got friends, its o’ no manner o’ use to try anything, except pocket-pickin’ or house-breakin’.”

“Come, Phil,” said Ned, laughing, as he helped himself to a huge round of buttered toast, “I ’ope you han’t made up your mind to go in for either of them professions, for they don’t pay. They entail hard work, small profits, an’ great risk—not to mention the dishonesty of ’em. But I don’t agree with you about London neither.”

“You never agree with nobody about anythink,” observed Mrs Crashington, in a low tone, as if the remark were made to the teapot; but Ned heard it, and his temper was sorely tried again, for, while the remark was utterly false as regarded himself, it was particularly true as regarded his wife. However, he let it pass, and continued—

“You see, Phil, London, as you know, is a big place, the population of it being equal to that of all Scotland—so I’m told, though it ain’t easy to swallow that. Now it seems to me that where there’s so many people an’ so much doin’, it ought to be the very place for smart, stout fellows like you. If I was you, I’d—”

“Yes, but you ain’t him,” interrupted Mrs Crashington, testily, “so it won’t do him much good to tell what you would or wouldn’t do.”

“I’ve heard of wives, Maggie, who sometimes tried to be agreeable,” said Ned, gravely.

“If I don’t suit you, why did you marry me?” demanded Maggie.

“Ah, why indeed?” said Ned, with a frown. At this critical point in the conversation, little Fred, who was afraid that a storm was on the point of bursting forth, chanced to overturn his tin mug of tea. His mother was one of those obtuse women who regard an accident as a sin, to be visited by summary punishment. Her usual method of inflicting punishment was by means of an open-handed slap on the side of the head. On this occasion she dealt out the measure of justice with such good-will, that poor little Fred was sent sprawling and howling on the floor.

This was too much for Ned, who was a tender-hearted man. The blood rushed to his face; he sprang up with such violence as to overturn his chair, seized his cap, and, without uttering a word, dashed out of the room, and went downstairs three steps at a time.

What Ned meant to do, or where to go, of course no one could tell, for he had no definite intentions in his own mind, but his energies were unexpectedly directed for him. On rushing out at the street door, he found himself staggering unexpectedly in the arms of Bob Clazie.

“Hullo! Bob, what’s up?”

“Turn out!” said Bob, as he wheeled round, and ran to the next fireman’s door.

Ned understood him. He ran smartly to the station, and quickly put on helmet, belt, and axe. Already the engine was out, and the horses were being harnessed. In two minutes the men were assembled and accoutred; in three they were in their places—the whip cracked, and away they went.

It was a good blazing, roaring, soul-stirring fire—a dry-salter’s warehouse, with lots of inflammable materials to give it an intense heart of heat, and fanned by a pretty stiff breeze into ungovernable fury—yet it was as nothing to the fire that raged in Ned’s bosom. If he had hated his wife, or been indifferent to her, he would in all probability, like too many husbands, have sought for congenial society elsewhere, and would have been harsh to her when obliged to be at home. But Ned loved his wife, and would have made any sacrifice, if by so doing, he could have smoothed her into a more congenial spirit. When, therefore, he found that his utmost efforts were of no avail, and that he was perpetually goaded, and twitted, and tweaked for every little trifle, his spirit was set alight—as he at last remarked in confidence to David Clazie—and all the fire-engines in Europe, Asia, Africa and America couldn’t put it out.

The dry-salter’s premises seemed to have been set on fire for poor Ned’s special benefit that night. They suited his case exactly. There was more than the usual quantity of smoke to suffocate, and fire to roast, him. There was considerable danger too, so that the daring men of the brigade were in request—if we may say that of a brigade in which all the men were daring—and Ned had congenial work given him to do. The proverbial meeting of Greek with Greek was mere child’s play to this meeting of fire with fire. The inflamed Ned and the blazing dry-salter met in mortal conflict, and the result was tremendous! It made his brother firemen stand aghast with awful admiration, to observe the way in which Ned dashed up tottering staircases, and along smoke-choked passages, where lambent flames were licking about in search of oxygen to feed on, and the way in which he hurled down brick walls and hacked through wood partitions, and tore up fir-planking and seized branch and hose, and, dragging them into hole-and-corner places, and out upon dizzy beams, and ridge poles, dashed tons of water in the fire’s face, until it hissed again. It was a fine example of the homoeopathic principle that “like cures like;” for the fire in Ned’s bosom did wonders that night in the way of quenching the fire in the dry-salter’s warehouse.

When this had gone on for an hour, and the fire was at its height, Ned, quite exhausted, descended to the street, and, sitting down on the pavement, leaned against a rail.

“If you goes on like that, Ned,” said Bob Clazie, coming up to him, “you’ll bust yourself.”

“I wish I could,” said Ned.

At that moment, Bob’s brother David came towards them with the brandy bottle.

“Have a glass, Ned, you need it,” said David.

Ned, although not a teetotaller, was one of the men who did not require spirits, and therefore seldom took more than a sip, but he now seized the glass, and drained it eagerly.

“Another,” he cried, holding it up.

David refilled it with a look of some surprise.

Ned drained it a second time.

“Now,” said he, springing up, and tightening his belt, “I’m all right, come along, Bob!”

With that he rushed into the burning house, and in a few seconds was seen to take the branch from a fireman on one of the upper floors, and drag it out on a charred beam that overhung the fire. The spot on which they stood was brilliantly illuminated, and it was seen that the fireman remonstrated with Ned, but the latter thrust him away, and stepped out on the beam. He stood there black as ebony, with a glowing background of red walls and fire, and the crowd cheered him for his unwonted courage; but the cheer was changed abruptly into a cry of alarm as the beam gave way, and Ned fell head foremost into the burning ruins.

The chief of the brigade—distinguishable everywhere by his tall figure—observed the accident, and sprang towards the place.

“If he’s not killed by the fall, he’s safe from the fire, for it is burnt out there,” he remarked to David Clazie, who accompanied him. Before they reached the place, Joe Dashwood and two other men had rushed in. They found Ned lying on his back in a mixture of charcoal and water, almost buried in a mass of rubbish which the falling beam had dragged down along with it. In a few seconds this was removed, and Ned was carried out and laid on the pavement, with a coat under his head.

“There’s no cut anywhere that I can see,” said Joe Dashwood examining him.

“His fall must have been broke by goin’ through the lath and plaster o’ the ceilin’ below,” suggested Bob Clazie.

At that moment, there was a great crash, followed by a loud cry, and a cheer from the multitude, as the roof fell in, sending up a magnificent burst of sparks and flame, in the midst of which Ned Crashington was borne from the field of battle.

While this scene was going on, Mrs Crashington and her brother were still seated quietly enjoying their tea—at least, enjoying it as much as such characters can be said to enjoy anything.

When Ned had gone out, as before mentioned, Phil remarked:—

“I wouldn’t rouse him like that, Mag, if I was you.”

“But he’s so aggravatin’,” pleaded Mrs Crashington.

“He ain’t half so aggravatin’ as you are,” replied Phil, gruffly. “I don’t understand your temper at all. You take all the hard words I give you as meek as a lamb, but if he only offers to open his mouth you fly at him like a turkey-cock. However, it’s no business o’ mine, and now,” he added, rising, “I must be off.”

“So, you won’t tell me before you go, what sort of employment you’ve got?”

“No,” replied Phil, shortly.

“Why not, Phil?”

“Because I don’t want you to know, and I don’t want your husband to know.”

“But I won’t tell him, Phil.”

“I’ll take good care you can’t tell him,” returned Phil, as he fastened a worsted comforter round his hairy throat. “It’s enough for you to know that I ain’t starvin’ and that the work pays, though it ain’t likely to make my fortin’.”

Saying this, Mr Sparks condescended to give his sister a brief nod and left the house.

He had not been gone much more than a couple of hours, when Mrs Crashington, having put little Fred to sleep, was roused from a reverie by the sound of several footsteps outside, followed by a loud ring at the bell; she opened the door quickly, and her husband was borne in and laid on his bed.

“Not dead?” exclaimed the woman in a voice of agony.

“No, missus, not dead,” said David Clazie, “but hardly better, I fear.”

When Maggie looked on the poor bruised form, with garments torn to shreds, and so covered with charcoal, water, lime, and blood, as to be almost an indistinguishable mass, she could not have persuaded herself that he was alive, had not a slight heaving of the broad chest told that life still remained.

“It’s a ’orrible sight, that, missus,” said David Clazie, with a look that seemed strangely stern.

“It is—oh it is—terrible!” said Mrs Crashington, scarce able to suppress a cry.

“Ah, you’d better take a good look at it,” added Clazie, “for it’s your own doing, missus.”

Maggie looked at him in surprise, but he merely advised her to lend a hand to take the clothes off, as the doctor would be round in a minute; so she silently but actively busied herself in such duties as were necessary.

Meanwhile Phil Sparks went about the streets of London attending to the duties of his own particular business. To judge from appearances, it seemed to be rather an easy occupation, for it consisted mainly in walking at a leisurely pace through the streets and thoroughfares, with his hands in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth.

Meditation also appeared to be an important branch of this business, for Phil frequently paused in front of a large mansion, or a magnificent shop, and gazed at it so intently, that one might have almost fancied he was planning the best method of attempting a burglary, although nothing was farther from Phil’s intentions. Still, his meditations were sometimes so prolonged, that more than one policeman advised him, quite in a friendly way, to “move on.”

Apparently, however, Phil turned over no profit, on this business, and was about to return home supperless to bed, when he suddenly observed smoke issuing from an upper window. Rare and lucky chance! He was the first to observe it. He knew that the first who should convey the alarm of fire to a fire-station would receive a shilling for his exertions. He dashed off at once, had the firemen brought to the spot in a few minutes, so that the fire was easily and quickly overcome. Thus honest Phil Sparks earned his supper, and the right to go home and lay his head on his pillow, with the happy consciousness of having done a good action to his fellow-men, and performed a duty to the public and himself.

Chapter Four.

It is probable that there is not in all the wide world a man—no matter how depraved, or ill-favoured, or unattractive—who cannot find some sympathetic soul, some one who will be glad to see him and find more or less pleasure in his society. Coarse in body and mind though Philip Sparks was, there dwelt a young woman, in one of the poorest of the poor streets in the neighbourhood of Thames Street, who loved him, and would have laid down her life for him.

To do Martha Reading justice, she had fallen in love with Sparks before intemperance had rendered his countenance repulsive and his conduct brutal. When, perceiving the power he had over her, he was mean enough to borrow and squander the slender gains she made by the laborious work of dress-making—compared to which coal-heaving must be mere child’s play—she experienced a change in her feelings towards him, which she could not easily understand or define. Her thoughts of him were mingled with intense regrets and anxieties, and she looked forward to his visits with alarm. Yet those thoughts were not the result of dying affection; she felt quite certain of that, having learned from experience that, “many waters cannot quench love.”

One evening, about eight o’clock, Phil Sparks, having prosecuted his “business” up to that hour without success, tapped at the door of Martha’s garret and entered without waiting for permission; indeed, his tapping at all was a rather unwonted piece of politeness.

“Come in, Phil,” said Martha, rising and shaking hands, after which she resumed her work.

“You seem busy to-night,” remarked Sparks, sitting down on a broken chair beside the fireless grate, and taking out his bosom companion, a short black pipe, which he began to fill.

“I am always busy,” said Martha, with a sigh.

“An’ it don’t seem to agree with you, to judge from your looks,” rejoined the man.

This was true. The poor girl’s pretty face was thin and very pale and haggard.

“I was up all last night,” she said, “and feel tired now, and there’s not much chance of my getting to bed to-night either, because the lady for whom I am making this must have it by to-morrow afternoon at latest.”

Here Mr Sparks muttered something very like a malediction on ladies in general, and on ladies who “must” have dresses in particular.

“Your fire’s dead out, Martha,” he added, poking among the ashes in search of a live ember.

“Yes, Phil, it’s out. I can’t afford fire of an evening; besides it ain’t cold just now.”

“You can afford matches, I suppose,” growled Phil; “ah, here they are. Useful things matches, not only for lightin’ a feller’s pipe with, but also for—well; so she must have it by to-morrow afternoon, must she?”

“Yes, so my employer tells me.”

“An’ she’ll not take no denial, won’t she?”

“I believe not,” replied Martha, with a faint smile, which, like a gleam of sunshine on a dark landscape, gave indication of the brightness that might have been if grey clouds of sorrow had not overspread her sky.

“What’s the lady’s name, Martha?”

“Middleton.”

“And w’ere abouts may she live?”

“In Conway Street, Knightsbridge.”

“The number?”

“Number 6, I believe; but why are you so particular in your inquiries about her?” said Martha, looking up for a moment from her work, while the faint gleam of sunshine again flitted over her face.

“Why, you see, Martha,” replied Phil, gazing through the smoke of his pipe with a sinister smile, “it makes a feller feel koorious to hear the partiklers about a lady wot must have things, an’ won’t take no denial! If I was you, now, I’d disappoint her, an’ see how she’d take it.”

He wound up his remark, which was made in a bantering tone, with another malediction, which was earnest enough—savagely so.

“Oh! Phil,” cried the girl, in an earnest tone of entreaty; “don’t, oh, don’t swear so. It is awful to think that God hears you, is near you—at your very elbow—while you thus insult Him to his face.”

The man made no reply, but smoked with increasing intensity, while he frowned at the empty fire-place.

“Well, Martha,” he said, after a prolonged silence, “I’ve got work at last.”

“Have you?” cried the girl, with a look of interest.

“Yes; it ain’t much to boast of, to be sure, but it pays, and, as it ties me to nothin’ an’ nobody, it suits my taste well. I’m wot you may call a appendage o’ the fire-brigade. I hangs about the streets till I sees a fire, w’en, off I goes full split to the nearest fire-station, calls out the engine, and gits the reward for bein’ first to give the alarm.”

“Indeed,” said Martha, whose face, which had kindled up at first with pleasure, assumed a somewhat disappointed look; “I—I fear you won’t make much by that, Phil?”

“You don’t seem to make much by that,” retorted Phil, pointing with the bowl of his pipe to the dress which lay in her lap and streamed in a profusion of rich folds down to the floor.

“Not much,” assented Martha, with a sigh. “Well, then,” continued Phil, re-lighting his pipe, and pausing occasionally in his remarks to admire the bowl, “that bein’ so, you and I are much in the same fix, so if we unites our small incomes, of course that’ll make ’em just double the size.”

“Phil,” said Martha, in a lower voice, as she let her hands and the work on which they were engaged fall on her lap, “I think, now, that it will never be.”

“What’ll never be?” demanded the man rudely, looking at the girl in surprise.

“Our marriage.”

“What! are you going to jilt me?”

“Heaven forbid,” said Martha, earnestly. “But you and I are not as we once were, Phil, we differ on many points. I feel sure that our union would make us more miserable than we are.”

“Come, come,” cried the man, half in jest and half in earnest. “This kind of thing will never do. You mustn’t joke about that, old girl, else I’ll have you up for breach of promise.”

Mr Sparks rose as he spoke, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, put it in his waistcoat pocket, and prepared to go.

“Martha,” he said, “I’m goin’ off now to attend to my business, but I haven’t made a rap yet to-day, and its hard working on a empty stomach, so I just looked in to light my pipe, and enquire if you hadn’t got a shillin’ about you, eh!”

The girl looked troubled.

“Oh, very well,” cried Sparks, with an offended air, “if you don’t want to accommodate me, never mind, I can get it elsewhere.”

“Stop!” cried Martha, taking a leathern purse from her pocket.

“Well, it would have been rather hard,” he said, returning and holding out his hand.

“There, take it,” said Martha, “You shouldn’t judge too quickly. You don’t know why I looked put out. It is my—”

She stopped short, and then said hurriedly, “Don’t drink it, Phil.”

“No, I won’t. I’m hungry. I’ll eat it. Thankee.”

With a coarse laugh he left the room, and poor Martha sat down again to her weary toil, which was not in any degree lightened by the fact that she had just given away her last shilling.

A moment after, the door opened suddenly and Mr Sparks looked in with a grin, which did not improve the expression of his countenance.

“I say, I wouldn’t finish that dress to-night if I was you.”

“Why not, Phil?” asked the girl in surprise.

“’Cause the lady won’t want it to-morrow arternoon.”

“How do you know that?”

“No matter. It’s by means of a kind of second-sight I’ve got, that I find out a-many things. All I can say is that I’ve got a strong suspicion—a what d’ye call it—a presentiment that Mrs Middleton, of Number 6, Conway Street, Knightsbridge, won’t want her dress to-morrow, so I advise you to go to bed to-night.”

Without waiting for a reply Mr Sparks shut the door and descended to the street. Purchasing and lighting a cheroot at the nearest tobacco shop with part of Martha’s last shilling, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntering along various small streets and squares, gave his undivided attention to business.

For a man whose wants were rather extensive and urgent, the “business” did not seem a very promising one. He glanced up at the houses as he sauntered along, appearing almost to expect that some of them would undergo spontaneous combustion for his special accommodation. Occasionally he paused and gazed at a particular house with rapt intensity, as if he hoped the light which flashed from his own eyes would set it on fire; but the houses being all regular bricks refused to flare up at such a weak insult.

Finding his way to Trafalgar Square, Mr Sparks threw away the end of his cheroot, and, mending his pace, walked smartly along Piccadilly until he gained the neighbourhood of Knightsbridge. Here he purchased another cheroot, and while lighting it took occasion to ask if there was a street thereabouts named Conway Street.

“Yes, sir, there is,” said a small and exceedingly pert crossing-sweeper, who chanced to be standing near the open door of the shop, and overheard the question. “I’ll show you the way for a copper, sir, but silver preferred, if you’re so disposed.”

“Whereabouts is it?” asked Mr Sparks of the shopman, regardless of the boy.

“Round the corner to your right, and after that second turning to your left.”

“Oh, that’s all wrong,” cried the boy. “W’y, ’ow should ’ee know hanythink about streets? Never goes nowheres, does nothink but sell snuff an’ pigtail, mornin’, noon, and night. ’Ee should have said, right round the corner to your right, and ’ee should have added ‘sir,’ for that’s right w’en a gen’l’m’n’s spoke to, arter w’ich, w’en you’ve left this ’ere street, take second turnin’ to your left, if you’re left-’anded, an’ then you come hall right. That’s ’ow ’ee ought to have said it, sir.”

In the midst of this flow of information, Mr Sparks emerged into the street.

“I’ll show you the way for love, sir, if you ain’t got no money,” said the boy in a tone of mock sincerity, stepping up and touching his cap.

“Let ’im alone, Bloater,” cried another and smaller boy, “don’t you see ee’s one of the swell mob, an’ don’t want to ’ave too much attention drawed to him?”

“No ’ee ain’t, Little Jim, ee’s only a gen’l’m’n in disguise,” replied the Bloater, sidling up to Mr Sparks, and urgently repeating, “show you the way for a copper, sir, only a copper.”

Mr Sparks, being, as we have said, an irascible man, and particularly out of humour that evening, did not vouchsafe a reply, but, turning suddenly round, gave the Bloater a savage kick that turned him head over heels into the road.

The Bloater, whose proper name was Robert Herring, from which were derived the aliases, Raw Herring and the Bloater, immediately recovered himself and rushed at Mr Sparks with his broom. He was a strong, resolute, passionate boy, yet withal good-humoured and placable. In the first burst of indignation he certainly meant to commit a violent assault, but he suddenly changed his mind. Perhaps the look and attitude of his antagonist had something to do with the change; perhaps the squeaky voice of Little Jim, shouting “hooray, Bloater, go in an’ win,” may have aroused his sense of the ludicrous, which was very strong, and helped to check him. At all events, instead of bringing his broom down on the head of Mr Sparks, Bloater performed an impromptu war-dance round him and flourished his weapon with a rapidity that was only surpassed by the rapid flow of his language.

“Now then, Gunpowder, come on; wot do you mean by it—eh? You low-minded son of a pepper-castor! Who let you out o’ the cruet-stand? Wot d’ee mean by raisin’ yer dirty foot ag’in a honest man, w’ch you ain’t, an’ never was, an’ never will be, an’ never could be, seein’ that both your respected parients was ’anged afore you was born. Come on, I say. You ain’t a coward, air you? If so, I’ll ’and you over to Little Jim ’ere, an’ stand by to see fair play!”

During this outburst, Mr Sparks had quietly faced the excited boy, watching his opportunity to make a dash at him, but the appearance of a policeman put a sudden termination to the riot by inducing the Bloater and Little Jim to shoulder their brooms and fly. Mr Sparks, smiling grimly, (he never smiled otherwise), thrust his hands into his pockets, resumed his cheroot, and held on the even tenor of his way.

But he had not yet done with the Bloater. That volatile and revengeful youth, having run on in advance, ensconced himself behind a projection at the corner of the street close to which Sparks had to pass, and from that point of vantage suddenly shot into his ear a yell so excruciating that it caused the man to start and stagger off the pavement; before he could recover himself, his tormentor had doubled round the corner and vanished.

Growling savagely, he continued his walk. One of the turns to the left, which he had to make, led him through a dark and narrow street. Here, keeping carefully in the middle of the road for security, he looked sharply on either side, having his hands out of his pockets now, and clenched, for he fully expected another yell. He was wrong, however, in his expectations. The Bloater happened to know of a long ladder, whose nightly place of repose was on the ground in a certain dark passage, with its end pointing across that street. Taking up a position beside this ladder, with Little Jim—who followed him, almost bursting with delight—he bided his time and kept as quiet as a mouse. Just in the nick of time the ladder was run out, and Mr Sparks tripping over it, fell violently to the ground. He sprang up and gave chase, of course, but he might as well have followed a will-o’-the-wisp. The young scamps, doubling like hares, took refuge in a dark recess under a stair with which they were well acquainted, and from that position they watched their enemy. They heard him go growling past; knew, a moment or two later, from the disappointed tone of the growl, that he had found the opening at the other end of the passage; heard him return, growling, and saw him for a moment in the dim light of the entrance as he left the place. Then, swiftly issuing from their retreat, they followed.

“I say, Bloater,” whispered Little Jim, “ee’s got such an ugly mug that I do b’lieve ee’s up to some game or other.”

“P’raps ’ee is,” returned the Bloater, meditatively; “we’ll let ’im alone an’ foller ’im up.”

The prolonged season of peace that followed, induced Mr Sparks to believe that his tormentors had left him, he therefore dismissed them from his mind, and gave himself entirely to business. Arrived at Conway street, he found that it was one of those semi-genteel streets in the immediate neighbourhood of Kensington Gardens, wherein dwell thriving tradespeople who know themselves to be rising in the world, and unfortunate members of the “upper ten,” who know that they have come down in the world, but have not ceased the struggle to keep up appearances. It was a quiet, unfrequented street, in which the hum of the surrounding city sounded like the roar of a distant cataract. Here Mr Sparks checked his pace—stopped—and looked about him with evident caution.

“Ho, ho!” whispered Little Jim.

“We’ve tracked ’im down,” replied the Bloater with a chuckle.

Mr Sparks soon found Number 6. On the door a brass plate revealed “Mrs Middleton.”

“Ha! she must have it, must she, an’ won’t take no denial,” muttered the man between his teeth.

Mr Sparks observed that one of the lower windows was open, which was not to be wondered at, for the weather was rather warm at the time. He also observed that the curtains of the window were made of white flowered muslin, and that they swayed gently in the wind, not far from a couple of candles which stood on a small table. There was no one in the room at the time.

“Strange,” muttered Mr Sparks, with a grim smile, “that people will leave lights so near muslin curtains!”

Most ordinary people would have thought the candles in question at a sufficiently safe distance from the curtains, but Mr Sparks apparently thought otherwise. He entertained peculiar views about the danger of fire.

From the position which the two boys occupied they could not see the man while he was thus engaged in examining and commenting on Number 6, Conway Street, but they saw him quite well when he crossed the street, (which had only one side to it, a wall occupying the other), and they saw him still better in the course of a few seconds when a bright light suddenly streamed towards him, and illumined his villainous countenance, and they heard as well as saw him, the next instant, when he shouted “fire—fire!” and rushed frantically away.

“Hallo!” exclaimed the Bloater, and dashed off at full speed. Little Jim echoed the sentiment and followed.

Robert, alias Raw Herring, was a sharp-witted lad. He understood the case, (partly at least), in a moment, and proceeded to appropriate action. Being intimately acquainted with that part of London, he took a short cut, overshot Mr Sparks, and was first to give the alarm at the fire-station. When, therefore, Mr Sparks ran in, panting and shouting “fire!” great was his surprise to find the men already roused, and the horses being attached to the engine.

“Where away?” inquired one of the firemen, supposing that Sparks, perhaps, brought information of another fire.

“Number 6, Conway Street,” he gasped.

“All right, we’ve got the noos already. The boys brought it.”

The Bloater, with a mouth extending from ear to ear and all his teeth displayed, uttered the single word “sold!” as Mr Sparks turned his eyes on him. One glance was enough. The man became very pale, and suddenly left the station amid a shout of laughter from the firemen, as they leaped on the engine and drove away, followed by the two boys whose spirits were already excited to the highest pitch of ecstasy by a fire.

It was early morning before the fire was subdued, and Number 6 left the blackened skeleton of a house. Long before that, the Bloater and Little Jim had sought repose in the cart-shed of a neighbouring stable. Long before that Mr Philip Sparks had retired to rest, growling anathemas on the heads of boys in general, and crossing-sweepers in particular; and not very long before that poor Martha Reading had put in the last stitch of her work, and fallen into a profound sleep in her chair.

Mr Sparks turned out to be a true prophet. Mrs Middleton did not insist on having her dress home that afternoon, and when Martha, true to her promise, conveyed it to Number 6, Conway Street, she found no one there to receive it except a few drenched men of the Red Brigade, and the police.

Chapter Five.

Mr Philip Sparks, though not naturally fond of society, was, nevertheless, obliged to mingle occasionally with that unpleasant body, for the purpose of recruiting his finances. He would rather have remained at home and enjoyed his pipe and beer in solitude, but that was not possible in the circumstances. Owing, no doubt, to the selfishness of the age in which he lived, people would not go and pour money into his pockets, entreat him to accept of the same, and then retire without giving him any farther trouble. On the contrary, even when he went out and took a great deal of trouble to obtain money—much more trouble than he would have had to take, had he been an honest working man—people refused to give it to him, but freely gave him a good deal of gratuitous advice instead, and sometimes threatened the donation of other favours which, in many instances, are said to be more numerous than ha’pence.

Things in general being in this untoward condition, Mr Sparks went out one morning and entered into society. Society did not regard him with a favourable eye, but Sparks was not thin-skinned; he persevered, being determined, come what might, to seek his fortune. Poor fellow, like many a man in this world who deems himself a most unlucky fellow, he had yet to learn the lesson that fortunes must be wrought for, not sought for, if they are to be found.

Finding society gruffer than usual that morning, and not happening to meet with his or anybody else’s fortune in any of the streets through which he passed, he resolved to visit Martha Reading’s abode; did so, and found her “not at home.” With despairing disgust he then went to visit his sister.

Mrs Crashington was obviously at home, for she opened the door to him, and held up her finger.

“Hallo, Mag!” exclaimed Sparks, a little surprised.

“Hush!” said Mrs Crashington, admitting him, “speak low.”

Thus admonished, Mr Sparks asked in a hoarse whisper, “what was up?”

“Ned’s had a bad fall, Phil,” whispered Mrs Crashington, in a tremulous tone that was so unlike her usual voice as to make Sparks look at her in surprise not unmingled with anxiety.

“You don’t mean to say, Mag, that he’s a-goin’ to—to—knock under?”

“I hope not, Phil, but—the doctor—”

Here the poor woman broke down altogether, and sobbed quietly as she led her brother through the house, and into the little bed-room where the injured fireman lay.

Ned’s bruised, burned, and lacerated frame was concealed under a patchwork coverlet. Only his face was visible, but that, although the least injured part of his body, was so deadly pale that even Mr Sparks was solemnised by the supposition that he was in the presence of Death.

“Oh, Ned, Ned!” exclaimed Maggie, unable to repress her grief, “can you—can you ever forgive me?”

She laid her hand on the fireman’s broad breast, and passionately kissed his brow.

He opened his eyes, and whispered with difficulty, “Forgive you, Maggie? God for ever bless you.” He could say no more, owing to excessive weakness.

“Come, missus, you mustn’t disturb him,” said David Clazie, emerging from behind the curtains at the foot of the bed. “The doctor’s orders was strict—to keep ’im quiet. You’d better go into the other room, an’ your brother likewise. Pr’aps you might send ’im to tell Joe Dashwood to be ready.”

David Clazie, who was more a man of action than of words, quietly, but firmly, ejected the brother and sister from the little room while he was speaking, and, having shut the door, sat down at his post again as a guard over his sick comrade.

“Seems to me it’s all up with ’im,” observed Sparks, as he stood gazing uneasily into the fire.

As Mrs Crashington replied only by sobbing, he continued, after a few minutes—

“Does the doctor say it’s all up, Mag?”

“No, oh no,” replied the poor woman, “he don’t quite say so; but I can’t git no comfort from that. Ned has lost such a quantity of blood, it seems impossible for him to git round. They’re goin’ to try a operation on ’im to-day, but I can’t understand it, an’ don’t believe in it. They talk of puttin’ noo blood into ’im! An’ that reminds me that the doctor is to be here at twelve. Do run round, Phil, to the Dashwoods, and tell Joe to be here in good time.”

“What’s Joe wanted for?”

“Never mind, but go and tell him that. I can’t talk just now,” she said, pushing her brother out of the room.

Tapping at Joe Dashwood’s door, Phil received from a strong, deep voice permission to “come in.” He entered, and found a very different state of things from that which he had just left. A bright room, and bright, happy faces. The windows were bright, which made the light appear brighter than usual; the grate was bright; the furniture was bright; the face of the clock, whose interior seemed about to explode on every occasion of striking the hour, was bright—almost to smiling; and the pot-lids, dish-covers, etcetera, were bright—so bright as to be absolutely brilliant. Joe Dashwood and his little wife were conversing near the window, but, although their faces were unquestionably bright by reason of contentment, coupled with a free use of soap and the jack-towel, there was, nevertheless, a shade of sadness in their looks and tones. Nothing of the sort, however, appeared on the countenances of the Rosebud and young Fred Crashington. These gushing little offshoots of the Red Brigade were too young to realise the danger of Ned’s condition, but they were quite old enough to create an imaginary fire in the cupboard, which they were wildly endeavouring to extinguish with a poker for a “branch” and a bucket for a fire-engine, when Mr Sparks entered.

“Oh! kik, Feddy, kik; put it out kik, or it’ll bu’n down all ’e house,” cried little May, eagerly, as she tossed back a cataract of golden curls from her flushed countenance, and worked away at the handle of the bucket with all her might.

“All right!” shouted Fred, who had been sent to play with the Rosebud that he might be out of the way. “Down with Number 1; that’s your sort; keep ’er goin’; hooray!”

He brought the poker down with an awful whack on the cupboard at this point, causing the crockery to rattle again.

“Hallo! youngster, mind what you’re about,” cried Joe, “else there will be more damage caused by the engine than the fire—not an uncommon thing, either, in our practice!”

It was at this point that he replied to Mr Sparks’s knock.

“Come in, Mr Sparks, you’ve heard of your poor brother-in-law’s accident, I suppose?”

“Yes, I’ve just comed from his house with a message. You’re wanted to be there in good time.”

“All right, I’ll be up to time,” said Joe, putting on his coat and cap, and smiling to his wife, as he added, “It’s a queer sort o’ thing to do. We’ll be blood-relations, Ned and I, after this. Look after these youngsters, Molly, else they’ll knock your crockery to bits. Good-day. Mr Sparks.”

“Good-day,” replied Sparks, as Joe went out. Then, turning to Mrs Dashwood, “What sort of operation is it they’re goin’ to perform on Ned?”

“Did you not hear? It’s a very curious one. Ned has lost so much blood from a deep cut in his leg that the doctors say he can’t recover, no matter how strong his constitution is, unless he gits some blood put into him, so they’re goin’ to put some o’ my Joe’s blood into him.”

“What!” exclaimed Sparks, “take blood out o’ your husband and put it hot and livin’ into Ned? No, no, I’ve got a pretty big swallow, but I can’t git that down.”

“If you can’t swallow it you’ll have to bolt it, then, for it’s a fact,” returned Mary, with a laugh.

“But how do they mean to go about it?” asked Sparks, with an unbelieving expression of countenance.

“Well, I ain’t quite sure about that,” replied Mary; “they say that the doctor cuts a hole in a vein of the arms of both men, and puts a pipe, or something of that sort, into the two veins, and so lets the blood run from the one man into the other. I don’t half believe it myself, to say truth; but it’s quite true that they’re goin’ to try it on Ned. The doctor says it has bin tried before with great success, and that the main thing is to get a stout, healthy young man to take the blood from. They thought, at first, to get a healthy youth from the country, but my Joe begged so hard to let him supply his friend and comrade with what they wanted, that they agreed, and now he’s off to have it done. Ain’t it funny?”

“Funny!” exclaimed Sparks, “well, it is, just. But I’m not such a fool as to believe that they can pump the blood out o’ one man into another in that fashion.”

“I hope they can for poor Ned’s sake,” said Mary, in a sad tone, as she stirred a large pot which stood simmering on the fire.

There was a short silence after that, for Mary was thinking of the strange operation that was probably going on at that moment, and Phil Sparks was debating with himself as to the propriety of attempting to induce Mrs Dashwood to lend him a shilling or two. He could not easily make up his mind, however; not because he was ashamed to ask it, but, because he was afraid of receiving a rebuke from the pretty little woman. He knew that she and Martha Reading were intimate friends, and he had a suspicion that Mrs Dashwood was aware of Martha’s fondness for him, and that she bore him no good will in consequence. Besides, although one of the sweetest tempered women in London, Mary was one whose indignation could be roused, and whose clear blue eye had something overawing in it, especially to scoundrels. He therefore sat there more than an hour, conversing on various subjects, while Mary busied herself in household matters; which she occasionally left off in order to assist in extinguishing the fire in the cupboard!

At last Sparks resolved to make the attempt, and thought he would begin by trying to propitiate Mary by commenting on her child.

“That’s a pretty little girl of yours, missis,” he remarked in a casual way.

“That she is,” cried Mary, catching up the child and kissing her rosy face all over; “and she’s better than pretty—she’s good, good as gold.”

“Oh ’top, ma. Let May down, kik! Fire not out yit!”

“That’s right, never give in, May. Wot a jolly fireman you’d make!” cried Fred, still directing all his energies to the cupboard.

“That’s a queer sort o’ helmet the boy’s got on,” said Sparks, alluding to a huge leathern headpiece, of a curious old-fashioned form, which was rolling about on the boy’s head, being much too large for him.

“It was bought for him by my Joe, in an old curiosity shop,” said Mary.

“Ha!” replied Sparks. “Well, Missis Dashwood, I’ll have to be goin’, though I haven’t got no business to attend to—still, a man must keep movin’ about, you know, specially w’en he’s had no breakfast, an’ han’t got nothin’ to buy one.”

“That’s a sad condition,” said Mary, pursing her lips, for she knew the man.

“It is, missis. You couldn’t lend me half-a-crown, could you?”

“No, I couldn’t,” replied the little woman with decision, while her cheeks reddened; “moreover, I wouldn’t if I could. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr Sparks; it’s a disgrace for a man of your strength and years to be goin’ about borrowing as you’re in the habit of doin’; and you have got the impudence, too, to be running after poor Martha Reading, but you shall never get her if I can prevent it.”

Mr Sparks was much nettled by the first part of Mrs Dashwood’s speech. The last part put him in a towering passion. He started up, but had the wisdom to restrain himself to some extent.

“Perhaps,” he said, between his teeth, “you can’t prevent it, missis.”

“Perhaps not, but I shall try.”

At that moment, Master Fred Crashington chanced to stumble in his energetic attempts to extinguish the fire in the cupboard, which the Rosebud assured him, in excited tones, was “not out yit; gittin’ wus an’ wus!” In falling, the old-fashioned helmet flew off, and the comb of it hit Mr Sparks a severe blow on the shin-bone. In the heat of the moment he dealt Fred a violent slap on the cheek, which sent him tumbling and howling on the floor. At that moment the door opened and Joe Dashwood entered.

He had heard the noise before entering, and now stood with a stern frown on his face as he gazed at his wife and her visitor.

“Did you do that?” he demanded of Sparks, pointing to the little boy.

“He did, Joe,” said Mary; “but—”

Joe waited for no more. He seized Mr Sparks by the nape of the neck with a grip that almost choked him—strong though he was—and thrust him out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the street, where he gave him a final kick, and shut the door.

“Oh, dear Joe!” exclaimed Mary, on his return, “you shouldn’t have been so violent to ’im.”

“W’y not, Molly? Surely you would not have me stand by and look on while he insulted you and knocked down the boy?”

“No, but it would have been a better rebuke if you had ordered him off quietly. No good ever comes of violence, Joe, and he’s such a spiteful, vindictive man that he will never forgive you—perhaps he’ll do you a mischief if he ever gets the chance.”

“I hope he will never get the chance,” replied Joe. “I hope not, but I fear him,” said Mary. “But tell me, Joe, how has the operation succeeded?”

“First-rate, Molly. Ned and I are blood-relations now! I don’t know how much they took out o’ me, but it don’t signify, for I am none the worse, an’ poor Ned seems much the better.”

Here Joe entered into a minute detail of all that had been done—how a puncture had been made in one of the veins of his arm, and another in one of the veins of Ned’s arm; and how the end of a small tube with a bulb in the middle of it had been inserted into his puncture, and the other end into Ned’s puncture, and the blood pumped, as it were, from the full-blooded man into the injured man until it was supposed that he had had enough of it; and how Ned had already shown signs of revival while he, (Joe), didn’t feel the loss at all, as was made abundantly evident by the energetic manner in which he had kicked Mr Sparks out of his house after the operation was over.

To all this Mary listened with wide open eyes, and Fred Crashington listened with wider open eyes; and little Rosebud listened with eyes and mouth equally open—not that she understood anything of it, but because the others were in that condition.

“Now, May, my pet,” cried the fireman, catching up his little one and tossing her in the air, “Ned, that is so fond of you, is a blood-relation, so you may call him ‘uncle’ next time he comes—uncle Ned!”

“Unkil Ned,” lisped the Rosebud.

“And me cousin,” chimed in Fred.

“Iss—cuzn,” responded May.

“Just so,” cried Joe, seizing Fred round the waist and tossing him on his right shoulder—Rosebud being already on his left—“come, I’ll carry you down the fire-escape now; hurrah! down we go.”

How long Joe would have gone on playing with the children we cannot say, for he was interrupted by the entrance of Bob and David Clazie.

“Come along, Joe,” said the latter, “it’s your turn to go along with us to drill.”

“It’s ’ard work to ’ave to go playin’ at fires doorin’ the day, an’ puttin’ of ’em out doorin’ the night, Joe; ain’t it?” said Bob Clazie.

“So ’tis Bob, but it must be done, you know. Duty first, pleasure afterwards,” replied Joe, with a laugh. “Besides, the green hands could never learn how to do it if they hadn’t some of the old uns to show ’em the way.”

“Hall right,” replied Bob; “come along.”

They left the room with a hearty “good-day” to Mrs Dashwood, and a nod to the children.

Putting on the round sailor’s caps which replaced the helmets when they were not on actual service, the three firemen took their way towards the city, and finally reached a large piece of open ground, where a number of very old houses had been partly pulled down, to be soon replaced by new ones. The Fire-Brigade had obtained permission to perform their drill there until the ground should be required.

It was a curious waste place in the heart of the great city, with rubbish cumbering the ground in front of the half demolished houses. Here several ungainly fire-escapes leaned against the ruined walls, and thrust their heads through broken windows, or stood on the ground, rampant, as if eager to have their heads crammed into smoke and flames. Here also were several manual engines, with their appropriate gearing and hose, and near to these were grouped a band of as fine, fresh, muscular young fellows as one could wish to see. These were the new hands of the brigade—the young men, recently engaged, who were undergoing drill. Each was a picked, and, to some extent, a proved man. The lightest and least powerful among these men was a sturdy, courageous fellow. He, like the others, had been tried at an old fire-escape which stood in a corner of the yard, and which was unusually large and cumbrous. If he had failed to “work” various portions of that escape single-handed, without assistance, he would have been pronounced physically unfit for the service. Courage and strength alone would not have been sufficient. Weight, to a certain extent, was essential.

Among these youths were several of the older hands, and one or two officers of the brigade, the latter being distinguished by brass ornaments or “brasses” on their shoulders. They were there to superintend and direct. In the midst of them stood their chief, explaining the minutiae of the work they had to do.

When our three firemen reached the drill-ground the chief was showing his recruits how to coil several lengths of the hose, so as to avoid a twist or “kink,” which might endanger its bursting when the water was turned suddenly on by the powerful “steamers.” He then pointed to the tall empty buildings beside him and ordered his recruits to go into the third floor of the premises, drag up the hose, and bring the branch to bear on the back rooms, in which fire was supposed to be raging.

“Look alive, now,” he said, “see how quickly you’ll manage it.”

Instantly the active youths sprang to their work. Some got the hose out of the box of an engine and uncoiled it length by length towards the house, others screwed the lengths together at the same time that the water-trough was being set up and the suction-pipe attached. Meanwhile, some had run up into the building, and from an upper window let down a rope so as to be ready to drag up the hose when it was made long enough to reach them. Thus they practised during the forenoon the mimic warfare with the flames which they should have to carry into actual operation at night. In another part of the yard a foreman was instructing some recruits in the use of the fire-escape. Under a neighbouring archway stood a small group of idlers looking on at these stirring operations, one of these was Philip Sparks, another was the Bloater. The interests of the first had taken him there, the second had been led to the scene by his affections. Sparks did not observe the Bloater, but the Bloater being unusually sharp, had observed Sparks, and, with a look of surprise and glee at the unexpected sight, set himself to watch and listen.

“That’s him,” growled Sparks in a low whisper, pointing to Joe Dashwood as he entered the yard.

This was said to a dark-skinned, ill-looking, powerful man who stood at his elbow. The man nodded in reply.

“Take a good look at him, Jeff; you’ll know him again?”

Jeff nodded and guessed that he would.

“Well, then, West-End; Friday, at 12 p.m. Number 5, close to the fire-station. You won’t forget?” whispered Sparks, as he and his ill-looking friend slunk away.

“I say,” observed the Bloater, poking Little Jim in the ribs, and looking down at him with one eye shut, “you and I shall form an engagement for Friday night—shan’t we.”

Little Jim opened his eyes very wide, pressed his mouth very tight, and nodded his head violently.

“Well then,” continued the Bloater, repeating Sparks’s words in a deep stage whisper, “West-End; Friday, at 12 p.m. Number 5, close to the fire-station. You won’t forget?”

Little Jim again nodded his head, and uttered a little shriek of delight. This attracted the notice of a policeman, who hinted, as delicately as possible, that the boys had better “move on.”

They took the hint, and retired precipitately.

Chapter Six.

Oh! but it was an interesting occupation to watch the expression of Little Jim’s countenance, as the Bloater watched it, while the two boys were on their way to the “West-End” that evening, bent on doing duty as amateur watchmen on “Number 5,” close to the fire-station.

“Your face ain’t cherubic,” observed the Bloater, looking down at his little friend. “If anythink, I should say it partakes of the diabolic; so you’ve got no occasion to make it wus than it is by twistin’ it about like that. Wotever do you do it for?”

Little Jim replied by a sound which can only be represented by the letters “sk,” pronounced in the summit of the nose.

“That ain’t no answer,” said the Bloater, with a knowing smile, the knowingness of which consisted chiefly in the corners of the mouth being turned down instead of up. This peculiarity, be it carefully observed, was natural to the Bloater, who scorned every species of affectation. Many of his young friends and admirers were wont to imitate this smile. If they could have seen the inconceivably idiotic expressions of their countenances when they tried it, they would never have made a second effort!

“Wot a jolly lark!” said Little Jim, prefacing the remark with another “sk.”

“Ha!” replied the Bloater, with a frown that implied the pressure of weighty matters on his mind.

After a few minutes’ silence, during which the cherubic face of Little Jim underwent various contortions, the Bloater said—

“If I ain’t mistaken, Jim, you and I are sound of wind and limb?”

Jim looked up in surprise, and nodded assent.

“Besides which,” continued the Bloater, “we’re rayther fleet than otherwise.”

Again Jim nodded and grinned.

“No Bobby as ever stuck ’is hignorant hinsolent ’ead into a ’elmet ever could catch us.”

“Sk!” ejaculated Jim, expanding from ear to ear.

“Well, then,” continued the Bloater, becoming more grave and confidential, “it’s my opinion, Jim, that you and I shall ’ave a run for it to-night. It’s quite plain that our hamiable friend who seems so fond o’ fire-raisin’ is goin’ to pay ’is respects to Number 5. ’Avin’ got it well alight it is just within the bounds o’ the possible—not to say prob’ble—that ’e’ll give ’em leg-bail—make tracks, as the Yankees say—cut and run for it. Well, in course it would never do to let ’im go off alone, or with only a ’eavy stoopid, conceited slow-coach of a Bobby at ’is tail.”

“No, no,” responded Little Jim; “that would never do. Quite out of the question. ’Ighly himproper.”

“Therefore,” said the Bloater, with emphasis, “you and I shall ’ave to keep our heyes on ’im, shan’t we?”

He put this concluding question with a wink of such astounding significance, that Little Jim could only reply with another “sk!” as he stopped for a few moments to hug himself.

At the fire-station “close to Number 5,” the firemen lounged about that evening with the air of men who, although they chanced to be idle at the moment, were nevertheless on the alert and ready for action at a moment’s notice. Their large folding-doors stood open with an air of off-hand hospitality. A couple of engines stood within, glittering from excessive polish and cleanliness. Coils of hose and buckets, etcetera, were seen here and there in readiness, while in an interior room a glimpse might be had of gleaming brass helmets, which hung in a row on the wall, each with an axe pendant below it; and, opposite to these, a row of dry boots arranged on pegs with their soles to the ceiling.

The two boys lingered about the station admiring all this, and commenting in their own peculiar fashion on men and things, sometimes approvingly, often critically, and now and then disparagingly. They sometimes ventured to address a remark or two to any of the men who chanced to look at them with a sufficiently good-humoured expression, and even went the length of asking Bob Clazie if, in the event of the Thames going on fire, “’e thought ’e could manage to put it hout!” to which Bob replied that he thought he could if “cheek” were a fire-extinguisher, and he only had a brigade of boys equal to the Bloater to help him.

As the night advanced the firemen devoted themselves to pipes, draughts, and miscellaneous conversation in their back room, in which they were occasionally interrupted by the tingle of the telegraphic bell, to inform them that there was a chimney on fire in Holborn, to which they need pay no attention, even though “called” by an excited informer, because it was already being attended to, and didn’t merit farther notice; or to let them know that there was a fire raging in Whitechapel, which, although being most energetically looked after by the men of the brigade in its immediate neighbourhood, would be the better of aid, nevertheless, from one man from that station.

On such distant duty, Bob Clazie and his brother David were successively sent out in different directions during the first part of the night; but they returned in the course of an hour or so—Bob considerably dirtied and moistened in consequence of having had to go vigorously into action at the tail end of a fire, while David returned as he went, having found that his fire had been effectually got under before his arrival.

Only once during the night did a regular “call” reach the station. It was about eleven o’clock. Our youthful watchmen, feeling that the appointed hour was drawing nigh, had retired to the shade of a neighbouring court to avoid observation, when a man came tearing round the corner, dashed into the fire-station, tumbled over a bucket into the midst of the men, and yelled, “Fire!”

In three minutes the engine was out, the horses were attached, the men in their places, and away they went.

“Oh! let’s follow,” cried Little Jim, enthusiastically, while his eyes glittered as if they, too, were on fire.

The more sedate Bloater laid his hand heavily on his little friend’s shoulder.

“No, Jim, no. Business fust, pleasure arterwards. We’ve got business on hand to-night.”

Little Jim felt the force of the observation, and made what we may call a mighty effort—considering that he was such a mite of a thing—to restrain himself. His heroism was rewarded, for, in less than half an hour, the engine came rattling back again, its services not having been required! The fire had occurred close to the fire-escape, of which one of the men of that station had the charge that night. He had run to the fire with his escape at the first alarm, and had brought to bear on it the little hand fire-engine with which all the escapes are now provided. At that early stage in the fire, its little stream was more effectual than the flood from a powerful “steamer” would have been at a later period. The consequence was that the fire was got under at once, and, as we have said, the engine was not required.

“Wirtoo,” observed the Bloater, sententiously, “is its own reward.”

He pointed to the returning engine, and looked at Little Jim with solemnity; whereupon Jim displayed all his teeth, nodded approval of the sentiment, and—“sk!”

“Little Jim,” continued the Bloater, shaking his head gravely, “they do say—them as knows best, or thinks they does, which is all the same—that there’s wit in silence; if so, it appears to me that you tries to be too witty at times.”

“I dun know, Bob,” replied Jim, with a meditative look, “much about wit bein’ in silence. I only wish there was wittles in it. Oh! wouldn’t I ’old my tongue, just, till I was fit to bust!”

“But there ain’t wittles in it, Jim, nor nothin’ else worth ’avin’, so don’t try it on too much to-night. You see, I’m a bit down-’earted about the thoughts o’ this ’ere black business, an’ feel the want of a cheerin’ word now and agin to keep up my droopin’ spirits, d’ye see; so don’t stand grinnin’ there like a Cheshire cat, else I’ll—”

The Bloater terminated the sentence in action, by squeezing Little Jim’s cap over his eyes. He was still engaged in this act of pleasantry when Mr Sparks and his friend Jeff appeared on the other side of the street. They walked smartly past the door of the fire-station, which was shut by that time, the men having retired to their various domiciles for the night, with the exception of the two on night duty. They stopped at the corner of the street, looked back, and stood as if conversing casually with each other. Meanwhile, the two boys shrank out of sight, and gazed at them like weasels peeping out of a hole. The street, being a small back one, was quite deserted at that hour. After talking in low tones for a few seconds, and making sure, as Jeff said, that the coast was clear, the incendiaries shrunk round the corner and disappeared.

“Now, Jim,” whispered the Bloater, “they’ve gone to Number 5; let’s foller.”

They were uncommonly active and sly little fellows, but, despite their utmost efforts, they failed to gain a position of vantage from which to observe the enemy without being seen. They did, indeed, manage to make out that the two men were for some time busily and stealthily engaged in the neighbourhood of Joe Dashwood’s dwelling, but what they were doing could not be ascertained. After repeated and desperate efforts to overcome his difficulties, at the risk of his neck and to the detriment of his shins, the Bloater at last sat down on a doorstep within a dark passage, and feigned to tear his hair.

“Now ain’t it wexin’?” he whispered, appealing to his small friend.

“Aggrawatin’ beyond endoorance,” replied Jim, with looks of sympathy.

“Wot is to be done?” demanded the Bloater.

“Invite a Bobby to come an’ help us,” suggested Jim.

“H’m! an’ stop ’em in their game, p’raps, at a pint w’ere nobody could prove nothink against ’em, besides bringin’ on ourselves the purlite inquiry, ‘Wot are you up to ’ere?’”

Little Jim looked disconsolate and said nothing, which, as the Bloater testily remarked, was another of his witty rejoinders.

“Well, then,” said Jim, “we must just wait till the fire breaks out an’ then bust upon ’em all of a ’eap.”

“H’m! much they’d care for your bustin’ on ’em. No, Jim, we must risk a little. Never wenter, never win, you know. Just you go round by the other end of the street and creep as close as you can; you’re small, you know, an’ won’t be so easy seen as me. Try to make out wot they’re up to and then—”

“Then wot?”

“W’y, come back an’ let me know. Away!” said the Bloater, waving his hand with the air of a field-marshal.

Jim disappeared at once and was absent about ten minutes, during which Master Robert Herring sat in the dark passage biting his nails and feeling really uncomfortable, as is usually the case with energetic spirits when reduced to unavoidable inaction. Presently Little Jim returned with, as his friend and patron remarked, his eyes like two saucers, and his face as white as a sheet.

“Hallo, Jim, wot’s up?”

“Oh, Bob!” gasped Jim.

“Speak!” exclaimed the Bloater, seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him violently.

“They’ve got the ’ouse choke full o’ combustibles,” gasped Jim in an excited whisper. “I see ’em stuffin’ straw and pitch, an’ I dun know wot all, through a small back winder.”

“So—now’s the time for a Bobby,” observed the Bloater, leaping up.

“No, taint,” said Jim, detaining him. “I ’eard ’em speak. Oh, they’re sly dogs! They ain’t a-goin’ to run away arter settin’ it alight. They’re goin’ to run to the station, rouse up the men, an’ help to put it out! an’ one of ’em says, ‘Jeff,’ says ’e, larfin’, ‘won’t we lend ’em a good ’and to put it hout neither!’ And the other grinned, an’ says, ‘Yes, Phil, we’ll do our best, an’ it’ll go hard if I can’t in the middle o’ the smoke an’ flames, git a chance at Joe to—.’ ’E didn’t say no more, but ’e drewed ’is finger across ’is throat; but the one as ’e called Phil said, ‘No, Jeff, no, I’ll split on you if you do. It’s quite enough to give ’im a rap over the ’ead!’ I didn’t wait to ’ear no more arter that.”

“They’re safe not to go off, then,” observed the Bloater; “nevertheless, we must take a Bobby into our confidence now, for the case begins to look ugly.”

While these things were transpiring in the dark and silent night outside of “Number 5,” the inmates of that modest mansion were buried in profound repose. Joe Dashwood, on leaving the station for the night, and going home, had found that Molly had already retired, and was asleep in the inner room with the Rosebud in her bosom.

After contemplating this pleasant sight for a few minutes he returned to the outer or kitchen-dino-drawing-room, where he found a cot extemporised out of four chairs and a baking-board, on which reposed the sturdy little figure of Fred Crashington. That enthusiastic amateur fireman had been invited to take up his quarters at Number 5, until his father should be out of danger, and having devoted his energies during the entire day, along with the Rosebud, in a futile effort to extinguish that obstinate fire in the cupboard, had at length been persuaded to retire exhausted to the baking-board, where he lay with a happy smile on his parted lips, and his right arm embracing the quaint old helmet, with which he was wont to extinguish his little head.

Being unusually tired that night, but not sleepy, Joe resolved to solace himself with a pipe before lying down. He threw off his coat, vest, and braces, pulled up his flannel shirt, so as to let it hang comfortably loose over the waistband of his trousers, sat down in an armchair in front of the fire, filled his pipe, and began to smoke. His intention was to “take a few whiffs and then turn in,” but the influence of the tobacco appeared to be soporific, for he soon began to nod; then he removed his pipe, stared earnestly at the fire, and established quite a nodding acquaintance with it. Presently he dropped his chin on his broad chest and snored steadily.

From this condition of repose he was awakened by a sensation as if of suffocation by smoke. This was such an extremely natural, not to say habitual, state of things with Joe, that he was at least a couple of seconds in realising the fact that there was unusual cause for haste and vigorous action. Like a giant refreshed Joe leaped to his work. Every fibre of his huge frame was replete with energy, and his heart beat strong, but it beat steadily; not a vestige of a flutter was there, for his head was clear and cool. He knew exactly what to do. He knew exactly what was being done. Surprise did, indeed, fill him when he reflected that it was his own house which had caught fire, but that did not for a moment confuse him as to the certainty that the engine must be already out, and his comrades rushing to his assistance.

He strode to the door and opened it. A volume of dense black smoke, followed by sheets of flame drove him back. At the same moment loud shouts were heard outside, and a shriek came from the inner room. Joe dashed towards it. In passing, he pulled Fred off the baking-board, and at the same moment seized the curious old helmet, and almost instinctively clapped it on his own head. There was a back door to the house. Joe grasped his wife, and the Rosebud, and the bedclothes in one mighty embrace, and bore the whole bundle towards this back door. Before he reached it it was dashed open by Bob Clazie, who sprang in with the “branch.” Bob, having been roused to a fire so near at hand, had not taken time to go through the usual process of putting on his uniform. He, like Joe, was in dishabille.

“Here, take care of ’em. Let go the branch; I’ll look after it. Foul play here. Let the police look out.”

Joe said this sharply as he thrust the bundle containing his wife into Bob’s arms, and, picking up the Rosebud, who had slipped out, clapped her on Bob’s back. Bob made for the back staircase, while Joe picked up the branch, and turning his head in the direction of the open door, shouted in the voice of a stentor, “Down with ’er!” Meanwhile, Fred, who had a vague impression that the fire in the cupboard had got to a powerful head at last, picked up the hose and looked on with a sleepy smile.

Obedient to the order, the water rushed on, filled and straightened the hose, threw Fred on his back on the floor, and caused the nozzle to quiver as Joe directed it to the fire.

Just then a man dashed into the room.

“Lend a hand here,” cried Joe glancing round.

He saw in a moment by the man’s look that he meant mischief. Instantly he turned the nozzle full in his face. Jeff, for it was he, fell as if he had been shot, and was partly washed, partly rolled down the back staircase, at the foot of which a policeman was prepared to receive him, but Jeff sprang up, knocked down the policeman, and fled. Seeing this, Mr Sparks took alarm, and was about to follow when the Bloater suddenly sprang at his throat and Little Jim caught him by the legs. He quickly disengaged himself, however, and ran off at full speed, closely followed by his young tormentors and two policemen, besides a miscellaneous crowd of hooting and yelling lads and boys.

It was an exciting chase that ensued. The two policemen were young and strong, and for some time kept pretty near the fugitive, but gradually they fell behind, and, by doubling through several narrow streets, Sparks threw them off the scent. As for the crowd, the greater part of those who composed it gave in after a short run. But the Bloater and Little Jim were not thus to be got rid of. They were fleet of foot and easily kept Mr Sparks in view, though he made desperate efforts to catch them, as well as to get away from them. The two boys were so persevering that they followed him all the way to Thames Street, and, just when the unhappy man thought he had at length eluded them, they set up the cry of “Stop thief!” and gave chase again with a new force of policemen and roughs at their heels.

Turning abruptly into a dark passage, Sparks rushed upstairs, burst open a door and fell exhausted on the floor of the cheerless room occupied by poor Martha Reading. Almost at the same moment the two boys, who were at least a hundred yards in advance of the other pursuers, sprang into the room.

“Ha! run you down at last, have we?” gasped the Bloater.

Poor startled Martha, leaping at once to the conclusion that he was pursued, fell on her knees, and, in a voice of agonising entreaty, begged the boys to have mercy on him!

“Eh! hallo! what?” exclaimed the Bloater, taken by surprise. Then, under a sudden impulse, he dashed out of the room followed by Little Jim, and rushed into the street just as the first of the crowd came up.

“This way! Straight on! hooray!” he shouted, leading off the crowd in the direction of the river. The crowd followed. The Bloater led them into a maze of intricate back streets; shot far ahead of them, and then, doubling, like a hare, into a retired corner, stood chuckling there while the shouting crowd swept by.

For a few minutes, Little Jim was utterly bereft of speech, owing to a compound of amazement, delight, excitement and exhaustion. After a little time he said—

“Well, this is a lark! But, I say, Bloater, d’ye think it was right to let ’im off like that?”

“Who’s let ’im off, stoopid?” retorted the Bloater.

“Don’t I know ’is name—at least part of it; an’ the ’abitation of ’is wife, or sweet-’eart, or sister, or suthin’ o’ that sort?”

“Oh, ah, werry true,” replied Little Jim, with a terminating “sk!”

“Well, that bein’ ’ow it is, we han’t let ’im off just yet, d’ye see? So, now we’ll go an’ turn in.”

With that observation the Bloater and Little Jim went away to search for and appropriate some convenient place of repose for the night.

Chapter Seven.

Seated by the fire-side of Joe Dashwood’s new abode—for the old one, although not quite “burnt out,” was uninhabitable—Bob Clazie chatted and smoked his pipe contentedly. At the conclusion of a remark, he looked up in Mrs Dashwood’s puzzled face, and said, “That’s ’ow it is, d’ye see?”

“No, I don’t see,” replied Mary, with a smile.

“No? well, now, that is koorious. W’y, it’s as plain as the nose on my face. See here. As the law now stands, there is no public authority to inwestigate the cause o’ fires in London; well, wot’s the consikence, w’y, that there are regular gangs of scoundrels who make it their business to arrange fires for their own adwantage.”

“Now, that’s just what I don’t understand,” said Mary, knitting her pretty brows; “what advantage can it be to any one to set fire to a house, except to pick-pockets who may get a chance of doing business in the crowd?”

“Well, that of itself is enough to endooce some blackguards to raise a fire, and likewise to get the shillin’ for bringin’ the first noose to the station; which, by the way, was the chief okipation of that willain Phil Sparks, I’m pretty sure. But here’s ’ow it is. The swindlers I speak of, go an’ take ’ouses—the further from fire-stations the better. Then they furnishes the ’ouses, arter which they insures ’em. In the course of a short time they removes most of the furniture in a quiet way, and then set the ’ouses alight, themselves escapin’, p’r’aps, in nothin’ but their night clothes. So, you see, they gits the insurance, which more than pays for all the furniture they had bought, besides which they ’ave a good deal of the furniture itself to sell or do wot they please with. That’s one way in which fires are raised,—ain’t it Joe?”

Joe, who sat smoking in silence on the other side of the fire, nodded, and, turning his head round, advised Fred Crashington and little May to make “less row.”

“But we can’t put it out widout a row!” remonstrated the Rosebud.

“What! have you found a fire in this cupboard, as well as in the one o’ the old house?” asked Joe, with a laugh.

“Iss, iss; an’ it’s a far wuss fire than the last one!”

“That’s your sort!” cried Fred; “now then, May, don’t stand jawin’ there, but down with number two. Look alive!”

“Ha! chips o’ the old blocks, I see,” said Bob Clazie, with a grin. “Well, as I was sayin’, there’s another class o’ men, not so bad as the first, but bad enough, who are indooced to go in for this crime of fire-raisin’—arson they calls it, but why so is beyond me to diskiver. A needy tradesman, for instance, when at his wits’-end for money, can’t help thinkin’ that a lucky spark would put him all right.”

“But how could the burning of his goods put him all right?” demanded Mary.

“W’y, ’e don’t want goods, you know, ’e wants to sell ’is goods an’ so git money; but nobody will buy, so ’e can’t sell, nor git money, yet money must be ’ad, for creditors won’t wait. Wot then? All the goods are insured against fire. Well, make a bonfire of ’em, redoose ’em all to hashes, an’ of coorse the insurance companies is bound to pay up, so ’e gits rid of the goods, gits a lot o’ ready money in ’and, pays off ’is creditors, and p’r’aps starts fresh in a noo business! Now, a public officer to inwestigate such matters would mend things to some extent, though ’e mightn’t exactly cure ’em. Some time ago the Yankees, I’m told, appointed a officer they called a fire-marshal in some of their cities, and it’s said that the consikence was a sudden an’ extraor’nary increase in the conwictions for arson, followed by a remarkable decrease in the number o’ fires! They’ve got some-thin’ o’ the same sort in France, an’ over all the chief towns o’ Europe, I b’lieve, but we don’t need no such precautions in London. We’re rich, you know, an’ can afford to let scamps burn right an’ left. It ain’t worth our while to try to redooce the number of our fires. We’ve already got an average of about five fires every twenty-four hours in London. Why should we try to make ’em less, w’en they furnishes ’ealthy work to such fine fellows as Joe and me and the police—not to mention the fun afforded to crossin’-sweepers and other little boys, whose chief enjoyment in life would be gone if there was no fires.”

“If I had the making of the laws,” exclaimed Mary, flushing with indignation as she thought of her own recent risks and losses in consequence of fire-raising, “I’d have every man that set light to his house hanged!”

“Ah; an’ if ’e could also be draw’d and quartered,” added Bob, “and ’ave the bits stuck on the weathercocks of Saint Paul’s, or atop of Temple Bar, it would serve ’im right.”

“We must have you into Parliament some day, Molly,” said Joe, with a smile. “Women are tryin’ hard, I believe, to get the right to vote for members; w’y not go the whole hog and vote themselves in?”

“They’d make splendid firemen too,” said Clazie, “at least if they were only half as vigorous as your little May. By the way, Joe,” continued Bob, “has Sparks been took yet?”

“Not yet. It is rumoured that the crossin’-sweeper who chased him down so smartly, suddenly favoured his escape at last, from some unaccountable cause or other. I suppose that Sparks bribed him.”

“You’re sure it was Sparks, are you?” inquired Bob.

“Quite sure. It is true I only saw his confederate, but one of the men who had often seen Sparks in company with Crashington, his brother-in-law, knew him at once and saw him run off, with the boys after him. He’s a bad lot, but I hope he’ll escape for poor Mrs Crashington’s sake.”

“And I hope he won’t escape, for poor Martha Reading’s sake!” said Mary with much decision of tone.

“That’s his sweet-’eart—a friend of Molly’s!” said Joe to Bob in explanation.

At this point in the conversation, Master Fred Crashington, in his frantic efforts to reach an elevated part of the cupboard, fell backwards, drawing a shelf and all its contents on the top of himself and May. Neither of them was hurt, though both were much frightened.

“I think that must have put the fire out at last,” said Joe, with a laugh, as he took the panting rosebud on his knee and smoothed her soft little head. “We’ll sit quiet now and have a chat.”

A knock at the outer door here called Mrs Dashwood from the room.

“Fire!” exclaimed May, holding up her finger and listening with eager expectation.

“No, little woman,” said Joe, “they would ring loud if it was fire.”

Meanwhile Mrs Dashwood opened the door and found herself confronted by a boy, with his hands in his pockets and his cap thrown in a reckless way half on the side and half on the back of his head.

“Oh, I suppose you are the boy Herring, sent here by Miss Reading,” said Mrs Dashwood.

“Well, as to that, ma’am, you must be guided by taste. I’ve ’eard of men of my years an’ standin’ bein’ styled ’obble-de-’oys. My name, likewise, is open to question. Some of my friends calls me ’Erring—others of ’em, Raw ’Erring—others, again, the Bloater. But I’m in no wise partikler, I did come from Miss Reading to ’ave an interview with Mrs Dashwood—whom—I presoom—”

Here the Bloater laid his hand on his heart and made a courtly bow.

Mrs Dashwood laughed, and said, “come in, boy.”

“I have a pal, ma’am—a chum—a—in fact a friend—may I—”

Without finishing his sentence or waiting for a reply, the Bloater gave a sharp whistle, and Little Jim stood by his side as if by magical influence, looking the embodiment of united innocence and impudence.

“Come in, both of you, and make haste,” said Mary, ushering them into a small empty room. “Now, boy—”

“Bloater, ma’am, if you ’ave no objection.”

“Well, Bloater, our communication with each other must be brief and to the point, because—”

“Yes, ma’am—sharp and short,” interrupted the Bloater—“reasons not required.”

Smiling in spite of herself, Mrs Dashwood said—

“You know Mr Sparks, and can—can—in short, give him into the hands of justice.”

“If I knowed w’ere justice was,” said the Bloater, sternly, “p’raps I might give Mr Sparks into ’is ’ands, but I don’t. It’s my opinion that justice ain’t finished yet. They’ve made ’is ’ands no doubt—and pretty strong ones they are too—but they ’aven’t give ’im brains yet. ’Ows’ever, to make a long story short, ’as ’Amlet said to ’is father’s ghost, w’ich was prince of Timbuctoo, I do know Mr Sparks, and I can give ’im into the ’ands of the p’lice—wot then?”

“Do it!” said Mrs Dashwood, with sudden intensity of feeling and manner, “Do it, boy—” (“Bloater,” murmured the lad), “do it, Bloater. Oh! you have no idea what a blessing it would be to—to—to—a poor, dear girl who is mad—infatuated and, and—then, he is such a scoundrel; such a fire-raiser, deceiver, villain—”

“You don’t appear to like ’im yourself,” remarked the Bloater.

He said this so quietly and with an air of calmness which contrasted so strongly with Mrs Dashwood’s excitement, that Little Jim gave vent to an irresistible “sk” and blew his nose violently to distract attention from it.

“Will you not consent to give up a thorough scoundrel, who every one condemns?” demanded Mrs Dashwood, with sudden indignation.

“Well, that depends—”

“Bloater,” said Mary, with increasing earnestness, “I cannot bribe you—I have not the means even if I had the will; but I would not if I could. I scorn bribery. If you will not aid me for the sake of a poor, helpless, infatuated girl, who is on the brink of ruin—”

“Missis Dashwood,” said the Bloater, with a look of serio-comic dignity, “I scorns bribery as much as you does. ‘No bribery, no c’rupt’ons, no Popery,’ them’s my mottoes—besides a few more that there’s no occasion to mention. W’ether or not I gives ’im up depends on circumstances. Now, I s’pose you want’s ’im took an’ bagged, ’cause ’e ain’t fit for your friend Martha Reading—we’ll drop the ‘Miss’ if you please. Well, wot I want to know is, does Martha think as you does?”

“Of course not, boy. No doubt she knows that he is an unworthy scoundrel, but she can’t prevail on herself to forsake him; so, you see, I want to help her a little.”

“Ah, I see—yes—I see. Well, missis, I’ll take it into consideration. Come along, Jim.”

Without waiting for a reply, the Bloater quitted the house abruptly, followed by his friend. He walked very fast towards the City—so fast that Jim was compelled to trot—and was unusually silent. He went straight to the abode of Martha Reading, and found her sewing and weeping.

“Ha! he’s bin with you, I see,” said the Bloater. “Did ’e ask you to let ’im ’ide ’ere?”

“Ye–es;” said Martha, hesitating; “but I refused to do it. God knows how willing—how willing—I would be to shelter and save him if I could!”

“Would you shelter a guilty man?” demanded the Bloater, sternly.

“I don’t know that he is guilty,” said Martha, evasively. “But, tell me, what did Mrs Dashwood want with you?”

“That’s a private matter,” said the Bloater, frowning. “You can’t turn me off the scent like that. I ask you, ain’t it right to ’and a guilty man over to justice?”

“It is,” replied Martha, wiping her eyes, “but it is also right to temper justice with mercy.”

“I say, that’s drawin’ it rather fine, ain’t it?” said the Bloater, screwing up one eyebrow and turning towards Little Jim; but that small youth was so touched with the poor girl’s sorrow and so attracted by her countenance, that he had quite forgotten his patron for the moment. Going towards her, he laid his dirty little hand on her knee, and looked up in her face.

“God bless you, dear boy,” she said, patting him on the head, “you are the first that has given me a look of sympathy for many—”

She broke down suddenly, burst into a flood of tears, and, seizing the child in her arms, absolutely hugged him!

“Hallo! hallo!” cried the Bloater, when Little Jim was released. “I say, you know, come, this sort o’ thing will never do. W’y, its houtrageous. Come along with you.”

Saying which he seized Little Jim by the collar, dragged him out into the street, and hurried him along. Presently he released him, but without slackening his pace, and said, “Now, Jim, you an’ I shall go and pay another wisit.”

They traversed several small streets, which seemed to be influenced by a tendency to gravitate towards the Thames; while the river, as if in sympathy, appeared to meet them more than half way in the shape of mud. As they proceeded, huge warehouses frowned above, having doors high up on their blank faces where windows ought to have been, with no steps leading thereto, but in some cases with huge block tackles pendent therefrom, suggestive of the idea that the owners were wont to drop the enormous hooks and fish for passers-by. These streets naturally became more nautical in some respects as they neared the river. Old bits of timber lay here and there among old cordage in little yards, where the owners appeared to deal in small-coal and miscellaneous filth. Elsewhere, worn-out anchors held tenaciously to the mud, as if afraid of being again pressed into service and carried off to sea. Everything was cold, dismal, dreary, disreputable; and here, in the dirtiest corner of the smallest possible yard, the Bloater found a half-concealed door that might have been the portal to a dog-kennel or pig-sty. Opening it he entered, and Little Jim followed.

The aspect of things inside was not attractive. Dirt, damp, and rubbish prevailed in the room, which was just big enough to permit of a tall man lying down, but not high enough to admit of his standing up. An uncommonly small four-post bed almost filled the apartment, at the foot of which, on the floor and half-reclining against one of the posts, lay Phil Sparks, either dead-drunk or asleep, or both.

The Bloater glanced back at Little Jim with a look of satisfaction, and held up his finger to enjoin silence. Peering round the room, which was lighted by a farthing candle stuck in the neck of a pint bottle, he observed a piece of rope lying among some rubbish.

“Ha! this’ll do,” he whispered, as he took it up, and, with wonderful rapidity, made a loop on it.

“Now, Jim, you be ready to cut and run if he should waken before I ’ave ’im fast. Don’t mind me; I’ll look arter myself. An’ wotever you do, don’t holler for the bobbies. Mind that, else I’ll strangle you.”

With this advice and caution, the Bloater advanced toward the recumbent man, and passed the rope softly round his body, including his arms and the bedpost in the coil. Drawing it suddenly tight, he hastily made it fast; but there was no occasion for haste, for the sleep of the man was so profound that the action did not awake him.

“Hall right—fus’ rate,” said the Bloater aloud, as he wound the rope round and round Sparks, so as to make him doubly secure. “Nothin’ could be better. Now, Jim, I’m goin’ for to preach a sermon to-night—a sort o’ discoorse. You never heard me preach, did you?”

Little Jim, who, despite his love of mischief, was somewhat alarmed at the strange proceedings of his friend and patron, looked at him with a mingled expression of fear and glee, and shook his head.

“Well, you shall ’ear. Moreover, I ’ope that you’ll profit by wot you ’ears.”

Saying this, he advanced his hand towards the sleeping man’s face, and, causing his thumb to act as a trigger to his middle finger, gave him such a flip on the point of his nose, that he awoke with a tremendous roar. Suddenly he became pale as death—supposing, no doubt, that he had betrayed himself—and glanced towards the door with a bewildered stare.

“Oh, you needn’t alarm yourself,” said the Bloater, placing a stool in front of his victim, and sitting down thereon, with a hand on each knee, “it ain’t the bobbies. If you keep quiet, there’s no fear of them in this neighbourhood. I can call ’em w’en I wants ’em. There’s nobody but me and Little Jim ’ere—your friends, you know.”

Becoming suddenly convinced of the truth of this, Phil Sparks, who was very drunk, made so desperate an effort to free himself that he nearly overturned the bed.

“Oh, you are anxious to see the bobbies, are you? Well, go an’ call ’em in, Jim.”

Jim rose to obey, and the man became instantly quiet.

“Ho! you’re reasonable now, are you? That’s well. You needn’t call ’em in yet, Jim. We’ll grant ’im a reprieve. Fetch that stool, an’ sit down beside me—there. Now, Mr Sparks, alias Blazes, no doubt you’re a precious specimen of hinnocent ’unmanity, ain’t you?”

Sparks made no reply, but scowled at the boy with a look of deadly hatred.

“Well, upon my word,” resumed the Bloater, with a smile, “if I kep’ a menagerie, I’d offer you five ’undred a year to represent a Tasmanian devil. But look ’ere, now, I’ve no time to waste with you; I come ’ere to give you a bit of my mind. You’re a fire-raiser, you are. Ah! you may well wince an’ grow w’ite. You’d grow w’iter still, with a rope round your neck, if you wos left to my tender mercies, you w’ite livered villain! for I knows you; I’ve watched you; I’ve found you hout; an’ I’ve only got to ’old up my little finger to cut your pretty little career prematoorly short. You don’t seem to like that? No, I didn’t expect you would. This young man, whose ’art is big, if ’is body’s small, knows as much about you as I do. Two witnesses, you see; but you ain’t left to our tender mercies; and if you wants to know who delivered you from us, and from the maginstrates, and Jack Ketch, alias Calcraft, I replies, Martha Reading. Ha! you look surprised. Quite nat’ral. You’ve deserved very different treatment from that young ooman, an’ didn’t expect that she’d return good for evil, I s’pose. That’s because you don’t know ’er; you don’t understand ’er, you miserable lump of selfish stoopidity. ’Ows’ever, as I said before, I ain’t a-goin’ to waste no more time with you. But let me, before biddin’ you adoo, give you a caution. Remember, that I’ve got my eye on you. Just one word more. W’en you thinks of me, don’t think of one as ’as got any tender mercies, for I ain’t got none; not a scrap of ’em, nor nothin’ of the sort. W’en you wants to know the true cause of your bein’ let off, just think of two words—Martha Reading! She knows nothin’ o’ wot I’m doin’, nevertheless, she’s done it! Let ’er name ring in your ears, an’ thunder in your brain, and burn in your ’art, till it consooms your witals or your willany! Now, Jim,” concluded the Bloater, rising and opening a large clasp-knife, “you go to the door, open it wide, an’ stan’ by to cut, and run. This gen’lm’n ain’t to be trusted w’en free. Are you ready?”

“Hall ready,” replied Jim.

The Bloater cut the cord that bound Phil Sparks, and darted from the room. Before the man could disentangle himself from its coils, the boys were safe from pursuit, quietly wending their way through the crowded thoroughfares of the great city.

Chapter Eight.

Several months passed away. During this period Phil Sparks kept in close hiding, because, although the Bloater, true to his promise, refrained from giving information against him, there were others who knew and suspected him, and who had no visions of an imploring Martha to restrain them in their efforts to deliver him into the hands of justice.

During this period, also, Ned Crashington recovered his wonted health and vigour, while his wife, to some extent, recovered her senses, and, instead of acting as an irritant blister on her husband, began really to aim at unanimity. The result was, that Ned’s love for her, which had only been smothered a little, burst forth with renewed energy, and Maggie found that in peace there is prosperity. It is not to be supposed that Maggie was cured all at once. She was not an angel—only an energetic and self-willed woman. She therefore broke out now and then in her old style; but, on the whole, she was much improved, and the stalwart fireman no longer sought martyrdom in the flames.

During this period, too, the men of the Red Brigade held on the even tenor of their furious fiery way; not, indeed, scatheless, but with a much smaller amount of damage to life and limb than might have been expected in a service where the numerical strength was so low—only about 380 men—and where the duty, night and day, was so severe and hazardous.

About this time, their Chief’s “Report” for the past year was issued, and it revealed a few facts which are worthy of record. It stated that there had been altogether 1946 fires in London during the past twelve months; that is, an average of a little more than five fires every twenty-four hours. Of these 1670 had been slight, while 276 were serious. In these fires 186 persons had been seriously endangered, of whom 153 were rescued by the men of the Red Brigade, while 33 perished, despite the most gallant efforts to save them. The Report showed, further, that there were in London at that time, (and it is much the same still), 50 fire-engine stations, 25 land steam fire-engines, 85 manual fire-engines, 2 floating steam fire-engines on the Thames, and 104 fire-escapes. The number of journeys made by the fire-engines during the year was 8127, and the total distance run was 21,914 miles. This, the reader will observe, implies an enormous amount of labour performed by the 380 heroes who constitute the Red Brigade, and who, although thus heavily overtaxed, were never heard to murmur or complain. That they suffered pretty frequently and severely might have been expected. In truth, it is a marvel that they did not suffer more. The Report showed that, among them all in the course of the year, they had received 36 contusions, dislocations, fractures, and such like injuries; 22 incised, lacerated, and punctured wounds; 18 injuries to eyes, head, and arms; 2 internal injuries; 22 sprains, and, strange to say, only 4 burns and scalds, making 104 injuries altogether, but no deaths.

Things being in this condition, the brigade lay on its oars, so to speak, awaiting “a call,” one bleak evening in November, when everything in London looked so wet, and cold, and wretched, that some people went the length of saying that a good rousing fire would be quite a cheering sight for the eyes to rest upon.

In the West-End station, to which we have directed attention more than once in this tale, Joe Dashwood, and Ned Crashington, and Bob Clazie, with his brother David, and some more of the men, were seated in the inner lobby, discussing the news of the day, and settling the affairs of the nation to their own entire satisfaction. The Bloater and Little Jim were also there, hanging about the door. These fire-eating youths had become so fond of the locality and of the men, that they had taken to sweeping a crossing in the neighbourhood, and were wont to cheer their spirits, during intervals of labour, by listening to, or chaffing, the firemen, and following them, when possible, to fires.

Suddenly the rattle of the telegraphic bell roused the men. This was so common an occurrence, that it scarcely called forth a passing remark. One of them, however, rose with alacrity, and, replying to the signal, read off the message. We cannot give the precise words of the telegram, but it was to the effect that a fire had broken out at Saint Katharine’s Docks, and that all available force was to be sent out at once.

On hearing this there was unusual promptitude in the movements of the firemen. At all times they are bound, on pain of a heavy fine, to turn out in three minutes after receiving the call to a fire. Sometimes they succeed in turning out in less. It was so on the present occasion. Mention of a fire anywhere near the docks has much the same effect on the Red Brigade as the order to march to the field of Waterloo had on the British army. The extreme danger; the inflammable nature of the goods contained in the huge and densely-packed warehouses; the proximity to the shipping; the probability of a pitched battle with the flames; the awful loss of property, and perhaps of life, if the fire should gain the mastery, and the urgent need there is for hurrying all the disposable force in London to the spot without delay, if the victory is to be gained—all these circumstances and considerations act as an unusually sharp spur to men, who, however, being already willing at all times to do their utmost, can only force themselves to gain a few additional moments of time by their most strenuous exertions.

In less than three minutes, then, our West-End engine sprang off, like a rocket, at full gallop, with a crack of the whip, a snort from the steeds, a shout from the men to clear the way, and a cheer from the bystanders.

Two of these bystanders started off alongside of the engine, with glittering eyes and flushed cheeks. The Bloater and Little Jim had heard the telegraph read off, had caught the words, “Fire—Saint Katharine’s Docks,” and knew well what that implied. They resolved to witness the fight, and ran as if their lives depended on the race. It need scarcely be said that the engine quickly left them out of sight behind, not only because the horses were fleet, but also because various pedestrians, into whose bosoms the boys plunged in their blind haste, treated them rather roughly, and retarded their progress a good deal. But nothing short of a knock-down blow could have put a full stop to the career of those imps of the broom. After innumerable hair-breadth escapes from “bobbies” and others, by agile bounds and desperate plunges among horses’ legs and carriage-wheels, they reached the scene of action not very long after the engine with which they had set out.

It was night. The fire had been raging for some time with terrible fury, and had already got full possession of two large warehouses, each five or six floors in height, all connected by means of double iron folding-doors, and stored from basement to roof with spirits, tallow, palm-oil, cotton, flax, jute, and other merchandise, to the extent of upwards of two millions sterling in value. The dock fire-engines had been brought to bear on the flames a few minutes after the fire was discovered. The two floating-engines were paddled at once to the spot, and their powerful hydrants poured continuous streams on the flames; while, every few minutes, another and another of the land-engines came rattling up, until all the available force of the Red Brigade was on the spot, each man straining, like the hero of a forlorn hope, regardless of life and limb, to conquer the terrible foe. The Brompton and Chelsea volunteer fire-brigade, and several private engines, also came up to lend a helping hand. But all these engines, brave hearts, and vigorous proceedings, appeared at first of no avail, for the greedy flames shot out their tongues, hissed through water and steam, and licked up the rich fuel with a deep continuous roar, as if they gloated over their unusually splendid banquet, and meant to enjoy it to the full, despite man’s utmost efforts to oppose them.

The excitement at this time was tremendous. Every available spot of ground or building from which the most limited view of the fire could be obtained, was crowded to excess by human beings, whose upturned faces were lighted more or less ruddily according to their distance from the fire.

No doubt the greater proportion of the vast multitude beheld the waste of so much property with anxiety and regret. Doubtless, also, many thoughtless ones were there who merely enjoyed the excitement, and looked on it as a pyrotechnic display of unwonted splendour. But there was yet another class of men, aye, and women, whose view of the matter was fitted to cause anxiety in the breasts of those who talk of “elevating the masses,” and this was by far the largest class. The greater part of them belonged to the lowest class of labourers, men willing to work for their living, but who got little to do. Amongst these not one expression of regret was to be heard, though the women sometimes asked anxiously whether any one was likely to be hurt. But let a few of these speak for themselves.

“Ah,” said an old woman, with an unintellectual style of countenance, “now there will be plenty of work for poor men.”

“Yes,” responded a rough, with a black eye, “that’s true. My blissin’, as Paddy says, on a fire; it warms the cockles o’ yer heart an’ kapes yer hands busy.”

“They’ve much need to be kep’ busy, sure enough,” remarked another man, “for mine have been pretty idle for more than a week.”

“I wish,” exclaimed another, with a bitter curse on mankind in general, “that the whole Thames would go a-fire, from Westminster to Gravesend.”

The energy with which this was said caused a general laugh and a good deal of chaff, but there was no humour in the man who spoke. He was one of those of whom it is said by a periodical which ought to know, that hundreds of such may be seen day by day, year by year, waiting at the different gates of the docks, in stolid weariness, for the chance of a day’s work—the wage of which is half-a-crown. When a foreman comes to a gate to take on a few such hands, the press of men, and the faces, hungry and eager beyond description, make one of the saddest of the sad sights to be seen even at the east end of London.

In another part of the crowd, where the street was narrow, a scene of a most fearful kind was being enacted. All scoundreldom appeared to have collected in that spot. For two or three hours robbery and violence reigned unchecked in the very face of the police, who, reduced to inaction by the density of the crowd, could render little or no assistance to the sufferers. Scarcely one respectably dressed person was unmolested. Hats were indiscriminately smashed over the brows of their wearers, coats were torn off their backs, and watches and purses violently wrested from their owners. In many cases there was no attempt at secrecy, men were knocked down and plundered with all the coolness and deliberation with which we commonly pursue our lawful calling.

By degrees the perseverance and heroism of the firemen were rewarded. The fire began to succumb to the copious floods with which it was deluged, and, towards midnight, there was a perceptible diminution in the violence of the flames. There were, however, several temporary outbursts from time to time, which called for the utmost watchfulness and promptitude on the part of the Brigade.

During one of these a block of private dwellings nearest to the conflagration was set on fire. So intent was every one on the great fire that this incidental one was not observed until it had gained considerable headway. The buildings were very old and dry, so that, before an engine could be detached from the warehouses, it was in a complete blaze. Most of the inhabitants escaped by the chief staircase before it became impassable, and one or two leaped from the lower windows.

It chanced that Joe Dashwood’s engine was nearest to this house at the time, and was run up to it.

“Now then, lads, look alive,” said Joe, as the men affixed the hose and suction-pipe.

“Out o’ the way!” cried Ned Crashington to two boys who appeared to be rather curious about the operations of the firemen.

“I say,” exclaimed the Bloater in great excitement, “why—that’s the ’ouse w’ere Martha lives!”

“Who’s Martha?” asked Ned, without interrupting his operation of screwing on an additional length of hose.

“W’y, the friend o’ Joe Dashwood’s wife—Martha—Martha Reading, you know.”

“Eh!” exclaimed Ned, looking up.

At that moment Martha herself appeared at a window in the upper storey, waving her arms and shrieking wildly for help. Men were seen endeavouring to bring forward a fire-escape, but the crowd was so dense as to render this an unusually difficult and slow operation.

Without uttering a word, Ned Crashington dashed up the blazing staircase. For a moment he was lost to view, but quickly reappeared, attempting to cross a half-charred beam which overhung a yawning gulf of fire where the first and second floors had just fallen in. Suddenly a dense mass of smoke surrounded him. He staggered, threw up his arms, and was seen to fall headlong into the flames. A deep groan, or cry of horror, arose from the crowd, and wild shouts of “fetch a ladder,” “bring up the escape,” were heard, while poor Martha got out on the window-sill to avoid the flames, which were rapidly drawing towards and almost scorching her.

Just then a man was seen to dash furiously through the crowd, he fought his way madly—knocking down all who opposed him. Gaining the door of the burning house he sprang in.

“I say,” whispered Little Jim, in an excited voice, “it’s Phil Sparks!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” observed a quiet, broad-shouldered man, who stood near two policemen, to whom he winked knowingly.

The Bloater attempted to move off, but one of the policemen detained him. The other detained Little Jim.

Meanwhile the crowd looked for Phil’s reappearance on the beam from which poor Ned Crashington had fallen, but Phil knew the house better than Ned. He gained the upper floor by a back stair, which was not quite impassable; seized Martha in his arms, just as she was about to leap into the street, and dragged her back into the smoke and flames. It appeared almost certain that both must have perished; but in a few seconds the man was seen to descend the lower stair with the woman in his arms, and in another moment a wild enthusiastic cheer burst from the vast multitude as he leaped into the street.

Laying Martha gently down on a doorstep, Sparks bent over her, and whispered in her ear. She appeared to have swooned, but opened her eyes, and gazed earnestly in the face of her deliverer.

“The Lord must have sent you to save me, Phil; He will save you also, if you will trust Him.”

“Forgive me, Martha, I was hard on you, but—”

“God bless you, Phil—”

“Clear the way there,” cried a commanding voice; “here, doctor, this way.”

The crowd opened. A medical man came forward and examined Martha, and pronounced her to be only slightly injured. Several men then raised her and carried her towards a neighbouring house. Phil Sparks was about to follow, but the quiet man with the broad shoulders touched him gently on the arm, and said that he was “wanted.”

“Sorry to interrupt you in such a good work, but it can’t be helped. Other people can take care of her now, you know; come along.”

Sparks’ first impulse was to knock the quiet man down and fly, but he felt a restraining power on his other arm, and, looking round, observed a tall policeman at his side. As if by magic, another tall policeman appeared in front of him, and a third behind him. He suddenly bent down his head and suffered himself to be led away. Seeing this, the Bloater and Little Jim wrenched themselves from the grasp of their respective captors, dived between the legs of the bystanders, as eels might do among sedges, and vanished, to their own inexpressible delight and the total discomfiture of the “bobbies.” They met a few minutes later at a well-known rendezvous.

“I wish ’e ’adn’t bin took,” said the Bloater with a look of regret on his expressive though dirty countenance.

“Poor Martha!” said Little Jim, almost crying as he thought of her. “’Ow much d’you think ’e’ll get, Bloater?”

“Twenty years at least; p’r’aps go for life; you see it’s an aggrawated case. I’ve bin makin’ partikler inquiries, and I finds ’e’s bin raisin’ no end o’ fires doorin’ the last six months—kep’ the Red Brigade trottin’ about quite in a surprisin’ way. I rather fear that ’e’ll be let in for ever an’ a day.”

The Bloater was not quite correct in his guess. When the trial came on, to the surprise of all, especially of his “pals,” Phil Sparks pleaded guilty! Partly in consideration of this, and partly on account of his last courageous act in saving the girl, he was let off with fifteen years penal servitude.

But, to return from this episode. The great fire at the docks, after gutting several warehouses, was finally subdued. And what of the loss? A hundred thousand pounds did not cover it, and every insurance office in London suffered! In addition to this, several persons lost their lives, while the Red Brigade, besides having some of their number more or less severely injured, lost one of its best and bravest men.

Gallant Ned Crashington’s fighting days were over. His mangled remains were gathered up next morning, and, a few days later, were conveyed by his comrades to their last resting-place.

It is no easy matter to move the heart of London. That vast nation-in-a-city has too many diverse interests to permit of the eyes of all being turned, even for a moment, upon one thing. Nevertheless the fireman’s funeral seemed to cause the great cord to vibrate for a little. Hundreds of thousands of people turned out to witness the cortège. Ned’s coffin was drawn, military fashion, on one of the engines peculiar to his profession, with his helmet and hatchet placed upon the lid. The whole of the force of the brigade that could be spared followed him in uniform, headed by their chief, and accompanied by a large detachment of the police force. The procession was imposing, and the notices that appeared next day in all the papers were a touching tribute of respect to the self-sacrificing fireman, who, as one of these papers said, “left a widow and son, in poor circumstances, to mourn his early death.”

Ah, these things were soon forgotten in the rush of the world’s business by all save that widow and son, and one or two bosom friends. Even the men of the Red Brigade appeared to forget the fallen hero very soon. We say “appeared,” because there were some among them who mourned Ned as a dear brother, chief among whom was Joe Dashwood. But whatever the feelings of the firemen might have been, theirs was a warfare that allowed no time for the undue indulgence or exhibition of grief. The regular “calls” and duties went on steadily, sternly, as if nothing had occurred, and before Ned’s remains had lain a night in their last resting-place, many of his old comrades were out again doing fierce battle with the restless and untameable flames.

Chapter Nine.

Years passed away, and with them many old things vanished, while many novelties appeared, but the Red Brigade remained much as it was, excepting that it was, if possible, smarter and more energetic than ever.

In the lobby of our West-end station one pleasant summer evening, the men sat and stood about the open door beside the trim engines and matériel of their profession, chatting heartily as men are won’t to do when in high health and spirits. There were new faces among them, but there were also several that had long been familiar there. The stalwart form of Joe Dashwood was there, so little altered by time that there was nothing about him to tell that he was passing the period of middle-age, save a few grey hairs that mingled here and there with the dark curls on his temples. Bob Clazie was there also, but he had not stood the trials of his profession so well as Joe—probably his constitution was not so strong. A disagreeable short cough harassed him, though he made light of it. Frequent scorching, smoking, and partial suffocation had increased his wrinkles and rendered his eyelids permanently red. Nevertheless, although nearly fifty years old, Bob Clazie was still one of the best men in the Brigade.

Joe Dashwood wore a pair of brass epaulettes on his shoulders, which indicated that he had attained to the highest rank in the service, short of the chief command.

He was giving directions to one of the younger men of the force, when a tall strapping young man, with a plain but open and singularly pleasing countenance entered, and going up to him shook him warmly by the hand.

“Well, Bob, what’s the news? you seem excited this evening,” said Joe.

“So I am, Joe; and with good reason too, for several pleasant things have happened to-day. In the first place, my friend and patron—”

“That’s the old gentleman with the ruddy face and the bald head?” interrupted Joe.

“Yes, and with the kind heart. Don’t ever omit the kind heart, Joe, in your description of him, else you’ll only have painted half the portrait.”

“Well, but the kind heart ain’t quite so visible at first sight as the ruddy face and bald head, you know.”

“Perhaps not; but if you watched him long enough to see him act, you’d perceive the kind heart as plain as if it hung at his button-hole, and beat like a sixty-horse-power steam-engine outside his ribs instead of inside,” said the strapping young man with quite a glow of enthusiasm. “Oh, if you could only see how that old gentleman labours, and strives, and wears himself out, in his desire to rescue what they call our Street Arabs, you couldn’t help loving him as I do. But I’m wandering from the pleasant things I’ve got to tell about. Through his influence my friend Jim has obtained a good appointment on the Metropolitan Railway, which gives him a much better salary than he had in Skrimp’s office, and opens up a prospect of promotion; so, although it sends him underground before his natural time, he says he is quite content to be buried alive, especially as it makes the prospect of his union with a very small and exceedingly charming little girl with black eyes not quite so remote as it was. In the second place, you’ll be glad to hear that the directors of the insurance office with which I am connected have raised my salary, influenced thereto by the same old gentleman with the ruddy face, bald head, and kind heart—”

“Coupled with your own merits, Bob,” suggested Joe.

“I know nothing about that,” replied the strapping young man with a smile, “but these pleasant pieces of good fortune have enabled me and Jim to carry out a plan which we have long cherished—to lodge together, with Martha Reading as our landlady. In truth, anticipating some such good fortune as has been sent to us, we had some time ago devoted part of our savings to the purpose of rescuing poor Martha from that miserable needlework which has been slowly killing her so long. We have taken and furnished a small house, Martha is already installed as the owner, and we go there to-night for the first time, as lodgers.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Joe, laughing; “why, Bob, you and your friend act with as much promptitude as if you had been regularly trained in the Fire-Brigade.”

“We received much of our training from it, if not in it,” returned the strapping young man with the plain but pleasant countenance. “Don’t you remember, Joe, how perseveringly we followed you in former days when I was the Bloater and he was Little Jim?”

“Remember it! I should think I do,” replied Joe. “How glad my Mary will be when she hears what you have done.”

“But that’s not all my news,” continued the Bloater, (if we may presume to use the old name). “Last, but not least, Fred has asked me to be his groom’s-man. He wrote me a very pathetic letter about it, but omitted to mention the day—not to be wondered at in the circumstances. Poor Fred, his letter reminded me of the blotted copies which I used to write with such trouble and sorrow at the training school to which my patron sent me.”

“There’s reason for the blotted letter besides the excitement of his approaching marriage,” said Joe. “He hurt his hand the last fire he attended, and it’s in a sling just now, so he must have taken it out, for temporary duty when he wrote to you. The truth is that Fred is too reckless for a fireman. He’s scarcely cool enough. But I can inform you as to the day; it is Thursday next. See that you are up to time, Bob.”

“No fear of me being late,” replied the Bloater. “By the way, have you heard of that new method of putting out fires that somebody has invented?”

“I did hear of some nonsensical plan,” replied Joe, with a slight expression of contempt, “but I don’t think it worth while to pay attention to things o’ this sort. There’s nothin’ can beat good cold water.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Joe,” replied his friend gravely. “I have been reading an account of it in the Insurance Guardian, and it seems to me that there is something worth attending to in the new plan. It looks as if there was life in it, for a company is to be got up called the ‘Fire and Water Company.’”

“But what is this new plan?” asked Joe, sending forth a violent puff from his pipe, as if to indicate that it would all end in smoke.

“Well, I’m not sure that I’ve got a correct notion of it myself, but my impression is that carbonic acid gas is the foundation-principle of it. Fire cannot exist in the presence of this gas—wherever it goes extinction of fire is instantaneous, which is more than you can say for water, Joe; for as you know well, fire, when strong enough, can turn that into steam as fast as you can pour it on, and after getting rid of it in this way, blaze up as furious as ever. What this company proposes to do is to saturate water with this carbonic acid gas mixed with nitrogen, and then pour that prepared water on fires. Of course, if much water were required, such a plan would never succeed, but a very small quantity is said to be sufficient. It seems that some testing experiments of a very satisfactory kind have been made recently—so you see, Joe, it is time to be looking out for a new profession!”

“H’m. I’ll stick to the old brigade, at all events till the new company beats us from the field. Perhaps when that happens they’ll enrol some of us to work the—what d’ye call ’em?—soda-water engines. They’ll have engines of course, I suppose?”

“Of course,” replied the Bloater; “moreover, they mean to turn their prepared water to good account when there are no fires to put out. It is said that the proportions of the mixture can be so varied that, with one kind, the pump may be used for the clarification of beer, oils, treacle, quicksilver, and such like, and for the preservation of fruit, meat, milk, etcetera, and with another mixture they propose to ventilate mines and tunnels; water gardens; kill insects on trees and flowers; soften water for domestic uses, and breweries, and manufacture soda-water, seltzer water, and other aerated beverages—”

“Oh, I say, Bob, hold on,” cried Joe; “you seem to forget that my capacity for swallowing is limited.”

“Well, perhaps you’ll get it enlarged enough before long, to swallow all that and a deal more,” said the Bloater, with a half serious air. “Meanwhile I’ll continue to wish all success and prosperity to the Red Brigade—though you do cause a tremendous amount of damage by your floods of water, as we poor insurance companies know. Why, if it were not for the heroes of the salvage corps we should be ruined altogether. It’s my opinion, Joe, that the men of the salvage corps run quite as much risk as your fellows do in going through fire and smoke and working among falling beams and tumbling walls in order to cover goods with their tarpaulins and protect them from water.”

“I admit that the salvage men do their work like heroes,” said Joe; “but if you would read our chief’s report for last year, you would see that we do our best to put out fires with the smallest possible amount of water. Why, we only used about eleven million gallons in the last twelve months—a most insignificant quantity that, for the amount of work done!”

A tinkle of the telegraph bell here cut short the conversation. “Fire, in the Mall, Kensington,” was the signal.

“Get her out, lads!” cried Joe, referring to the engine.

Helmets and hatchets were donned and buckled on in the old style, and quiet jokes or humorous and free-and-easy remarks were uttered in slow, even sleepy tones, while the men acted with a degree of prompt celerity that could not have been excelled had their own lives depended on their speed. In three minutes, as usual, they were off at full gallop. The Bloater—who still longed to follow them as of old, but had other business on hand—wished them “good luck,” and proceeded at a smart pace to his new lodgings.

We must change the scene now, for the men of the Red Brigade do not confine their attentions exclusively to such matters as drilling, fighting, suffering, conquering, and dying. They sometimes marry! Let us look in at this little church where, as a passer-by remarks, “something appears to be going on.”

A tall handsome young man leads to the altar a delicate, beautiful, blooming bride, whose bent head and blushing cheek, and modest mien and dependent air, contrast pleasantly with the gladsome firm countenance, stalwart frame, and self-reliant aspect of the bridegroom.

Looking at them as they stood then, no one could have entertained for a moment the idea that these two had ever united in the desperate and strenuous attempt to put out a fire! Yet so it was. They had, once upon a time, devoted themselves to the extinction of a fire in a cupboard with such enthusiasm that they had been successful not only in putting that fire out, but in lighting another fire, which nothing short of union for life could extinguish!

Joe Dashwood gave away the bride, and he could not help remarking in a whisper to the Bloater, (who was also there in sumptuous attire), that if ever a man was the born image of his father that man was Fred Crashington—an opinion which was heartily responded to by Mrs Maggie Crashington, who, then in the period of life which is described as “fat, fair, and forty,” looked on at the proceedings with intense satisfaction. Mary Dashwood—also fat, fair, and forty—was there too, and if ever a woman congratulated herself on a rosebud having grown into a full blown blush-rose, that woman was Mary.

Besides a pretty large company of well-dressed people, with white favours in their breasts, there was a sprinkling of active men with sailor-like caps, who hung about the outskirts of the crowd, and among these were two or three stout fellows with brass helmets and dirty hands and faces, and wet garments, who had returned from a recent fire just in time to take a look at their comrade and his fair bride.

“Poor Ned, how his kind heart would have rejoiced to see this day!” murmured Joe, brushing his cheek hastily as he retired from the altar.

So, the wedding party left the church, and the firemen returned to their posts of watchfulness and duty.

About the same period that this wedding took place, there was another wedding in the great metropolis to which we would draw the reader’s attention. Not that it was a great one or a splendid one; on the contrary, if it was marked by any unusual peculiarities, these were shabbiness and poverty. The wedding party consisted of only two, besides the bride and bridegroom, and everything was conducted with such quietness, and gravity, and absence of excitement, that it might almost have been mistaken for a funeral on a small scale by any one unacquainted with the ceremonial appertaining thereto.

The happy pair, besides looking very sad, were past the meridian of life. Both were plainly dressed, and each appeared desirous of avoiding observation. The man, in particular, hung his head and moved awkwardly, as if begging forgiveness generally for presuming to appear in the character of a bridegroom. His countenance had evidently never been handsome, but there was a sad subdued look about it—the result, perhaps, of prolonged suffering—which prevented it from being repulsive. He looked somewhat like an invalid, yet his powerful frame and the action of his strong muscular hands were not in keeping with that idea.

The bride, although careworn and middle-aged, possessed a singularly sweet and attractive countenance—all the more attractive that it wore a habitual expression of sadness. It was a sympathetic face, too, because it was the index to a loving, sympathetic, Christian soul, and its ever-varying indications of feeling, lightened and subdued and modified, but never quite removed, the sadness.

The two who composed the remainder of this wedding party were young men, apparently in a higher position of life than the principals. The one was tall and strapping, the other rather small, but remarkably active and handsome. It was evident that they were deeply interested in the ceremony in which they took part, and the smaller of the two appeared to enjoy some humorous reminiscences occasionally, to judge from the expression of his face when his glance chanced to meet that of his tall friend.

As they were leaving the altar, the bridegroom bent down and murmured in a deep soft voice—

“It’s like a dream, Martha. It ain’t easy to believe that such good luck should come to the likes o’ me.”

The bride whispered something in reply, which was inaudible to those who followed.

“Yes, Martha, yes,” returned the bridegroom; “no doubt it is as you put it. But after all, there’s only one of His sayin’s that has gone right home to me. I’ve got it by heart now—‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’ ’Twould have bin all up with me long ago but for that, Martha.”

They reached the door at this point, got into a cab, and drove away. The remainder of the wedding party left the little church on foot.

The same evening on which this event took place, the strapping young man and the little active youth sat together at the open window of a comfortable though small parlour, enjoying a cup of tea. The view from the window was limited, but it possessed the charm of variety; commanding as it did, a vista of chimney-pots of every shape and form conceivable—many of which were capped with those multiform and hideous contrivances with which foolish man vainly endeavours to cure smoke.

“Well, Jim,” asked the strapping youth, as he gazed pensively on this prospect, “what d’you think of it?”

“What do you refer to, Bob—our view or the wedding?”

“The wedding, of course.”

“It’s hard to say,” replied Jim, musing. “He seemed to be such an unmitigated scoundrel when we first made his acquaintance that it is difficult to believe he is a changed man now.”

“By which you mean to insinuate, Jim, that the Gospel is not sufficient for out-and-out blackguards; that it is only powerful enough to deal with such modified scoundrels as you and I were.”

“By no means,” replied Jim, with a peculiar smile; “but, d’you know, Bloater, I never can feel that we were such desperate villains as you make us out to have been, when we swept the streets together.”

“Just listen to him!” exclaimed the Bloater, smiting his knee with his fist, “you can’t feel!—what have feelings to do with knowledge? Don’t you know that we were fairly and almost hopelessly in the current, and that we should probably have been swept off the face of the earth by this time if it had not been for that old gentleman with the bald head and the kindly—”

“There, now, Bloater, don’t let us have any more of that, you become positively rabid when you get upon that old gentleman, and you are conceited enough, also, to suppose that all the gratitude in the world has been shovelled into your own bosom. Come, let us return to the point, what do I think of the wedding—well, I think a good deal of it. There is risk, no doubt, but there is that in everything sublunary. I think, moreover, that the marriage is founded on true love. He never would have come to his present condition but for true love to Martha, which, in God’s providence, seems to have been made the means of opening his mind to Martha’s message, the pith of which message was contained in his last remark on leaving the church. Then, as to Martha, our own knowledge of her would be sufficient to ease our minds as to her wisdom, even if it were not coupled with the reply she made to me when I expressed wonder that she should desire to marry such a man. ‘Many waters,’ she said, ‘cannot quench love!’”

“Ha! you know something of that yourself,” remarked Bob with a smile.

“Something,” replied Little Jim, with a sigh.

“Well, don’t despond,” said the Bloater, laying his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “I have reason to know that the obstacles in your way shall soon be removed, because that dear old gentleman with the—”

He was cut short by a loud, gruff shouting in the street below, accompanied by the rattling of wheels and the clatter of horses’ hoofs.

“Ah, there they go!” cried Jim, his eyes glistening with enthusiasm as he and his friend leaned out of the window, and strove to gain a glimpse of the street between the forest of chimneys, “driving along, hammer and tongs, neck or nothing, always at it night and day. A blessing on them!”

“Amen,” said the Bloater, as he and Jim resumed their seats and listened to the sound of the wheels, voices, and hoofs dying away in the distance.

Reader, we re-echo the sentiment, and close our tale with the remark that there are many rescued men and women in London who shall have cause, as long as life shall last, to pray for a blessing on the overwrought heroes who fill the ranks, and fight the battles of the Red Brigade.

Chapter One.

The Fleet.

Manx Bradley was an admiral—“admiral of the fleet”—though it must be admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so exalted.

With rough pilot coat and sou’-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy, rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. Nevertheless Manx was a real admiral—as real as Nelson, and much harder worked.

His fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one fine autumn evening on the North Sea. The vessels cruised round each other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of “touch.” Nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admiral’s vessel, for it was literally the “flagship,” being distinguishable only by a small flag attached to its fore stay.

The fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. A fine smart “fishing breeze” was blowing. The setting sun sparkled on the wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning.

With the quiet air of an amiable despot Manx nodded his venerable head. Up went the signal, and in a few minutes the fleet was reduced to order. Every smack swept round into position, and, bending over on the same tack, they all rushed like a shoal of startled minnows, away in the same direction—the direction signalled by the admiral. Another signal from our venerable despot sent between one and two hundred trawl-nets down to the bottom of the sea, nets that were strong enough to haul up tons of fish, and rocks, and wreckage, and rubbish, with fifty-feet beams, like young masts, with iron enough in bands and chains to sink them, and so arranged that the beams were raised a few feet off the ground, thus keeping the mouths of the great nets open, while cables many fathoms in length held the gears to their respective vessels.

So the North Sea Fishermen began the night’s work—the Nancy, the Coquette, the Rattler, the Truant, the Faith, the Playfellow, the Cherub, and all the rest of them. Of course, although the breeze was fresh, they went along slowly, because of the ponderous tails that they had to draw.

Do you ask, reader, why all this order? why this despotic admiral, and all this unity of action? why not “every man for himself”? Let me reply by asking you to think for a moment.

Wind blowing in one direction, perhaps you are aware, does not necessarily imply vessels sailing in the same direction. With variation of courses possible, nearly two hundred tails out astern, and no unity of action, there would arise the certainty of varied and striking incident. The Nancy would go crashing into the bows of the Coquette, the bowsprit of the Rallier would stir up the cabin of the Truant, the tail of the Faith would get entangled with that of the Cherub, and both might hook on to the tail of the Playfellow; in short, the awful result would be wreck and wretchedness on the North Sea, howling despair in the markets of Columbia and Billingsgate, and no fish for breakfast in the great metropolis. There is reason for most things—specially good reason for the laws that regulate the fisheries of the North Sea, the fleets of which are over twelve in number, and the floating population over twelve thousand men and boys.

For several hours this shoal of vessels, with full sails and twinkling lights, like a moving city on the deep, continued to tug and plunge along over the “banks” of the German ocean, to the satisfaction of the fishermen, and the surprise no doubt of the fish. About midnight the admiral again signalled, by rocket and flares, “Haul up,” and immediately, with capstan, bar, and steam, the obedient crews began to coil in their tails.

It is not our intention to trouble the reader with a minute account of this process or the grand result, but, turning to a particular smack, we solicit attention to that. She is much like the others in size and rig. Her name is the Lively Poll. Stephen Lockley is her skipper, as fine a young fisherman as one could wish to see—tall, handsome, free, hearty, and powerful. But indeed all deep-sea fishermen possess the last quality. They would be useless if not physically strong. Many a Samson and Hercules is to be found in the North Sea fleets. “No better nursery or training-school in time of war,” they say. That may be true, but it is pleasanter to think of them as a training-school for times of peace.

The night was very dark. Black clouds overspread the sky, so that no light save the dim rays of a lantern cheered the men as they went tramp, tramp, round the capstan, slowly coiling in the trawl-warp. Sheets of spray sometimes burst over the side and drenched them, but they cared nothing for that, being pretty well protected by oilskins, sou’-westers, and sea-boots. Straining and striving, sometimes gaining an inch or two, sometimes a yard or so, while the smack plunged and kicked, the contest seemed like a doubtful one between vis inertiae and the human will. Two hours and a half it lasted, until the great trawl-beam came to the surface, and was got up on the vessel’s side, after which these indomitable men proceeded to claw up the huge net with their fingers, straining and heaving with might and main.

“Yo, ho!” cried the skipper, “heave her in, boys!”

“Hoy!” growled Peter Jay, the mate, giving a tug that should have torn the net to pieces—but didn’t!

“Looks like as if we’d got hold of a lump o’ wreck,” gasped Bob Lumsden, the smack’s boy, who was also the smack’s cook.

“No, no, Lumpy,” remarked David Duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, “it ain’t a wreck, it’s a mermaid. I’ve bin told they weigh over six ton when young. Look out when she comes aboard—she’ll bite.”

“I do believe it’s old Neptune himself,” said Jim Freeman, another of the “hands.” “There’s his head; an’ something like his pitchfork.”

“It does feel heavier than I ever knowed it afore,” remarked Fred Martin.

“That’s all along of your bein’ ill, Fred,” said the mate.

“It may be so,” returned Martin, “for I do feel queer, an’ a’most as weak as a baby. Come heave away!”

It was indeed a huge mass of wreck entangled with sea-weed which had rendered the net so heavy on that occasion, but there was also a satisfactory mass of fish in the “cod-end,” or bag, at the extremity of the net, for, when, by the aid of the winch, this cod-end was finally got inboard, and the cord fastening the bottom of it was untied, fish of all kinds gushed over the wet decks in a living cataract.

There were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much conversation, for heavy work had still to be done—done, too, in the dark. Turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square boxes called “trunks,” so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next morning. The net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch before daybreak.

Now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing a North Sea hornpipe under one’s feet. Among the dangers are two which merit notice. The one is the fisherman’s liability, while working among the “ruck,” to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a skate. Either accident may be slight or it may be severe.

A sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning and packing work told that something had happened.

“There goes Martin,” growled Joe Stubley; “you can always tell when it’s him, ’cause he don’t curse an’ swear.”

Stubley—or Stubby, as his mates called him—did not intend this for a compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. Being an irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed religion were hypocritical and silly. Manliness, in poor Jo’s mind, consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general godlessness. With the exception of Fred Martin, the rest of the crew of the Lively Poll resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very different in character,—Lockley, the skipper being genial; Peter Jay, the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; Duffy, jovial and funny; Freeman, kindly, though reckless; and Bob, the boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. They all liked Martin, however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached little.

“What’s wrong?” asked Lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for lights ahead.

“Only a bone into my left hand,” replied Martin, going on with his somewhat dirty labours.

“Well that it’s no worse, boy,” observed Freeman, “for we’ve got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet.”

“That’s true, Jim,” responded Martin; “I wish we had a Gospel smack with our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies.”

“There you go,” growled Stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with a flap of indignation. “A feller can’t mention the name o’ them mission craft without rousin’ you up to some o’ your hypocritical chaff. For my part, if it wasn’t for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think we’d be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call ’em. Why, what good ’ave they done the Short-Blues? I’m sure we doesn’t want churches, or prayin’, or psalm-singin’ or book—”

“Speak for yourself, Jo,” interrupted Puffy.

“Although your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which nothin’ a’most can pass either from books or anything else, you mustn’t think we’ve bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book myself, an’, though I don’t care about prayin’ or psalm-singin’, seein’ I don’t understand ’em, I say ‘good luck’ to the mission smacks, if it was for nothin’ else than the books, an’ doctor stuff, an’ mitts what the shoregoin’ ladies—bless their hearts!—is so fond o’ sendin’ to us.”

“Ay, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say they’re a-goin’ to send to us,” added Freeman.

“P’r’aps they’ll send us cheap grog at last,” said Puffy, with a laugh.

“They’ll hardly do that,” remarked Martin; “for it’s to try an’ keep us from goin’ for our baccy to the copers that they’ve started this new plan.”

“I wish ’em success,” said Lockley, in a serious tone. And there was good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a powerful, almost irresistible, temptation.

When the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to snatch a few hours’ repose. Wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or other. Kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats and sou’-westers, they tumbled into their narrow “bunks” and fell asleep almost without winking.

There was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night. Fred Martin was soon awakened by the pain of his wound, which had begun to inflame, and by a feeling of giddiness and intense uneasiness with which he had been troubled for several days past.

Turning out at last, he sat down in front of the little iron stove that served to cook food as well as to warm the cabin, and, gazing into the embers, began to meditate on his strangely uncomfortable sensations.

“Hallo, Martin, anything wrong?” asked the mate, who descended at that moment to relight his pipe.

“I believe there is, mate. I never felt like this afore. I’ve fowt against it till I can hardly stand. I feel as if I was goin’ to knock under altogether. This hand, too, seems gittin’ bad. I do think my blood must be poisoned, or somethin’ o’ that sort. You know I don’t easily give in, but when a feller feels as if little red-hot wires was twistin’ about inside of him, an’ sees things goin’ round as if he was drunk, why—”

“Why, it’s time to think of goin’ home,” interrupted Jay, with a laugh. “But let’s have a look at you, Fred. Well, there does seem to be some o’ your riggin’ slack. Have you ever had the measles?”

“Not as I knows of.”

“Looks like it,” said the mate, lighting his pipe. “P’r’aps it’ll be as well to send you into dock to refit. You’d better turn in again, anyhow, for a snooze would do you good.”

Fred Martin acted on this advice, while Jay returned to the deck; but it was evident that the snooze was not to be had, for he continued to turn and toss uneasily, and to wonder what was wrong with him, as strong healthy men are rather apt to do when suddenly seized with sickness.

At grey dawn the admiral signalled again. The order was to haul up the nets, which had been scraping the bottom of the sea since midnight, and the whole fleet set to work without delay.

Martin turned out with the rest, and tried to defy sickness for a time, but it would not do. The strong man was obliged to succumb to a stronger than he—not, however, until he had assisted as best as he could in hauling up the trawl.

This second haul of the gear of the Lively Poll illustrated one of those mishaps to which all deep-sea trawlers are liable, and which are of frequent occurrence. A piece of wreck or a lost anchor, or something, had caught the net, and torn it badly, so that when it reached the surface all the fish had escaped.

“A night’s work for nothing!” exclaimed Stephen Lockley, with an oath.

“Might have been worse,” suggested Martin.

By that time it was broad daylight, and as they had no fish to pack, the crew busied themselves in removing the torn net from the beam, and fitting on a new one. At the same time the crews of the other smacks secured their various and varied hauls, cleaned, packed, and got ready for delivery.

The smoke of the steam-carrier was seen on the horizon early in the forenoon, and all the vessels of the fleet made for her, as chickens make for their mother in times of danger.

We may not pause here to describe the picturesque confusion that ensued—the arriving, congregating, tacking, crossing, and re-crossing of smacks; the launching of little boats, and loading them with “trunks;” the concentration of these round the steamer like minnows round a whale; the shipping of the cargo, and the tremendous hurry and energy displayed in the desire to do it quickly, and get the fish fresh to market. Suffice it to say that in less than four hours the steamer was loaded, and Fred Martin, fever-stricken and with a highly inflamed hand and arm, started on a thirty-six hours’ voyage to London.

Then the fleet sheered off and fell into order, the admiral issued his instructions, and away they all went again to continue the hard, unvarying round of hauling and toiling and moiling, in heat and cold, wet and dry, with nothing to lighten the life or cheer the heart save a game at “crib” or “all fives,” or a visit to the coper, that terrible curse of the North Sea.

Chapter Two.

Accidents Afloat and Incidents Ashore.

Now, although it is an undoubted fact that the skippers of the North Sea trawling smacks are first-rate seamen, it is an equally certain fact that strong drink can render them unfit for duty. One of the skippers was, if we may say so, unmanned by drink at the time the fleet sheered off from the steam-carrier, as stated in the last chapter. He was named Georgie Fox—better known in the fleet as Groggy Fox.

Unfortunately for himself as well as others, Skipper Fox had paid a visit to one of the copers the day before for the purpose of laying in a stock of tobacco, which was sold by the skipper of the floating grog-shop at 1 shilling 6 pence a pound. Of course Fox had been treated to a glass of fiery spirits, and had thereafter been induced to purchase a quantity of the same. He had continued to tipple until night, when he retired in a fuddled state to rest. On rising he tippled again, and went on tippling till his fish were put on board the steamer. Then he took the helm of his vessel, and stood with legs very wide apart, an owlish gaze in his eyes, and a look of amazing solemnity on his visage.

When a fleet sheers off from a steam-carrier after delivery of cargo, the sea around is usually very much crowded with vessels, and as these cross and re-cross or run past or alongside of each other before finally settling into the appointed course, there is a good deal of hearty recognition—shouting, questioning, tossing up of arms, and expressions of goodwill—among friends. Several men hailed and saluted Fox as his smack, the Cormorant, went by, but he took no notice except with an idiotic wink of both eyes.

“He’s bin to the coper,” remarked Puffy, as the Cormorant crossed the bow of the Lively Poll. “I say, Lumpy, come here,” he added, as Bob Lumsden came on deck. “Have ’ee got any o’ that coffee left?”

“No, not a drop. I gave the last o’t to Fred Martin just as he was goin’ away.”

“Poor Fred!” said Puffy. “He’s in for suthin’ stiff, I doubt, measles or mulligrumps, if not wuss.”

“A great pity,” remarked Peter Jay, who stood at the helm, “that Martin couldn’t hold out a week longer when our turn comes round to run for Yarmouth.”

“It’s well we got him shipped off to-day,” said Lockley. “That hand of his would have made him useless before another day was out. It’s a long time for a man in his state to be without help, that run up to Lun’on. Port your helm a bit, Jay. Is it the Cormorant that’s yawin’ about there in that fashion?”

“Ay, it’s the Cormorant,” replied Jay. “I seed her just now a’most run foul o’ the Butterfly.”

“She’ll be foul of us. Hi! Look out!” cried Lockley, becoming excited, as he saw the Cormorant change her course suddenly, without apparent reason, and bear straight down upon his vessel.

There was, indeed, no reason for the strange movements of the smack in question, except that there was at the helm a man who had rendered his reason incapable of action. With dull, fishy eyes, that stared idiotically at nothing, his hand on the tiller, and his mind asleep, Georgie Fox stood on the deck of the Cormorant steering.

“Starboard a bit, Jay,” said Lockley, with an anxious look, “she’ll barely clear us.”

As he spoke, Fox moved his helm slightly. It changed the course of his vessel only a little, but that little sufficed to send the cutwater of the Cormorant straight into the port bows of the Lively Poll with a tremendous crash, for a smart breeze was blowing at the time. The bulwarks were cut down to the deck, and, as the Cormorant recoiled and again surged ahead, the bowsprit was carried away, and part of the topmast brought down.

Deep and fierce was the growl that burst from Lockley’s lips at this disaster, but that did not mend matters. The result was that the Lively Poll had to quit the fleet a week before her time of eight weeks afloat was up, and run to Yarmouth for repairs. Next day, however, it fell calm, and several days elapsed before she finally made her port.

Meanwhile Fred Martin reached London, with his feverish complaint greatly aggravated, and his undressed wound much worse. In London he was detained some hours by his employers, and then sent on to Yarmouth, which he reached late in the afternoon, and ultimately in a state of great suffering and exhaustion, made his way to Gorleston, where his mother lived.

With his mind in a species of wild whirl, and acute pains darting through his wounded hand and arm, he wended his way slowly along the road that led to his mother’s house. Perhaps we should style it her attic, for she could claim only part of the house in which she dwelt. From a quaint gable window of this abode she had a view of the sea over the houses in front.

Part of Fred’s route lay along the banks of the Yare, not far from its mouth. At a spot where there were many old anchors and cables, old and new trawl-beams, and sundry other seafaring rusty and tarry objects, the young fisherman met a pretty young girl, who stopped suddenly, and, with her large blue eyes expressing unspeakable surprise, exclaimed, “Fred!”

The youth sprang forward, seized the girl with his uninjured hand, and exclaimed, “Isa!” as he drew her towards him.

“Fred—not here. Behave!” said Isa, holding up a warning finger.

Fred consented to behave—with a promise, however, that he would make up for it at a more fitting time and place.

“But what is the matter!” asked Isa, with an anxious look, laying her pretty little hands on the youth’s arm.

Yes, you need not smile, reader; it is not a perquisite of ladies to have pretty little hands. Isa’s hands were brown, no doubt, like her cheeks, owing to exposure and sunshine, and they were somewhat roughened by honest toil; but they were small and well-shaped, with taper fingers, and their touch was very tender as she clasped them on her lover’s arm.

“Nothing serious,” replied the youth lightly; “only an accident with a fish-bone, but it has got to be pretty bad for want of attention; an’ besides I’m out o’ sorts somehow. No physic, you see, or doctors in our fleet, like the lucky dogs of the Short-Blue. I’ve been knocked up more or less for some weeks past, so they sent me home to be looked after. But I won’t need either physic or doctor now.”

“No? why not?” asked the girl, with a simple look.

“Cause the sight o’ your sweet face does away with the need of either.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Fred.”

“If that’s nonsense,” returned the fisherman, “you’ll never hear me talk sense again as long as I live. But how about mother, Isa? Is she well!”

“Quite well. I have just left her puzzling herself over a letter from abroad that’s so ill-written that it would bother a schoolmaster to read it. I tried to read it, but couldn’t. You’re a good scholar, Fred, so you have come just in time to help her. But won’t she be surprised to see you!”

Thus conversing, and walking rather slowly, the pair made their way to the attic of Mrs Martin, where the unexpected sight of her son threw the patient woman into a great flutter of surprise and pleasure. We use the word “patient” advisedly, for Mrs Martin was one of those wholesome-minded creatures who, having to battle vigorously for the bare necessaries of life in the face of many adverse circumstances, carry on the war with a degree of hearty, sweet-tempered resolution which might put to shame many who are better off in every way. Mrs Martin was a widow and a washerwoman, and had a ne’er-do-well brother, a fisherman, who frequently “sponged” upon her. She also had a mother to support and attend upon, as well as a “bad leg” to endure. True, the attendance on her mother was to the good woman a source of great joy. It constituted one of the few sunbeams of her existence, but it was not on that account the less costly, for the old woman could do nothing whatever to increase the income of the widow’s household—she could not, indeed, move a step without assistance. Her sole occupation was to sit in the attic window and gaze over the sands upon the sea, smiling hopefully, yet with a touch of sadness in the smile; mouthing her toothless gums, and muttering now and then as if to herself, “He’ll come soon now.” Her usual attitude was that of one who listens expectantly.

Thirty years before Granny Martin had stood at the same attic window, an elderly woman even then, looking out upon the raging sea, and muttering anxiously the same words, “He’ll come soon now.” But her husband never came. He was lost at sea. As years flew by, and time as well as grief weakened her mind, the old woman seemed to forget the flight of time, and spent the greater part of every day in the attic window, evidently on the look-out for some one who was to come “soon.” When at last she was unable to walk alone, and had to be half carried to her seat in the attic window by her strong and loving daughter, the sadness seemed to pass away, and her cheery spirit revived under the impression, apparently, that the coming could not be delayed much longer. To every one Granny was condescendingly kind, especially to her grandchild Fred, of whom she was very fond.

Only at intervals was the old woman’s cheerfulness disturbed, and that was during the occasional visits of her ne’er-do-well son Dick, for he was generally drunk or “half-seas-over” when he came. Granny never mentioned his name when he was absent, and for a long time Mrs Martin supposed that she tried to forget him, but her opinion changed on this point one night when she overheard her mother praying with intense earnestness and in affectionate terms that her dear Dick might yet be saved. Still, however much or frequently Granny’s thoughts might at any time be distracted from their main channel, they invariably returned thereto with the cheerful assurance that “he would soon come now.”

“You’re ill, my boy,” said Mrs Martin, after the first greetings were over.

“Right you are, mother,” said the worn-out man, sitting down with a weary sigh. “I’ve done my best to fight it down, but it won’t do.”

“You must have the doctor, Fred.”

“I’ve had the doctor already, mother. I parted with Isa Wentworth at the bottom o’ the stair, an’ she will do me more good than dozens o’ doctors or gallons o’ physic.”

But Fred was wrong.

Not long afterwards the Lively Poll arrived in port, and Stephen Lockley hastened to announce his arrival to his wife.

Now it was the experience of Martha Lockley that if, on his regular return to land for his eight days’ holiday, after his eight weeks’ spell afloat, her handsome and genial husband went straight home, she was wont to have a happy meeting; but if by any chance Stephen first paid a visit to the Blue Boar public-house, she was pretty sure to have a miserable meeting, and a more or less wretched time of it thereafter. A conversation that Stephen had recently had with Fred Martin having made an impression on him—deeper than he chose to admit even to himself—he had made up his mind to go straight home this time.

“I’ll be down by daybreak to see about them repairs,” he said to Peter Jay, as they left the Lively Poll together, “and I’ll go round by your old friend, Widow Mooney’s, and tell her to expect you some time to-night.”

Now Peter Jay was a single man, and lodged with Widow Mooney when on shore. It was not, however, pure consideration for his mate or the widow that influenced Lockley, but his love for the widow’s little invalid child, Eve, for whose benefit that North Sea skipper had, in the kindness of his heart, made a special collection of deep-sea shells, with some shreds of bright bunting.

Little Eve Mooney, thin, wasted, and sad, sat propped up with dirty pillows, in a dirty bed, in a dirtier room, close to a broken and paper-patched window that opened upon a coal-yard with a prospect rubbish-heap beyond.

“Oh, I’m so glad it’s you!” cried Eve, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, as the fisherman entered.

“Yes, Eve, my pretty. I’m back sooner than I expected—and look what I’ve brought you. I haven’t forgot you.”

Joy beamed in the lustrous eyes and on every feature of the thin face as the sick child surveyed the treasures of the deep that Lockley spread on her ragged counterpane.

“How good—how kind of you, Stephen!” exclaimed Eve.

“Kind!” repeated the skipper; “nothing of the sort, Eve. To please you pleases me, so it’s only selfishness. But where’s your mother?”

“Drunk,” said the child simply, and without the most remote intention of injuring her parent’s character. Indeed, that was past injury. “She’s in there.”

The child pointed to a closet, in which Stephen found on the floor a heap of unwomanly rags. He was unable to arouse the poor creature, who slumbered heavily beneath them. Eve said she had been there for many hours.

“She forgot to give me my breakfast before she went in, and I’m too weak to rise and get it for myself,” whimpered Eve, “and I’m so hungry! And I got such a fright, too, for a man came in this morning about daylight and broke open the chest where mother keeps her money and took something away. I suppose he thought I was asleep, for I was too frightened to move, but I could see him all the time. Please will you hand me the loaf before you go? It’s in that cupboard.”

We need scarcely add that Lockley did all that the sick child asked him to do—and more. Then, after watching her till the meal was finished, he rose.

“I’ll go now, my pretty,” he said, “and don’t you be afeared. I’ll soon send some one to look after you. Good-bye.”

Stephen Lockley was unusually thoughtful as he left Widow Mooney’s hut that day, and he took particular care to give the Blue Boar a wide berth on his way home.

Chapter Three.

The Skipper Ashore.

Right glad was Mrs Lockley to find that her husband had passed the Blue Boar without going in on his way home, and although she did not say so, she could not feel sorry for the accident to the Lively Poll, which had sent him ashore a week before his proper time.

Martha Lockley was a pretty young woman, and the proud mother of a magnificent baby, which was bordering on that age when a child begins to have some sort of regard for its own father, and to claim much of his attention.

“Matty,” said Stephen to his wife, as he jolted his daughter into a state of wild delight on his knee, “Tottie is becoming very like you. She’s got the same pretty little turned-up nose, an’ the same huge grey eyes with the wicked twinkle in ’em about the corners.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Stephen, but tell me about this robbery.”

“I know nothin’ about it more than I’ve told ye, Matty. Eve didn’t know the man, and her description of him is confused—she was frightened, poor thing! But I promised to send some one to look after her at once, for her drunken mother isn’t fit to take care of herself, let alone the sick child. Who can I send, think ’ee?”

Mrs Lockley pursed her little mouth, knitted her brows, and gazed thoughtfully at the baby, who, taking the look as personal, made a face at her. Finally she suggested Isabella Wentworth.

“And where is she to be found?” asked the skipper.

“At the Martins’, no doubt,” replied Mrs Lockley, with a meaning look. “She’s been there pretty much ever since poor Fred Martin came home, looking after old granny, for Mrs Martin’s time is taken up wi’ nursing her son. They say he’s pretty bad.”

“Then I’ll go an’ see about it at once,” said Stephen, rising, and setting Tottie down.

He found Isa quite willing to go to Eve, though Mrs Mooney had stormed at her and shut the door in her face on the occasion of her last visit.

“But you mustn’t try to see Fred,” she added. “The doctor says he must be kep’ quiet and see no one.”

“All right,” returned the skipper; “I’ll wait till he’s out o’ quarantine. Good day; I’ll go and tell Eve that you’re coming.”

On his way to Mrs Mooney’s hut Stephen Lockley had again to pass the Blue Boar. This time he did not give it “a wide berth.” There were two roads to the hut, and the shorter was that which passed the public-house. Trusting to the strength of his own resolution, he chose that road. When close to the blue monster, whose creaking sign drew so many to the verge of destruction, and plunged so many over into the gulf, he was met by Skipper Ned Bryce, a sociable, reckless sort of man, of whom he was rather fond. Bryce was skipper of the Fairy, an iron smack, which was known in the fleet as the Ironclad.

“Hullo! Stephen. You here?”

“Ay, a week before my time, Ned. That lubber Groggy Fox ran into me, cut down my bulwarks, and carried away my bowsprit an’ some o’ my top-hamper.”

“Come along—have a glass, an’ let’s hear all about it,” said Bryce, seizing his friend’s arm; but Lockley held back.

“No, Ned,” he said; “I’m on another tack just now.”

“What! not hoisted the blue ribbon, eh!”

“No,” returned Lockley, with a laugh. “I’ve no need to do that.”

“You haven’t lost faith in your own power o’ self-denial surely?”

“No, nor that either, but—but—”

“Come now, none o’ your ‘buts.’ Come along; my mate Dick Martin is in here, an’ he’s the best o’ company.”

“Dick Martin in there!” repeated Lockley, on whom a sudden thought flashed. “Is he one o’ your hands?”

“In course he is. Left the Grimsby fleet a-purpose to j’ine me. Rather surly he is at times, no doubt, but a good fellow at bottom, and great company. You should hear him sing. Come.”

“Oh, I know him well enough by hearsay, but never met him yet.”

Whether it was the urgency of his friend, or a desire to meet with Dick Martin, that shook our skipper’s wavering resolution we cannot tell, but he went into the Blue Boar, and took a glass for good-fellowship. Being a man of strong passions and excitable nerves, this glass produced in him a desire for a second, and that for a third, until he forgot his intended visit to Eve, his promises to his wife, and his stern resolves not to submit any longer to the tyranny of drink. Still, the memory of Mrs Mooney’s conduct, and of the advice of his friend Fred Martin, had the effect of restraining him to some extent, so that he was only what his comrades would have called a little screwed when they had become rather drunk.

There are many stages of drunkenness. One of them is the confidential stage. When Dick Martin had reached this stage he turned with a superhumanly solemn countenance to Bryce and winked.

“If—if you th–think,” said Bryce thickly, “th–that winkin’ suits you, you’re mistaken.”

“Look ’ere,” said Dick, drawing a letter from his pocket with a maudlin leer, and holding it up before his comrade, who frowned at it, and then shook his head—as well he might, for, besides being very illegibly written, the letter was presented to him upside down.

After holding it before him in silence long enough to impress him with the importance of the document, Dick Martin explained that it was a letter which he had stolen from his sister’s house, because it contained “something to his advantage.”

“See here,” he said, holding the letter close to his own eyes, still upside down, and evidently reading from memory: “‘If Mr Frederick Martin will c–call at this office any day next week between 10 an’ 12, h–he will ’ear suthin’ to his ad–advantage. Bounce and Brag, s’licitors.’ There!”

“But you ain’t Fred Martin,” said Bryce, with a look of supreme contempt, for he had arrived at the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness.

“Right you are,” said Martin; “but I’m his uncle. Same name c–’cause his mother m–married her c–cousin; and there ain’t much difference ’tween Dick and Fred—four letters, both of ’em—so if I goes wi’ the letter, an’ says, ‘I’m Fred Martin,’ w’y, they’ll hand over the blunt, or the jewels, or wotiver it is, to me—d’ee see?”

“No, I don’t see,” returned Bryce so irritatingly that his comrade left the confidential stage astern, and requested to know, with an affable air, when Bryce lost his eyesight.

“When I first saw you, and thought you worth your salt,” shouted Bryce, as he brought his fist heavily down on the table.

Both men were passionate. They sprang up, grappled each other by the throat, and fell on the floor. In doing so they let the letter fall. It fluttered to the ground, and Lockley, quietly picking it up, put it in his pocket.

“You’d better look after them,” said Lockley to the landlord, as he paid his reckoning, and went out.

In a few minutes he stood in Widow Mooney’s hut, and found Isa Wentworth already there.

“I’m glad you sent me here,” said the girl, “for Mrs Mooney has gone out—”

She stopped and looked earnestly in Lockley’s face. “You’ve been to the Blue Boar,” she said in a serious tone.

“Yes, lass, I have,” admitted the skipper, but without a touch of resentment. “I did not mean to go, but it’s as well that I did, for I’ve rescued a letter from Dick Martin which seems to be of some importance, an’ he says he stole it from his sister’s house.”

He handed the letter to the girl, who at once recognised it as the epistle over which she and Mrs Martin had puzzled so much, and which had finally been deciphered for them by Dick Martin.

“He must have made up his mind to pretend that he is Fred,” said Isa, “and so get anything that was intended for him.”

“You’re a sharp girl, Isa; you’ve hit the nail fair on the head, for I heard him in his drunken swagger boast of his intention to do that very thing. Now, will you take in hand, lass, to give the letter back to Mrs Martin, and explain how you came by it?”

Of course Isa agreed to do so, and Lockley, turning to Eve, said he would tell her a story before going home.

The handsome young skipper was in the habit of entertaining the sick child with marvellous tales of the sea during his frequent visits, for he was exceedingly fond of her, and never failed to call during his periodical returns to land. His love was well bestowed, for poor Eve, besides being of an affectionate nature, was an extremely imaginative child, and delighted in everything marvellous or romantic. On this occasion, however, he was interrupted at the commencement of his tale by the entrance of his own ship’s cook, the boy Bob Lumsden, alias Lumpy.

“Hullo, Lumpy, what brings you here?” asked the skipper.

But the boy made no answer. He was evidently taken aback at the unexpected sight of the sick child, and the skipper had to repeat his question in a sterner tone. Even then Lumpy did not look at his commander, but, addressing the child, said—

“Beg parding, miss; I wouldn’t have come in if I’d knowed you was in bed, but—”

“Oh, never mind,” interrupted Eve, with a little smile, on seeing that he hesitated; “my friends never see me except in bed. Indeed I live in bed; but you must not think I’m lazy. It’s only that my back’s bad. Come in and sit down.”

“Well, boy,” demanded the skipper again, “were you sent here to find me?”

“Yes, sir,” said Lumpy, with his eyes still fixed on the earnest little face of Eve. “Mister Jay sent me to say he wants to speak to you about the heel o’ the noo bowsprit.”

“Tell him I’ll be aboard in half an hour.”

“I didn’t know before,” said Eve, “that bowsprits have heels.”

At this Lumpy opened his large mouth, nearly shut his small eyes, and was on the point of giving vent to a rousing laugh, when his commander half rose and seized hold of a wooden stool. The boy shut his mouth instantly, and fled into the street, where he let go the laugh which had been thus suddenly checked.

“Well, she is a rum ’un!” he said to himself, as he rolled in a nautical fashion down to the wharf where the Lively Poll was undergoing repairs.

“I think he’s a funny boy, that,” said Eve, as the skipper stooped to kiss her.

“Yes, he is a funny dog. Good-bye, my pretty one.”

“Stay,” said Eve solemnly, as she laid her delicate little hand on the huge brown fist of the fisherman; “you’ve often told me stories, Stephen; I want to tell one to you to-night. You need not sit down; it’s a very, very short one.”

But the skipper did sit down, and listened with a look of interest and expectation as the child began—

“There was once a great, strong, brave man, who was very kind to everybody, most of all to little children. One day he was walking near a river, when a great, fearful, ugly beast, came out of the wood, and seized the man with its terrible teeth. It was far stronger than the dear, good man, and it threw him down, and held him down, till—till it killed him.”

She stopped, and tears filled her soft eyes at the scene she had conjured up.

“Do you know,” she asked in a deeper tone, “what sort of awful beast it was?”

“No; what was it?”

“A Blue Boar,” said the child, pressing the strong hand which she detained.

Lockley’s eyes fell for a moment before Eve’s earnest gaze, and a flush deepened the colour of his bronzed countenance. Then he sprang suddenly up and kissed Eve’s forehead.

“Thank you, my pretty one, for your story, but it an’t just correct, for the man is not quite killed yet and, please God, he’ll escape.”

As he spoke the door of the hut received a severe blow, as if some heavy body had fallen against it. When Isa opened it, a dirty bundle of rags and humanity rolled upon the floor. It was Eve’s mother!

Lifting her up in his strong arms, Lockley carried her into the closet which opened off the outer room, and laid her tenderly on a mattress which lay on the floor. Then, without a word, he left the hut and went home.

It is scarcely necessary to add that he took the longer road on that occasion, and gave a very wide berth indeed to the Blue Boar.

Chapter Four.

Hardships on the Sea.

Fly with us now, good reader, once more out among the breeze-ruffled billows of the North Sea.

It was blowing a fine, fresh, frosty fishing breeze from the nor’-west on a certain afternoon in December. The Admiral—Manx Bradley—was guiding his fleet over that part of the German Ocean which is described on the deep-sea fisherman’s chart as the Swarte, or Black Bank. The trawls were down, and the men were taking it easy—at least, as easy as was compatible with slush-covered decks, a bitter blast, and a rolling sea. If we had the power of extending and intensifying your vision, reader, so as to enable you to take the whole fleet in at one stupendous glance, and penetrate planks as if they were plate glass, we might, perhaps, convince you that in this multitude of deep-sea homes there was carried on that night a wonderful amount of vigorous action, good and bad—largely, if not chiefly bad—under very peculiar circumstances, and that there was room for improvement everywhere.

Strong and bulky and wiry men were gambling and drinking, and singing and swearing; story-telling and fighting, and skylarking and sleeping. The last may be classed appropriately under the head of action, if we take into account the sonorous doings of throats and noses. As if to render the round of human procedure complete, there was at least one man—perhaps more—praying.

Yes, Manx Bradley, the admiral, was praying. And his prayer was remarkably brief, as well as earnest. Its request was that God would send help to the souls of the men whose home was the North Sea. For upwards of thirty years Manx and a few like-minded men had persistently put up that petition. During the last few years of that time they had mingled thanksgiving with the prayer, for a gracious answer was being given. God had put it into the heart of the present Director of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen to inaugurate a system of evangelisation among the heretofore neglected thousands of men and boys who toil upon the North Sea from January to December. Mission or Gospel smacks were purchased, manned by Christian skippers and crews, and sent out to the various fleets, to fish with them during the week, and supply them with medicine for body and soul, with lending libraries of wholesome Christian literature, and with other elevating influences, not least among which was a floating church or meeting-house on Sundays.

But up to the time we write of, Manx Bradley had only been able to rejoice in the blessing as sent to others. It had not yet reached his own fleet, the twelve or thirteen hundred men and boys of which were still left in their original condition of semi-savagery, and exposure to the baleful influences of that pest of the North Sea—the coper.

“You see, Jacob Jones,” said the admiral to the only one of his “hands” who sympathised with him in regard to religion, “if it warn’t for the baccy, them accursed copers wouldn’t be able to keep sich a hold of us. Why, bless you, there’s many a young feller in this fleet as don’t want no grog—especially the vile, fiery stuff the copers sell ’em; but when the Dutchmen offers the baccy so cheap as 1 shilling 6 pence a pound, the boys are only too glad to go aboard and git it. Then the Dutchmen, being uncommon sly dogs, gives ’em a glass o’ their vile brandy for good-fellowship by way of, an’ that flies to their heads, an’ makes ’em want more—d’ee see? An’ so they go on till many of ’em becomes regular topers—that’s where it is, Jacob.”

“Why don’t the mission smacks sell baccy too?” asked Jacob, stamping his feet on the slushy deck to warm them, and beating his right hand on the tiller for the same purpose.

“You’re a knowing fellow,” returned the admiral, with a short laugh; “why, that’s just what they’ve bin considerin’ about at the Head Office—leastwise, so I’m told; an’ if they manage to supply the fleets wi’ baccy at 1 shilling a pound, which is 6 pence less than the Dutchmen do, they’ll soon knock the copers off the North Sea altogether. But the worst of it is that we won’t git no benefit o’ that move till a mission smack is sent to our own fleet, an’ to the half-dozen other fleets that have got none.”

At this point the state of the weather claiming his attention, the admiral went forward, and left Jacob Jones, who was a new hand in the fleet, to his meditations.

One of the smacks which drew her trawl that night over the Swarte Bank not far from the admiral was the Lively Poll—repaired, and rendered as fit for service as ever. Not far from her sailed the Cherub, and the Cormorant, and that inappropriately named Fairy, the “ironclad.”

In the little box of the Lively Poll—which out of courtesy we shall style the cabin—Jim Freeman and David Duffy were playing cards, and Stephen Lockley was smoking. Joe Stubby was drinking, smoking, and grumbling at the weather; Hawkson, a new hand shipped in place of Fred Martin, was looking on. The rest were on deck.

“What’s the use o’ grumblin’, Stub?” said Hawkson, lifting a live coal with his fingers to light his pipe.

“Don’t ‘Stub’ me,” said Stubley in an angry tone.

“Would you rather like me to stab you?” asked Hawkson, with a good-humoured glance, as he puffed at his pipe.

“I’d rather you clapped a stopper on your jaw.”

“Ah—so’s you might have all the jawin’ to yourself?” retorted Hawkson.

Whatever reply Joe Stubley meant to make was interrupted by Jim Freeman exclaiming with an oath that he had lost again, and would play no more. He flung down the cards recklessly, and David Duffy gathered them up, with the twinkling smile of a good-natured victor.

“Come, let’s have a yarn,” cried Freeman, filling his pipe, with the intention of soothing his vanquished spirit.

“Who’ll spin it?” asked Duffy, sitting down, and preparing to add to the fumes of the place. “Come, Stub, you tape it off; it’ll be better occupation than growlin’ at the poor weather, what’s never done you no harm yet though there’s no sayin’ what it may do if you go on as you’ve bin doin’, growlin’ an’ aggravatin’ it.”

“I never spin yarns,” said Stubley.

“But you tell stories sometimes, don’t you?” asked Hawkson.

“No, never.”

“Oh! that’s a story anyhow,” cried Freeman.

“Come, I’ll spin ye one,” said the skipper, in that hearty tone which had an irresistible tendency to put hearers in good humour, and sometimes even raised the growling spirit of Joe Stubley into something like amiability.

“What sort o’ yarn d’ee want, boys?” he asked, stirring the fire in the small stove that warmed the little cabin; “shall it be comical or sentimental?”

“Let’s have a true ghost story,” cried Puffy.

“No, no,” said Freeman, “a hanecdote—that’s what I’m fondest of—suthin’ short an’ sweet, as the little boy said to the stick o’ liquorice.”

“Tell us,” said Stubley, “how it was you come to be saved the night the Saucy Jane went down.”

“Ah! lads,” said Lockley, with a look and a tone of gravity, “there’s no fun in that story. It was too terrible and only by a miracle, or rather—as poor Fred Martin said at the time—by God’s mercy, I was saved.”

“Was Fred there at the time!” asked Duffy.

“Ay, an’ very near lost he was too. I thought he would never get over it.”

“Poor chap!” said Freeman; “he don’t seem to be likely to git over this arm. It’s been a long time bad now.”

“Oh, he’ll get over that,” returned Lockley; “in fact, it’s a’most quite well now, I’m told, an’ he’s pretty strong again—though the fever did pull him down a bit. It’s not that, it’s money, that’s keepin’ him from goin’ afloat again.”

“How’s that?” asked Puffy.

“This is how it was. He got a letter which axed him to call on a lawyer in Lun’on, who told him an old friend of his father had made a lot o’ tin out in Austeralia, an’ he died, an’ left some hundreds o’ pounds—I don’t know how many—to his mother.”

“Humph! that’s just like him, the hypercrit,” growled Joe Stubley; “no sooner comes a breeze o’ good luck than off he goes, too big and mighty for his old business. He was always preachin’ that money was the root of all evil, an’ now he’s found it out for a fact.”

“No, Fred never said that ‘money was the root of all evil,’ you thick-head,” returned Duffy; “he said it was the love of money. Put that in your pipe and smoke it—or rather, in your glass an’ drink it, for that’s the way to get it clearer in your fuddled brain.”

“Hold on, boys; you’re forgettin’ my yarn,” interposed Lockley at this point, for he saw that Stubley was beginning to lose temper. “Well, you must know it was about six years ago—I was little more than a big lad at the time, on board the Saucy Jane, Black Thomson bein’ the skipper. You’ve heard o’ Black Thomson, that used to be so cruel to the boys when he was in liquor, which was pretty nigh always, for it would be hard to say when he wasn’t in liquor? He tried it on wi’ me when I first went aboard, but I was too—well, well, poor fellow, I’ll say nothin’ against him, for he’s gone now.”

“Fred Martin was there at the time, an’ it was wonderful what a hold Fred had over that old sinner. None of us could understand it, for Fred never tried to curry favour with him, an’ once or twice I heard him when he thought nobody was near, givin’ advice to Black Thomson about drink, in his quiet earnest way, that made me expect to see the skipper knock him down. But he didn’t. He took it well—only he didn’t take his advice, but kep’ on drinkin’ harder than ever. Whenever a coper came in sight at that time Thomson was sure to have the boat over the side an’ pay him a visit.

“Well, about this time o’ the year there came one night a most tremendous gale, wi’ thick snow, from the nor’ard. It was all we could do to make out anything twenty fathom ahead of us. The skipper he was lyin’ drunk down below. We was close reefed and laying to with the foresail a-weather, lookin’ out anxiously, for, the fleet bein’ all round and the snow thick, our chances o’ runnin’ foul o’ suthin’ was considerable. When we took in the last reef we could hardly stand to do it, the wind was so strong—an’ wasn’t it freezin’, too! Sharp enough a’most to freeze the nose off your face.

“About midnight the wind began to shift about and came in squalls so hard that we could scarcely stand, so we took in the jib and mizzen, and lay to under the foresail. Of course the hatchways was battened down and tarpaulined, for the seas that came aboard was fearful. When I was standin’ there, expectin’ every moment that we should founder, a sea came and swept Fred Martin overboard. Of course we could do nothing for him—we could only hold on for our lives; but the very next sea washed him right on deck again. He never gave a cry, but I heard him say ‘Praise the Lord!’ in his own quiet way when he laid hold o’ the starboard shrouds beside me.

“Just then another sea came aboard an’ a’most knocked the senses out o’ me. At the same moment I heard a tremendous crash, an’ saw the mast go by the board. What happened after that I never could rightly understand. I grabbed at something—it felt like a bit of plank—and held on tight, you may be sure, for the cold had by that time got such a hold o’ me that I knew if I let go I would go down like a stone. I had scarce got hold of it when I was seized round the neck by something behind me an’ a’most choked.

“I couldn’t look round to see what it was, but I could see a great black object coming straight at me. I knew well it was a smack, an’ gave a roar that might have done credit to a young walrus. The smack seemed to sheer off a bit, an’ I heard a voice shout, ‘Starboard hard! I’ve got him,’ an’ I got a blow on my cocoanut that well-nigh cracked it. At the same time a boat-hook caught my coat collar an’ held on. In a few seconds more I was hauled on board of the Cherub by Manx Bradley, an’ the feller that was clingin’ to my neck like a young lobster was Fred Martin. The Saucy Jane went to the bottom that night.”

“An’ Black Thomson—did he go down with her?” asked Duffy.

“Ay, that was the end of him and all the rest of the crew. The fleet lost five smacks that night.”

“Admiral’s a-signallin’, sir,” said one of the watch on deck, putting his head down the hatch at that moment.

Lockley went on deck at once. Another moment, and the shout came down—“Haul! Haul all!”

Instantly the sleepers turned out all through the fleet. Oiled frocks, sou’-westers, and long boots were drawn on, and the men hurried on the decks to face the sleet-laden blast and man the capstan bars, with the prospect before them of many hours of hard toil—heaving and hauling and fish-cleaning and packing with benumbed fingers—before the dreary winter night should give place to the grey light of a scarcely less dreary day.

Chapter Five.

The Tempter’s Victory.

“I wouldn’t mind the frost or snow, or anything else,” growled Joe Stubley, pausing in the midst of his labours among the fish, “if it warn’t for them sea-blisters. Just look at that, Jim,” he added, turning up the hard sleeve of his oiled coat, and exposing a wrist which the feeble rays of the lantern showed to be badly excoriated and inflamed.

“Ay, it’s an ugly bracelet, an’ I’ve got one myself just begun on my left wrist,” remarked Jim Freeman, also suspending labour for a moment to glance at his mate’s wound. “If our fleet had a mission ship, like some o’ the other fleets, we’d not only have worsted mitts for our wrists, but worsted helmets for our heads an’ necks—to say nothin’ of lotions, pills an’ plasters.”

“If they’d only fetch us them things an’ let alone tracts, Bibles, an’ religion,” returned Stubley, “I’d have no objection to ’em, but what’s the use o’ religion to a drinkin’, swearin’, gamblin’ lot like us?”

“It’s quite clear that your notions about religion are muddled,” said David Duffy, with a short laugh. “Why, what’s the use o’ physic to a sick man, Stubs?”

“To make him wuss,” replied Stubs promptly.

“You might as well argify with a lobster as with Joe Stubs,” said Bob Lumsden, who, although burdened with the cares of the cooking department, worked with the men at cleaning and packing.

“What does a boy like you know about lobsters, ’cept to cook ’em?” growled Stubley. “You mind your pots an’ pans. That’s all your brains are fit for—if you have brains at all. Leave argification to men.”

“That’s just what I was advisin’ Duffy to do, an’ not waste his breath on the likes o’ you,” retorted the boy, with a grin.

The conversation was stopped at this point by the skipper ordering the men to shake out a reef, as the wind was moderating. By the time this was accomplished daybreak was lighting up the eastern horizon, and ere long the pale grey of the cold sea began to warm up a little under the influence of the not yet visible sun.

“Goin’ to be fine,” said Lockley, as he scanned the horizon with his glass.

“Looks like it,” replied the mate.

Remarks were few and brief at that early hour, for the men, being pretty well fagged, preferred to carry on their monotonous work in silence.

As morning advanced the fleet was clearly seen in all directions and at all distances around, holding on the same course as the Lively Poll. Gradually the breeze moderated, and before noon the day had turned out bright and sunny, with only a few thin clouds floating in the wintry sky. By that time the fish-boxes, or trunks, were all packed, and the men availed themselves of the brief period of idleness pending the arrival of the steam-carrier from Billingsgate to eat a hearty breakfast.

This meal, it may be remarked, was a moveable feast, depending very much on the duties in hand and the arrival of the steamer. To get the fish ready and shipped for market is always regarded as his first and all-important duty by the deep-sea trawler, who, until it is performed, will not condescend to give attention to such secondary matters as food and repose. These are usually taken when opportunity serves. Pipes and recreation, in the form of games at cards, draughts, dominoes, and yarns, are also snatched at intervals between the periods of severe toil. Nevertheless, there are times when the fisherman’s experience is very different. When prolonged calms render fishing impossible, then time hangs heavily on his hands, and—in regard to the fleet of which we write and all those similarly circumstanced—the only recreations available are sleeping, drinking, gambling, and yarn-spinning. True, such calms do not frequently occur in winter, but they sometimes do, and one of them prevailed on the afternoon of the particular winter’s day of which we treat.

After the departure of the carrier that day, the wind fell so much that the admiral deemed it advisable not to put down the nets. Before long the light air died away altogether, and the fleet was left floating idly, in picturesque groups and with flapping sails, on the glassy sea.

Among the groups thus scattered about, there was one smack which had quietly joined the fleet when the men were busy transhipping or “ferrying” the fish to the steam-carrier. Its rig was so similar to that of the other smacks that a stranger might have taken it for one of the fleet but the fishermen knew better. It was that enemy of souls, that floating grog-shop, that pirate of the North Sea, the coper.

“Good luck to ’ee,” muttered Joe Stubley, whose sharp, because sympathetic, eye was first to observe the vessel.

“It’s bad luck to you anyhow,” remarked Bob the cook, who chanced to pass at the moment.

“Mind your own business, Lumpy, an’ none o’ your sauce, if you don’t want a rope’s-endin’,” retorted the man.

“Ain’t I just mindin’ my own business? Why, wot is sauce but part of a cook’s business?” returned the boy.

“I won’t go to her,” thought Stephen Lockley, who overheard the conversation, and in whose breast a struggle had been going on, for he also had seen the coper, and, his case-bottle having run dry, he was severely tempted to have it replenished.

“Would it not be as well, skipper, to go aboard o’ the coper, as she’s so near at hand!” said the mate, coming aft at the moment.

“Well, no, Peter; I think it would be as well to drop the coper altogether. The abominable stuff the Dutchmen sell us is enough to poison a shark. You know I’m not a teetotaller, but if I’m to be killed at all, I’d rather be killed by good spirits than bad.”

“Right you are,” replied Jay, “but, you see, a lot of us are hard up for baccy, and—”

“Of course, of course; the men must have baccy,” interrupted the skipper, “an’ we don’t need to buy their vile brandy unless we like. Yes, get the boat out, Jay, an’ we’ll go.”

Stephen Lockley was not the first man who has deceived himself as to his motives. Tobacco was his excuse for visiting the floating den of temptation, but a craving for strong drink was his real motive. This craving had been created imperceptibly, and had been growing by degrees for some years past, twining its octopus arms tighter and tighter round his being, until the strong and hearty young fisherman was slowly but surely becoming an abject slave, though he had fancied himself heretofore as free as the breezes that whistled round his vessel. Now, for the first time, Lockley began to have uncomfortable suspicions about himself. Being naturally bold and candid, he turned sharply round, and, as it were, faced himself with the stern question, “Stephen, are you sure that it’s baccy that tempts you aboard of the coper? Are you clear that schnapps has nothing to do with it?”

It is one of the characteristics of the slavery to which we refer, that although strong-minded and resolute men put pointed questions of this sort to themselves not unfrequently, they very seldom return answers to them. Their once vigorous spirits, it would seem, are still capable of an occasional heave and struggle—a sort of flash in the pan—but that is all. The influence of the depraved appetite immediately weighs them down, and they relapse into willing submission to the bondage. Lockley had not returned an answer to his own question when the mate reported that the boat was ready. Without a word he jumped into her, but kept thinking to himself, “We’ll only get baccy, an’ I’ll leave the coper before the lads can do themselves any harm. I’ll not taste a drop myself—not a single drop o’ their vile stuff.”

The Dutch skipper of the coper had a round fat face and person, and a jovial, hearty manner. He received the visitors with an air of open-handed hospitality which seemed to indicate that nothing was further from his thoughts than gain.

“We’ve come for baccy,” said Lockley, as he leaped over the bulwarks and shook hands, “I s’pose you’ve plenty of that?”

“Ya,” the Dutchman had “plenty tabac—ver sheep too, an’ mit sooch a goot vlavour!”

He was what the Yankees would call a ’cute fellow, that Dutchman. Observing the emphasis with which Lockley mentioned tobacco, he understood at once that the skipper did not want his men to drink, and laid his snares accordingly.

“Com’,” he said, in a confidential tone, taking hold of Lockley’s arm, “com’ b’low, an’ you shall zee de tabac, an’ smell him yourself.”

Our skipper accepted the invitation, went below, and was soon busy commenting on the weed, which, as the Dutchman truly pointed out, was “so sheep as well as goot.” But another smell in that cabin overpowered that of the tobacco. It was the smell of Hollands, or some sort of spirit, which soon aroused the craving that had gained such power over the fisherman.

“Have some schnapps!” said the Dutch skipper, suddenly producing a case-bottle as square as himself, and pouring out a glass.

“No, thank ’ee,” said Stephen firmly.

“No!” exclaimed the other, with well-feigned surprise. “You not drink?”

“Oh yes, I drink,” replied Lockley, with a laugh, “but not to-day.”

“I not ask you to buy,” rejoined the tempter, holding the spirits a little nearer to his victim’s nose. “Joost take von leetle glass for goot vellowship.”

It seemed rude to decline a proposal so liberally made, and with such a smiling countenance. Lockley took the glass, drank it off and went hurriedly on deck, followed by the Dutchman, with the case-bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. Of course the men had no objection to be treated. They had a small glass all round.

“That’s the stuff for my money!” cried Stubley, smacking his lips. “I say, old chap, let’s have a bottle of it. None o’ your thimblefuls for me. I like a good swig when I’m at it.”

“You’d better wait till we get aboard, Joe, before you begin,” suggested Lockley, who was well aware of Joe’s tendencies.

Joe admitted the propriety of this advice, but said he would treat his mates to one glass before starting, by “way o’ wetting their whistles.”

“Ya, joost von glass vor vet deir vistles,” echoed the Dutchman, with a wink and a look which produced a roar of laughter. The glass was accepted by all, including Lockley, who had been quite demoralised by the first glass.

The victory was gained by the tempter for that time at least. The fishermen who went for baccy, remained for schnapps, and some of them were very soon more than half drunk. It was a fierce, maddening kind of spirit, which produced its powerful effects quickly.

The skipper of the Lively Poll kept himself better in hand than his men, but, being very sociable in disposition, and finding the Dutchman a humorous and chatty fellow, he saw no reason to hurry them away. Besides, his vessel was close alongside, and nothing could be done in the fishing way during the dead calm that prevailed.

While he and his men were engaged in a lively conversation about nothing in particular—though they were as earnest over it as if the fate of empires depended on their judgment—the Dutch skipper rose to welcome another boat’s crew, which approached on the other side of the coper. So eager and fuddled were the disputants of the Lively Poll that they did not at first observe the newcomers.

It was the Fairy’s boat, with Dick Martin in charge.

“Hallo, Dick, mein boy; gif me your vlipper.”

A sign from Martin induced the Dutchman to lean over the side and speak in lower tones.

“Let’s have a keg of it,” said Dick, with a mysterious look. “Ned Bryce sent me for a good supply, an’ here’s fish to pay for it.”

The fish—which of course belonged to the owner of the Fairy, not to Ned Bryce—were quickly passed up, and a keg of spirits passed down. Then the Dutchman asked if Dick or his men wanted tabac or schnapps for themselves.

“I vill take jersey, or vish, or sail, or boots, or vat you please in exchange. Com’ aboard, anyhow, an’ have von leetle glass.”

Dick and his men having thus smartly transacted their chief business, leaped on deck, made fast their painter, let the boat drop astern, and were soon smoking and drinking amicably with the crew of the Lively Poll. Not long afterwards they were quarrelling. Then Dick Martin, who was apt to become pugnacious over his liquor, asserted stoutly that something or other “was.” Joe Stubley swore that it “was not,” whereupon Dick Martin planted his fist on Joe Stubley’s nose and laid its growly owner flat on the deck.

Starting up, Joe was about to retaliate, when Lockley, seizing him by the neck thrust him over the side into the boat, and ordered his more or less drunken crew to follow. They did so with a bad grace, but the order was given in a tone which they well understood must not be disobeyed.

As they pushed off, Stubley staggered and fell into the sea. Another moment and he would have been beyond all human aid, but Lockley caught a glimpse of his shaggy black head as it sank. Plunging his long right arm down, and holding on to the boat with his left, he caught the drowning man by the hair. Strong and willing arms helped, and Stubley was hauled inboard—restored to life, opportunity, and hope—and flung into the bottom of the boat.

The oars were shipped, and they pulled for the Lively Poll. As they rode away they saw that other boats were proceeding towards the coper. The men in them were all anxious to buy baccy. No mention was made of drink. Oh dear no! They cared nothing for that, though, of course, they had no sort of objection to accept the wily Dutchman’s generous offer of “von leetle glass vor goot vellowship.”

Chapter Six.

The Power of Sympathy.

One fine afternoon, not long after the visit to the coper, Bob Lumsden, alias Lumpy, was called from his culinary labours to assist in hauling in the net.

Now it is extremely interesting to note what a wonderful effect the power of loving sympathy can have on a human being. Lumpy was a human being—though some of his mates insisted that he must have been descended from a cod-fish, because his mouth was so large. No doubt it was, and when the boy laughed heartily he was, indeed, apt to remind one of that fish; nevertheless it was a good, well-shaped mouth, though large, with a kindly expression about it, and a set of splendid white teeth inside of it. But, whether human or fishy in his nature, Bob Lumsden had been overwhelmed by a flood of sympathy ever since that memorable day when he had first caught a glimpse of the sweet, pale face of the little invalid Eve Mooney. It was but a brief glimpse, yet it had opened a new sluice in Lumpy’s heart through which the waters of tenderness gushed in a wild torrent.

One of the curious results of this flood was that Bob was always more prompt to the summons to haul up the trawl than he had ever been before, more energetic in clawing the net inboard, and more eager to see and examine the contents of the cod-end. The explanation is simple. He had overheard his skipper say how fond Eve was of shells—especially of those which came from the bottom of the North Sea, and of all sorts of pretty and curious things, wherever they came from.

From that hour Bob Lumpy became a diligent collector of marine curiosities, and the very small particular corner of the vessel which he called his own became ere long quite a museum. They say that sympathy is apt to grow stronger between persons of opposite constitutions. If this be so, perhaps it was his nature—his bold, hearty, gushing, skylarking spirit, his strong rugged frame, his robust health, his carroty hair, his appley cheeks, his eagle nose, his flashing eyes—that drew him so powerfully to the helpless, tender little invalid, with her delicate frame and pale cheeks, straight little nose, bud of a mouth, and timid, though by no means cowardly, spirit.

On another occasion Bob overheard Lockley again talking about Eve. “I’m sorry for the poor thing,” he said to Peter Jay, as they paced the deck together; “she’s got such a wretched home, an’ her mother’s such a drunken bru—”

Lockley checked himself, and did not finish the sentence.

“The doctor says,” he resumed, “that if Eve had only a bath-chair or suthin’ o’ that sort, to get wheeled about in the fresh air, she’d very likely get better as she growed older—specially if she had good victuals. You see, small as she is, and young as she looks, she’s over fifteen. But even if she had the chair, poor thing! who would wheel it for her? It would be no use unless it was done regular, an’ her mother can’t do it—or won’t.”

From that hour Bob Lumpy became a miser. He had been a smoker like the rest of the crew, but he gave up “baccy.” He used to take an occasional glass of beer or spirits when on shore or on board the copers, but he became a total abstainer, much to his own benefit in every way, and as a result he became rich—in an extremely small way.

There was a very small, thin, and dirty, but lively and intelligent boy in Yarmouth, who loved Bob Lumsden better, if possible, than himself. His name was Pat Stiver. The affection was mutual. Bob took this boy into his confidence.

One day, a considerable time after Bob’s discovery of Eve, Pat, having nothing to do, sauntered to the end of Gorleston Pier, and there to his inexpressible joy, met his friend. Before he had recovered sufficiently from surprise to utter a word, Bob seized him by the arms, lifted him up, and shook him.

“Take care, Lumpy,” cried the boy, “I’m wery tender, like an over-young chicken. You’d better set me down before I comes in pieces.”

“Why, Stiver, you’re the very man I was thinkin’ of,” said Lumpy, setting the boy on the edge of the pier, and sitting down beside him.

Stiver looked proud, and felt six inches taller.

“Listen,” said Bob, with an earnest look that was apt to captivate his friends; “I want help. Will you do somethin’ for me?”

“Anything,” replied the boy with emphasis, “from pitch and toss to manslaughter!”

“Well, look here. You know Eve Mooney?”

“Do I know the blessedest angel in all Gorleston? In course I does. Wot of her?”

“She’s ill—very ill,” said Lumpy.

“You might as well tell me, when it’s daytime, that the sun’s up,” returned Pat.

“Don’t be so awful sharp, Stiver, else I’ll have to snub you.”

“Which you’ve on’y got to frown, Bob Lumpy, an’ the deed’s done.”

Bob gave a short laugh, and then proceeded to explain matters to his friend: how he had been saving up his wages for some time past to buy a second-hand bath-chair for Eve, because the doctor had said it would do her so much good, especially if backed up with good victuals.

“It’s the wittles as bothers me, Stiver,” said Bob, regarding his friend with a puzzled expression.

“H’m! well,” returned the small boy seriously, “wittles has bothered me too, off an’ on, pretty well since I was born, though I’m bound to confess I does get a full blow-out now an’—”

“Hold on, Stiver; you’re away on the wrong tack,” cried Bob, interrupting. “I don’t mean the difficulty o’ findin’ wittles, but how to get Eve to take ’em.”

“Tell her to shut her eyes an’ open her mouth, an’ then shove ’em in,” suggested Pat.

“I’ll shove you into the sea if you go on talking balderdash,” said Bob. “Now, look here, you hain’t got nothin’ to do, have you!”

“If you mean in the way o’ my purfession, Bob, you’re right. I purfess to do anything, but nobody as yet has axed me to do nothin’. In the ways o’ huntin’ up wittles, howsever, I’ve plenty to do. It’s hard lines, and yet I ain’t extravagant in my expectations. Most coves require three good meals a day, w’ereas I’m content with one. I begins at breakfast, an’ I goes on a-eatin’ promiskoously all day till arter supper—w’en I can get it.”

“Just so, Stiver. Now, I want to engage you professionally. Your dooties will be to hang about Mrs Mooney’s but in an offhand, careless sort o’ way, like them superintendent chaps as git five or six hundred a year for doin’ nuffin, an’ be ready at any time to offer to give Eve a shove in the chair. But first you’ll have to take the chair to her, an’ say it was sent to her from—”

“Robert Lumsden, Esquire,” said Pat, seeing that his friend hesitated.

“Not at all, you little idiot,” said Bob sharply. “You mustn’t mention my name on no account.”

“From a gentleman, then,” suggested Pat.

“That might do; but I ain’t a gentleman, Stiver, an’ I can’t allow you to go an’ tell lies.”

“I’d like to know who is if you ain’t,” returned the boy indignantly. “Ain’t a gentleman a man wot’s gentle? An’ w’en you was the other day a-spreadin’ of them lovely shells, an’ crabs, an’ sea-goin’ kooriosities out on her pocket-hankercher, didn’t I see that you was gentle?”

“I’ll be pretty rough on you, Pat, in a minit, if you don’t hold your jaw,” interrupted Bob, who, however, did not seem displeased with his friend’s definition of a gentleman. “Well, you may say what you like, only be sure you say what’s true. An’ then you’ll have to take some nice things as I’ll get for her from time to time w’en I comes ashore. But there’ll be difficulties, I doubt, in the way of gettin’ her to take wittles w’en she don’t know who they comes from.”

“Oh, don’t you bother your head about that,” said Pat. “I’ll manage it. I’m used to difficulties. Just you leave it to me, an’ it’ll be all right.”

“Well, I will, Pat; so you’ll come round with me to the old furnitur’ shop in Yarmouth, an’ fetch the chair. I got it awful cheap from the old chap as keeps the shop w’en I told him what it was for. Then you’ll bring it out to Eve, an’ try to git her to have a ride in it to-day, if you can. I’ll see about the wittles arter. Hain’t quite worked that out in my mind yet. Now, as to wages. I fear I can’t offer you none—”

“I never axed for none,” retorted Pat proudly.

“That’s true Pat; but I’m not a-goin’ to make you slave for nuthin’. I’ll just promise you that I’ll save all I can o’ my wages, an’ give you what I can spare. You’ll just have to trust me as to that.”

“Trust you, Bob!” exclaimed Pat, with enthusiasm, “look here, now; this is how the wind blows. If the Prime Minister o’ Rooshia was to come to me in full regimentals an’ offer to make me capting o’ the Horse Marines to the Hemperor, I’d say, ‘No thankee, I’m engaged,’ as the young woman said to the young man she didn’t want to marry.”

The matter being thus satisfactorily settled, Bob Lumsden and his little friend went off to Yarmouth, intent on carrying out the first part of their plan.

It chanced about the same time that another couple were having a quiet chat together in the neighbourhood of Gorleston Pier. Fred Martin and Isa Wentworth had met by appointment to talk over a subject of peculiar interest to themselves. Let us approach and become eavesdroppers.

“Now, Fred,” said Isa, with a good deal of decision in her tone, “I’m not at all satisfied with your explanation. These mysterious and long visits you make to London ought to be accounted for, and as I have agreed to become your wife within the next three or four months, just to please you, the least you can do, I think, is to have no secrets from me. Besides, you have no idea what the people here and your former shipmates are saying about you.”

“Indeed, dear lass, what do they say?”

“Well, they say now you’ve got well they can’t understand why you should go loafing about doin’ nothin’ or idling your time in London, instead of goin’ to sea.”

“Idlin’ my time!” exclaimed Fred with affected indignation. “How do they know I’m idlin’ my time? What if I was studyin’ to be a doctor or a parson?”

“Perhaps they’d say that was idlin’ your time, seein’ that you’re only a fisherman,” returned Isa, looking up in her lover’s face with a bright smile. “But tell me, Fred, why should you have any secret from me?”

“Because, dear lass, the thing that gives me so much pleasure and hope is not absolutely fixed, and I don’t want you to be made anxious. This much I will tell you, however: you know I passed my examination for skipper when I was home last time, and now, through God’s goodness, I have been offered the command of a smack. If all goes well, I hope to sail in her next week; then, on my return, I hope to—to take the happiest. Well, well, I’ll say no more about that, as we’re gettin’ near mother’s door. But tell me, Isa, has Uncle Martin been worrying mother again when I was away?”

“No. When he found out that you had got the money that was left to her, and had bought an annuity for her with it, he went away, and I’ve not seen him since.”

“That’s well. I’m glad of that.”

“But am I to hear nothing more about this smack, not even her name?”

“Nothing more just now, Isa. As to her name, it’s not yet fixed. But, trust me, you shall know all in good time.”

As they had now reached the foot of Mrs Martin’s stair, the subject was dropped.

They found the good woman in the act of supplying Granny Martin with a cup of tea. There was obvious improvement in the attic. Sundry little articles of luxury were there which had not been there before.

“You see, my boy,” said Mrs Martin to Fred, as they sat round the social board, “now that the Lord has sent me enough to get along without slavin’ as I used—to do, I takes more time to make granny comfortable, an’ I’ve got her a noo chair, and noo specs, which she was much in want of, for the old uns was scratched to that extent you could hardly see through ’em, besides bein’ cracked across both eyes. Ain’t they much better, dear?”

The old woman, seated in the attic window, turned her head towards the tea-table and nodded benignantly once or twice; but the kind look soon faded into the wonted air of patient contentment, and the old head turned to the sea as the needle turns to the pole, and the soft murmur was heard, “He’ll come soon now.”

Chapter Seven.

A Rescue.

Never was there a fishing smack more inappropriately named than the Fairy,—that unwieldy iron vessel which the fleet, in facetious content, had dubbed the “Ironclad,” and which had the honour of being commanded by that free and easy, sociable—almost too sociable—skipper, Ned Bryce.

She was steered by Dick Martin on the day of which we now write. Dick, as he stood at the helm, with stern visage, bloodshot eyes, and dissipated look, was not a pleasant object of contemplation, but as he played a prominent part in the proceedings of that memorable day, we are bound to draw attention to him. Although he had spent a considerable portion of the night with his skipper in testing the quality of some schnapps which they had recently procured from a coper, he had retained his physical and mental powers sufficiently for the performance of his duties. Indeed, he was one of those so-called seasoned casks, who are seldom or never completely disabled by drink, although thoroughly enslaved, and he was now quite competent to steer the Fairy in safety through the mazes of that complex dance which the deep-sea trawlers usually perform on the arrival of the carrying-steamer.

What Bryce called a chopping and a lumpy sea was running. It was decidedly rough, though the breeze was moderate, so that the smacks all round were alternately presenting sterns and bowsprits to the sky in a violent manner that might have suggested the idea of a rearing and kicking dance. When the carrier steamed up to the Admiral, and lay to beside him, and the smacks drew towards her from all points of the compass, the mazes of the dance became intricate, and the risk of collisions called for careful steering.

Being aware of this, and being himself not quite so steady about the head as he could wish, Skipper Bryce looked at Martin for a few seconds, and then ordered him to go help to launch the boat and get the trunks out, and send Phil Morgan aft.

Phil was not a better seaman than Dick, but he was a more temperate man, therefore clearer brained and more dependable.

Soon the smacks were waltzing and kicking round each other on every possible tack, crossing and re-crossing bows and sterns; sometimes close shaving, out and in, down-the-middle-and-up-again fashion, which, to a landsman, might have been suggestive of the ’bus, cab, and van throng in the neighbourhood of that heart of the world, the Bank of England.

Sounds of hailing and chaffing now began to roll over the North Sea from many stentorian lungs.

“What cheer? what cheer?” cried some in passing.

“Hallo, Tim! how are ’ee, old man! What luck?”

“All right, Jim; on’y six trunks.”

“Ha! that’s ’cause ye fished up a dead man yesterday.”

“Is that you, Ted?”

“Ay, ay, what’s left o’ me—worse luck. I thought your mother was goin’ to keep you at home this trip to mind the babby.”

“So she was, boy, but the babby fell into a can o’ buttermilk an’ got drownded, so I had to come off again, d’ee see?”

“What cheer, Groggy Fox? Have ’ee hoisted the blue ribbon yet?”

“No, Stephen Lockley, I haven’t, nor don’t mean to, but one o’ the fleet seems to have hoisted the blue flag.”

Groggy Fox pointed to one of the surrounding vessels as he swept past in the Cormorant.

Lockley looked round in haste, and, to his surprise, saw floating among the smaller flags, at a short distance, the great twenty-feet flag of a mission vessel, with the letters MDSF (Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen) on it, in white on a blue ground.

“She must have lost her reckoning,” muttered Lockley, as he tried to catch sight of the vessel to which the flag belonged—which was not easy, owing to the crowd of smacks passing to and fro between it and him.

Just at that moment a hearty cheer was heard to issue from the Admiral’s smack, the Cherub. At the same time the boat of the Lively Poll was launched into the sea, Duffy and Freeman and another hand tumbled into her, and the skipper had to give his undivided attention to the all-important matter of transhipping the fish.

Dozens of boats were by that time bobbing like corks on the heaving sea, all making for the attendant steamer. Other dozens, which had already reached her, were clinging on—the men heaving the fish-boxes aboard,—while yet others were pushing off from the smacks last arrived to join the busy swarm.

Among these was the boat of the Fairy, with Dick Martin and two men aboard. It was heavily laden—too heavily for such a sea—for their haul on the previous night had been very successful.

North Sea fishermen are so used to danger that they are apt to despise it. Both Bryce and Martin knew they had too many trunks in the boat, but they thought it a pity to leave five or six behind, and be obliged to make two trips for so small a number, where one might do. Besides, they could be careful. And so they were—very careful; yet despite all their care they shipped a good deal of water, and the skipper stood on the deck of the Fairy watching them with some anxiety. Well he might, for so high were the waves that not only his own boat but all the others kept disappearing and re-appearing continually as they rose on the crests or sank into the hollows.

But Skipper Bryce had eyes for only one boat. He saw it rise to view and disappear steadily, regularly, until it was about half-way to the steamer; then suddenly it failed to rise, and next moment three heads were seen amid the tumultuous waters where the boat should have been.

With a tremendous shout Bryce sprang to the tiller and altered the vessel’s course, but as the wind blew he knew well it was not in his power to render timely aid. That peculiar cry which tells so unmistakably of deadly disaster was raised from the boats nearest to that which had sunk, and they were rowed towards the drowning men, but the boats were heavy and slow of motion. Already they were too late, for two out of the three men had sunk to rise no more—dragged down by their heavy boots and winter clothing. Only one continued the struggle. It was Dick Martin. He had grasped an oar, and, being able to swim, kept his head up. The intense cold of the sea, however, would soon have relaxed even his iron grip, and he would certainly have perished, had it not been that the recently arrived mission vessel chanced to be a very short distance to windward of him. A slight touch of the helm sent her swiftly to his side. A rope was thrown. Martin caught it. Ready hands and eager hearts were there to grasp and rescue. In another moment he was saved, and the vessel swept on to mingle with the other smacks—for Martin was at first almost insensible, and could not tell to which vessel of the fleet he belonged.

Yes, the bad man was rescued, though no one would have sustained much loss by his death; but in Yarmouth that night there was one woman, who little thought that she was a widow, and several little ones who knew not that they were fatherless. The other man who perished was an unmarried youth, but he left an invalid mother to lifelong mourning over the insatiable greed of the cold North Sea.

Little note was taken of this event in the fleet. It was, in truth, a by no means unusual disaster. If fish are to be found, fair weather or foul, for the tables on land, lives must be risked and lost in the waters of the sea. Loss of life in ferrying the fish being of almost daily occurrence, men unavoidably get used to it, as surgeons do to suffering and soldiers to bloodshed. Besides, on such occasions, in the great turmoil of winds and waves, and crowds of trawlers and shouting, it may be only a small portion of the fleet which is at first aware that disaster has occurred, and even these must not, cannot, turn aside from business at such times to think about the woes of their fellow-men.

Meanwhile Dick Martin had fallen, as the saying is, upon his feet. He was carried into a neatly furnished cabin, put between warm blankets in a comfortable berth, and had a cup of steaming hot coffee urged upon him by a pleasant-voiced sailor, who, while he inquired earnestly as to how he felt, at the same time thanked the Lord fervently that they had been the means of saving his life.

Chapter Eight.

Tells of more than one Surprise.

“Was that your boat that went down?” shouted Groggy Fox of the Cormorant, as he sailed past the Fairy, after the carrying-steamer had left, and the numerous fishing-smacks were gradually falling into order for another attack on the finny hosts of the sea.

They were almost too far apart for the reply to be heard, and possibly Bryce’s state of mind prevented his raising his voice sufficiently, but it was believed that the answer was “Yes.”

“Poor fellows!” muttered Fox, who was a man of tender feelings, although apt to feel more for himself than for any one else.

“I think Dick Martin was in the boat,” said the mate of the Cormorant, who stood beside his skipper. “I saw them when they shoved off, and though it was a longish distance, I could make him out by his size, an’ the fur cap he wore.”

“Well, the world won’t lose much if he’s gone,” returned Fox; “he was a bad lot.”

It did not occur to the skipper at that time that he himself was nearly, if not quite, as bad a “lot.” But bad men are proverbially blind to their own faults.

“He was a cross-grained fellow,” returned the mate, “specially when in liquor, but I never heard no worse of ’im than that.”

“Didn’t you?” said Fox; “didn’t you hear what they said of ’im at Gorleston?—that he tried to do his sister out of a lot o’ money as was left her by some cove or other in furrin parts. An’ some folk are quite sure that it was him as stole the little savin’s o’ that poor widdy, Mrs Mooney, though they can’t just prove it agin him. Ah, he is a bad lot, an’ no mistake. But I may say that o’ the whole bilin’ o’ the Martins. Look at Fred, now.”

“Well, wot of him?” asked the mate, in a somewhat gruff tone.

“What of him!” repeated the skipper, “ain’t he a hypocrite, with his smooth tongue an’ his sly ways, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, an’ now—where is he?”

“Well, where is he!” demanded the mate, with increasing gruffness.

“Why, in course nobody knows where he is,” retorted the skipper; “that’s where it is. No sooner does he get a small windfall—leastwise, his mother gets it—than he cuts the trawlers, an’ all his old friends without so much as sayin’ ‘Good-bye,’ an’ goes off to Lunnon or somewheres, to set up for a gentleman, I suppose.”

“I don’t believe nothin’ o’ the sort,” returned the mate indignantly. “Fred Martin may be smooth-tongued and shy if you like, but he’s no hypercrite—”

“Hallo! there’s that mission ship on the lee bow,” cried Fox, interrupting his mate, and going over to the lee side of the smack, whence he could see the vessel with the great blue flag clearly. “Port your helm,” he added in a deep growl to the man who steered. “I’ll give her a wide berth.”

“If she was the coper you’d steer the other way,” remarked the mate, with a laugh.

“In course I would,” retorted Fox, “for there I’d find cheap baccy and brandy.”

“Ay, bad brandy,” said the mate; “but, skipper, you can get baccy cheaper aboard the mission ships now than aboard the coper.”

“What! at a shillin’ a pound?”

“Ay, at a shillin’ a pound.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“But it’s a fact,” returned the mate firmly, “for Simon Brooks, as was in the Short-Blue fleet last week, told me it’s a noo regulation—they’ve started the sale o’ baccy in the Gospel ships, just to keep us from going to the copers.”

“That’ll not keep me from going to the copers,” said Groggy Fox, with an oath.

“Nor me,” said his mate, with a laugh; “but, skipper, as we are pretty nigh out o’ baccy just now, an’ as the mission ship is near us, an’ the breeze down, I don’t see no reason why we shouldn’t go aboard an’ see whether the reports be true. We go to buy baccy, you know, an’ we’re not bound to buy everything the shop has to sell! We don’t want their religion, an’ they can’t force it down our throats whether we will or no.”

Groggy Fox vented a loud laugh at the bare supposition of such treatment of his throat, admitted that his mate was right, and gave orders to launch the boat. In a few minutes they were rowing over the still heaving but now somewhat calmer sea, for the wind had fallen suddenly, and the smacks lay knocking about at no great distance from each other.

It was evident from the bustle on board many of them, and the launching of boats over their bulwarks, that not a few of the men intended to take advantage of this unexpected visit of a mission vessel. No doubt their motives were various. Probably some went, like the men of the Cormorant, merely for baccy; some for medicine; others, perhaps, out of curiosity; while a few, no doubt, went with more or less of desire after the “good tidings,” which they were aware had been carried to several of the other fleets that laboured on the same fishing-grounds.

Whatever the reasons, it was evident that a goodly number of men were making for the vessel with the great blue flag. Some had already reached her; more were on their way. The Cormorant’s boat was among the last to arrive.

“What does MDSF stand for?” asked Skipper Fox, as they drew near.

“Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen,” answered the mate, whose knowledge on this and other points of the Mission were due to his intercourse with his friend Simon Brooks of the Short-Blue. “But it means more than that,” he continued. “When we are close enough to make ’em out, you’ll see little letters above the MDSF which make the words I’ve just told you, an’ there are little letters below the MDSF which make the words Mighty Deliverer, Saviour, Friend.”

“Ay! That’s a clever dodge,” observed Groggy Fox, who, it need hardly be said, was more impressed with the ingenuity of the device than with the grand truth conveyed.

“But I say, mate, they seems to be uncommonly lively aboard of her.”

This was obviously the case, for by that time the boat of the Cormorant had come so near to the vessel that they could not only perceive the actions of those on board, but could hear their voices. The curiosity of Skipper Fox and his men was greatly roused, for they felt convinced that the mere visit of a passing mission ship did not fully account for the vigorous hand-shakings of those on the deck, and the hearty hailing of newcomers, and the enthusiastic cheers of some at least of the little boats’ crews as they pulled alongside.

“Seems to me as if they’ve all gone mad,” remarked Groggy Fox, with a sarcastic grin.

“I would say they was all drunk, or half-seas over,” observed the mate, “if it was a coper, but in a Gospel ship that’s impossible, ’cause they’re teetotal, you know. Isn’t that the boat o’ the Admiral that’s pullin’ alongside just now, skipper?”

“Looks like it, mate. Ay, an’ that’s Stephen Lockley of the Lively Poll close astarn of ’im—an’ ain’t they kickin’ up a rumpus now!”

Fox was right, for when the two little boats referred to ranged alongside of the vessel, and the men scrambled up the side on to her deck, there was an amount of greeting, and hand-shaking, and exclaiming in joyful surprise, which threw all previous exhibitions in that way quite into the shade, and culminated in a mighty cheer, the power of which soft people with shore-going throats and lungs and imaginations cannot hope to emulate or comprehend!

The cheer was mildly repeated with mingled laughter when the crowd on deck turned to observe the arrival of the Cormorant’s boat.

“Why, it’s the skipper o’ the Ironclad!” exclaimed a voice. “No, it’s not. It’s the skipper o’ the Cormorant,” cried another.

“What cheer? what cheer, Groggy Fox?” cried a third, as the boat swooped alongside, and several strong arms were extended. “Who’d have looked for you here? There ain’t no schnapps.”

“All right, mates,” replied Fox, with an apologetic smile, as he alighted on the deck and looked round; “I’ve come for baccy.”

A short laugh greeted this reply, but it was instantly checked, for at the moment Fred Martin stepped forward, grasped the skipper’s horny hand, and shook it warmly, as well as powerfully, for Fred was a muscular man, and had fully recovered his strength.

“You’ve come to the right shop for baccy,” he said; “I’ve got plenty o’ that, besides many other things much better. I bid you heartily welcome on board of the Sunbeam in the name of the Lord!”

For a few seconds the skipper of the Cormorant could not utter a word. He gazed at Fred Martin with his mouth partially, and his eyes wide, open. The thought that he was thus cordially received by the very man whose character he had so lately and so ungenerously traduced had something, perhaps, to do with his silence.

“A–are—are you the skipper o’ this here wessel!” he stammered.

“Ay, through God’s goodness I am.”

“A mission wessel!” said Fox, his amazement not a whit abated as he looked round.

“Just so, a Gospel ship,” answered Fred, giving the skipper another shake of the hand.

“You didn’t mistake it for a coper, did ’ee?” asked David Duffy, who was one of the visitors.

The laugh which followed this question drowned Groggy Fox’s reply.

“And you’ll be glad to hear,” said Fred, still addressing Fox, “that the Sunbeam is a new mission ship, and has been appointed to do service for God in this fleet and no other; so you’ll always be able to have books and baccy, mitts, helmets, comforters, medicines, and, best of all, Bibles and advice for body and soul, free gratis when you want ’em.”

“But where’s the doctor to give out the medicines,” asked Fox, who began to moderate his gaze as he recovered self-possession.

“Well, mate,” answered Fred, with a bashful air, “I am doctor as well as skipper. Indeed, I’m parson too—a sort of Jack-of-all-trades! I’m not full fledged of course, but on the principle, I fancy, that ‘half a loaf is better than no bread,’ I’ve been sent here after goin’ through a short course o’ trainin’ in surgery—also in divinity; something like city missionaries and Scripture-readers; not that trainin’, much or little, would fit any man for the great work unless he had the love of the Master in his heart. But I trust I have that.”

“You have, Fred, thank God!” said the Admiral of the fleet.

“And now, Skipper Fox,” continued Fred facetiously, “as I’m a sort of doctor, you must allow me to prescribe something for your complaint. Here, boy,” he added, hailing one of his crew, “fetch Skipper Fox a draught o’ that physic—the brown stuff that you keep in the kettle.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered a youthful voice, and in another minute Pat Stiver forced his way through the crowd, bearing in his hand a large cup or bowl of coffee.

“It’s not exactly the tipple I’m used to,” said Fox, accepting the cup with a grin, and wisely resolving to make the best of circumstances, all the more readily that he observed other visitors had been, or still were, enjoying the same beverage. “Howsever, it’s not to be expected that sick men shall have their physic exactly to their likin’, so I thank ’ee all the same, Dr Martin!”

This reply was received with much approval, and the character of Groggy Fox immediately experienced a considerable rise in the estimation of his comrades of the fleet.

Attention was drawn from him just then by the approach of another boat.

“There is some genuine surgeon’s work coming to you in that boat, Fred, if I mistake not,” remarked Stephen Lockley, as he stood beside his old friend.

“Hasn’t that man in the stern got his head tied up?”

“Looks like it.”

“By the way, what of your uncle, Dick Martin?” asked the Admiral. “It was you that picked him up, wasn’t it?”

This reference to the sad event which had occurred that morning solemnised the fishermen assembled on the Sunbeam’s deck, and they stood listening with sympathetic expressions as Fred narrated what he had seen of the catastrophe, and told that his uncle was evidently nothing the worse of it, and was lying asleep in the cabin, where everything had been done for his recovery and comfort.

In the boat which soon came alongside was a fisherman who had met with a bad accident some days before. A block tackle from aloft had fallen on his head and cut it severely. His mates had bound it up in rough-and-ready fashion; but the wound had bled freely, and the clotted blood still hung about his hair. Latterly the wound had festered, and gave him agonising pain. His comrades being utterly ignorant as to the proper treatment, could do nothing for him. Indeed, the only effectual thing that could be done was to send the poor man home. This sudden and unexpected appearance of one of the mission ships was therefore hailed as a godsend, for it was well-known that these vessels contained medicines, and it was believed that their skippers were more or less instructed in the healing art. In this belief they were right; for in addition to the well-appointed medicine-chest, each vessel has a skipper who undergoes a certain amount of instruction, and possesses a practical and plain book of directions specially prepared under the supervision of the Board of Trade for the use of captains at sea.

One can imagine, therefore, what a relief it was to this poor wounded man to be taken down into the cabin and have his head at last attended to by one who “knew what he was about.” The operation of dressing was watched with the deepest interest and curiosity by the fishermen assembled there, for it was their first experience of the value, even in temporal matters, of a Gospel ship. Their ears were open, too, as well as their eyes, and they listened with much interest to Fred Martin as he tried, after a silent prayer for the Holy Spirit’s influence, to turn his first operation to spiritual account in his Master’s interest.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, observing that his patient winced a little when he was removing the bandage.

“Go on,” said the man quietly. “I ain’t a babby to mind a touch of pain.”

The cabin being too small to hold them all, some of the visitors clustered round the open skylight, and gazed eagerly down, while a few who could not find a point of vantage contented themselves with listening. Even Dick Martin was an observer at that operation, for, having been roused by the bustle around him, he raised himself on an elbow, and looking down from his berth, could both hear and see.

“There now,” said Fred Martin, when at last the bandage was removed and the festering mass laid bare. “Hand the scissors, Pat.”

Pat Stiver, who was assistant-surgeon on that occasion, promptly handed his chief the desired instrument, and stood by for further orders.

“I’ll soon relieve you,” continued Fred, removing the clotted hair, etcetera, in a few seconds, and applying a cleansing lotion. “I cut it off, you see, just as the Great Physician cuts away our sins, and washes us clean in the fountain of His own blood. You feel better already, don’t you?”

“There’s no doubt about that,” replied the patient looking up with a great sigh of relief that told far more than words could convey.

We will not record all that was said and done upon that occasion. Let it suffice to say that the man’s wound was put in a fair way of recovery without the expense and prolonged suffering of a trip home.

Thereafter, as a breeze was beginning to blow which bid fair to become a “fishing breeze,” it became necessary for the visitors to leave in haste, but not before a few books, tracts, and worsted mittens had been distributed, with an earnest invitation from the skipper of the Sunbeam to every one to repeat the visit whenever calm weather should permit, and especially on Sundays, when regular services would be held on deck or in the hold.

On this occasion Bob Lumpy and Pat Stiver had met and joined hands in great delight, not unmingled with surprise.

“Well, who’d ever have expected to find you here?” said Bob.

“Ah, who indeed?” echoed Pat. “The fact is, I came to be near you, Bob.”

“But how did it happen? Who got you the sitivation? Look alive! Don’t be long-winded, I see they’re gittin’ our boat ready.”

“This is ’ow it was, Bob. I was shovin’ Eve about the roads in the bath-chair, as you know I’ve bin doin’ ever since I entered your service, w’en a gen’lem’n come up and axed all about us. ‘Would ye like a sitivation among the North Sea fishermen?’ says he. ‘The very ticket,’ says I. ‘Come to Lun’on to-night, then,’ says he. ‘Unpossible,’ says I, fit to bu’st wi’ disappointment; ‘’cos I must first shove Miss Eve home, an’ git hold of a noo shover to take my place.’ ‘All right,’ says he, laughin’; ‘come when you can. Here’s my address.’ So away I goes; got a trustworthy, promisin’ young feller as I’ve know’d a long time to engage for Miss Eve, an’ off to Lun’on, an’—here I am!”

“Time’s up,” cried the Admiral at this point, shaking hands with Fred Martin; while Bob Lumsden sprang from the side of his little friend, and there was a general move towards the boats.

“Good-bye, mate,” said Skipper Fox, holding out his hand.

“Stop, friends,” cried Fred, in a loud voice; “that’s not the way we part on board o’ the Sunbeam.”

Taking off his hat and looking up,—a sign that all understood, for they immediately uncovered and bowed their heads,—the missionary skipper, in a few brief but earnest words, asked for a blessing on the work which he had been privileged that day to begin, that Satan might be foiled, and the name of Jesus be made precious among the fishermen of the North Sea.

Thereafter the boats scattered towards their various smacks, their crews rejoicing in this latest addition to the fleet. Even Groggy Fox gave it as his opinion that there might be worse things after all in the world than “mission wessels!”

Chapter Nine.

Beginning of the Good Work.

The breeze which had begun to blow freshened as the day advanced, and the Admiral, directing his course to the nor’-east, made for the neighbourhood of the Dogger Bank. Having reached what he deemed suitable fishing-ground, he changed his course and gave the signal to “put to.” With the precision of well-trained troops the smacks obeyed, and let down their trawls. The Sunbeam also let down her net, and shaped her course like the rest, thus setting an example of attention to secular duty. She trawled for fish so as to help to pay expenses, until such time as suitable weather and opportunity offered for the main and higher duty of fishing for men.

The first haul of the mission vessel was a great success, prophetic of the great successes in store, thought her skipper, as the cod-end was finally swung inboard in an almost bursting condition. When the lower end was opened, and the living fountain of fish gushed over the deck, there was a general exclamation of satisfaction, mingled with thanksgiving, from the crew, for fishes great and small were there in abundance of every sort that swims in the North Sea.

“All sorts and conditions of men” leaped into Fred Martin’s mind, for he was thinking of higher things at the moment. “A good beginning and a good omen,” he murmured.

“Wot a haul!” exclaimed Pat Stiver, who was nearly swept off his legs, and to whom the whole thing was an entirely new experience.

“Use your eyes less and your hands more, my boy,” said Fink, the mate, setting the example by catching hold of a magnificent turbot that would have graced a lord mayor’s feast, and commencing to clean it.

Pat was by no means a lazy boy. Recovering from his surprise, he set to work with all the vigour of a man of purpose, and joined the rest of the crew in their somewhat disagreeable duty.

They wrought with such goodwill that their contribution of trunks to the general supply was the largest put on board the steamer next day.

Calm and storm sometimes succeed each other rapidly on the North Sea. It was so on the present occasion. Before the nets could be cleared and let down for another take, the breeze had died away. The weather that was unsuited, however, for fishing, was very suitable for “ferrying” to the steamer; and when that all-important duty was done, the comparative calm that prevailed was just the thing for the work of the Sunbeam.

Well aware of this, Manx Bradley and other like-minded skippers, kept close to the mission ship, whose great blue flag was waving welcome to all. Boats were soon pulling towards her, their crews being influenced by a great variety of motives; and many men who, but for her presence, would have been gambling or drinking, or oppressed with having nothing to do, or whistling for a breeze, found an agreeable place of meeting on her deck.

On this occasion a considerable number of men who had received slight injuries from accidents came on board, so that Fred had to devote much of his time to the medical part of his work, while Fink, his mate, superintended the distribution of what may be styled worsted-works and literature.

“Hallo, Jim Freeman!” said Fred, looking round from the medicine shelves before which he stood searching for some drug; “you’re the very man I want to see. Want to tempt you away from Skipper Lockley, an’ ship with me in the Sunbeam.”

“I’m not worth much for anybody just now,” said Freeman, holding up his right hand, which was bound in a bloody handkerchief. “See, I’ve got what’ll make me useless for weeks to come, I fear.”

“Never fear, Jim,” said Fred, examining the injured member, which was severely bruised and lacerated. “How got ye that?”

“Carelessness, Fred. The old story—clapped my hand on the gunwale o’ the boat when we were alongside the carrier.”

“I’d change with ’ee, Jim, if I could,” growled Joe Stubley, one of the group of invalids who filled the cabin at the time.

There was a general laugh, as much at Joe’s lugubrious visage as at his melancholy tone.

“Why, what’s wrong with you, Stubs?” asked Fred.

“DT,” remarked the skipper of the Cormorant, who could hardly speak because of a bad cold, and who thus curtly referred to the drunkard’s complaint of delirium tremens.

“Nothin’ o’ the sort!” growled Joe. “I’ve not seed a coper for a week or two. Brandy’s more in your way, Groggy Fox, than in mine. No, it’s mulligrumps o’ some sort that’s the matter wi’ me.”

“Indeed,” said Fred, as he continued to dress the bruised hand. “What does it feel like, Stubs?”

“Feel like?” exclaimed the unhappy man, in a tone that told of anguish, “it feels like red-hot thunder rumblin’ about inside o’ me. Just as if a great conger eel was wallopin’ about an’ a-dinin’ off my witals.”

“Horrible, but not incurable,” remarked Fred. “I’ll give you some pills, boy, that’ll soon put you all to rights. Now, then, who’s next?”

While another of the invalids stepped forward and revealed his complaints, which were freely commented on by his more or less sympathetic mates, Fink had opened out a bale of worsted comforters, helmets, and mitts on deck, and, assisted by Pat Stiver, was busily engaged in distributing them. “Here you are—a splendid pair of mitts, Jack,” he said, tossing the articles to a huge man, who received them with evident satisfaction.

“Too small, I fear,” said Jack, trying to force his enormous hand into one of them.

“Hold on! don’t bu’st it!” exclaimed Pat sharply; there’s all sorts and sizes here. “There’s a pair, now, that would fit Goliath.”

“Ah, them’s more like it, little ’un,” cried the big fisherman. “No more sea-blisters now, thanks to the ladies on shore,” he added, as he drew the soft mittens over his sadly scarred wrists.

“Now then, who wants this?” continued Fink, holding up a worsted helmet; “splendid for the back o’ the head and neck, with a hole in front to let the eyes and nose out.”

“Hand over,” cried David Duffy.

“I say, wot’s this inside?” exclaimed one of the men, drawing a folded paper from one of his mittens and opening it.

“Read, an’ you’ll maybe find out,” suggested the mate.

“‘God, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy,’” said the fisherman, reading from the paper.

“Just so,” said Fink, “that’s what the lady as made the mitts wants to let you know so’s you may larn to think more o’ the Giver than the gifts.”

“I wish,” said another of the men testily, as he pulled a tract from inside one of his mitts, and flung it on the deck, “I wish as how these same ladies would let religion alone, an’ send us them things without it. We want the mitts, an’ comforters, an’ helmets, but we don’t want their humbuggin’ religion.”

“Shame, Dick!” said David Duffy, as he wound a comforter round his thick neck. “You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. We’re bound to take the things as they’ve been sent to us, an’ say ‘Thank ’ee.’”

“If it wasn’t for what you call ‘humbuggin’ religion,’” remarked Fink, looking Dick straight in the face, “it’s little that we’d see o’ comforters, or books, or mission ships on the North Sea. Why, d’ee think that selfishness, or greed, or miserliness, or indifference, or godlessness would ever take the trouble to send all them things to us? Can’t you understand that the love of God in the heart makes men and women wish to try to keep God’s commandments by bein’ kind to one another, an’ considering the poor, an’ feedin’ the hungry, an’ clothin’ the naked?”

“Right you are, Fink,” said Lockley, with a nod of approval, which was repeated by several of those around.

“But, I say, you spoke of books, mate,” remarked Bob Lumsden, who came forward at the moment, much to the satisfaction of his little friend Pat Stiver; “you han’t showed us any books yet.”

“One thing at a time, boy,” returned the mate.

“We’ve got lots o’ books too. Go below, Pat, an’ ask the skipper to send up that big case o’ books; say I’ve about finished givin’ out the mitts an’ mufflers.”

“Just so, boy,” put in his friend Bob; “say that the mate has distributed the soft goods, an’ wants some hard facts now.”

“Don’t be cheeky, you young rascal!” cried the mate, hitting Bob on the nose with a well aimed pair of mittens.

“Thankee! On’y them things was meant for the hands not for the nose. Howsever, I won’t quarrel with a gift, no matter what way it comes to me,” retorted Bob, picking up the mitts and putting them in his pocket.

While he was speaking two men brought on deck a large box, which was quickly opened by the mate. The men crowded around with much interest and curiosity, for it was the first batch of books that had ever reached that fleet. The case was stuffed to the lid with old periodicals and volumes, of every shape, and size, and colour.

“W’y, they’ve bin an’ sent us the whole British Museum, I do believe!” exclaimed David Duffy, whose younger brother chanced to be a porter in our great storehouse of literature.

“Here you are, lads!” cried Fink, going down on his knees and pulling out the contents. “Wollum of The Leisure Hour, Sunday Magazine, odd numbers o’ The Quiver, wollum of The Boy’s Own Paper, Young England, Home Words, and Good Words (to smother our bad words, you know). There you are, enough to make doctors or professors of every man Jack o’ you, if you’ll on’y take it all in.”

“Professors!” growled Joe Stubley, who had come on deck, still suffering from his strange internal complaint. “More like to make fools on us. Wot do we want wi’ books and larnin’!”

“Nothin’ wotsumdever,” answered Pat Stiver, with a look of the most patronising insolence. “You’re right, Joe, quite right—as you always are. Smacksmen has got no souls, no brains, no minds, no hintellects.”

“They’ve got no use for books, bless you! All they wants is wittles an’ grog—”

The boy pulled up at this point, for Stubley made a rush at him, but Pat was too quick for him.

“Well said, youngster; give it him hot,” cried one of the men approvingly, while the others laughed; but they were too much interested in the books to be diverted from these for more than a few seconds. Many of them were down on their knees beside the mate, who continued in a semi-jocular strain—“Now then, take your time, my hearties; lots o’ books here, and lots more where these came from. The British public will never run dry. I’m cheap John! Here they are, all for nothin’, on loan; small wollum—the title ain’t clear, ah!—The Little Man as Lost his Mother; big wollum—Shakespeare; Pickwick; books by Hesba Stretton; Almanac; Missionary Williams; Polar Seas an’ Regions; Pilgrim’s Progress—all sorts to suit all tastes—Catechisms, Noo Testaments, Robinson Crusoe.”

“Hold on there, mate; let’s have a look at that!” cried Bob Lumsden eagerly—so eagerly that the mate handed the book to him with a laugh.

“Come here, Pat,” whispered Bob, dragging his friend out of the crowd to a retired spot beside the boat of the Sunbeam, which lay on deck near the mainmast. “Did you ever read Robinson Crusoe?”

“No, never—never so much as ’eard of ’im.”

“You can read, I suppose?”

“Oh yes; I can read well enough.”

“What have you read?” demanded Bob.

“On’y bits of old noospapers,” replied Pat, with a look of contempt, “an’ I don’t like readin’.”

“Don’t like it? Of course you don’t, you ignorant curmudgeon, if noospapers is all you’ve read. Now, Pat, I got this book, not for myself but a purpus for you.”

“Thankee for nothin’,” said Pat; “I doesn’t want it.”

“Doesn’t want it!” repeated Bob. “D’ee know that this is the very best book as ever was written?”

“You seems pretty cock-sure,” returned Pat, who was in a contradictory mood that day; “but you know scholards sometimes differ in their opinions about books.”

“Pat I’ll be hard upon you just now if you don’t look out!” said Bob seriously. “Howsever, you’re not so far wrong, arter all. People does differ about books, so I’ll only say that Robinson Crusoe is the best book as was ever written, in my opinion, an’ so it’ll be in yours, too, when you have read it; for there’s shipwrecks, an’ desert islands, an’ savages, an’ scrimmages, an’ footprints, an’—see here! That’s a pictur of him in his hairy dress, wi’ his goat, an’ parrot, an’ the umbrellar as he made hisself, a-lookin’ at the footprint on the sand.”

The picture, coupled with Bob Lumsden’s graphic description, had the desired effect. His little friend’s interest was aroused, and Pat finally accepted the book, with a promise to read it carefully when he should find time.

“But of that,” added Pat, “I ain’t got too much on hand.”

“You’ve got all that’s of it—four and twenty hours, haven’t you?” demanded his friend.

“True, Bob, but it’s the spare time I’m short of. Howsever, I’ll do my best.”

While this literary conversation was going on beside the boat, the visitors to the Sunbeam had been provided with a good supply of food for the mind as well as ease and comfort for the body, and you may be very sure that the skipper and his men, all of whom were Christians, did not fail in regard to the main part of their mission, namely, to drop in seeds of truth as they found occasion, which might afterwards bear fruit to the glory of God and the good of man.

Chapter Ten.

The First Fight and Victory.

There was on board the Sunbeam, on this her first voyage, a tall, broad-shouldered, but delicate-looking young man, with a most woebegone expression and a yellowish-green countenance. To look at him was to pronounce him a melancholy misanthrope—a man of no heart or imagination.

Never before, probably, did a man’s looks so belie his true character. This youth was an enthusiast; an eager, earnest, hearty Christian, full of love to his Master and to all mankind, and a student for the ministry. But John Binning had broken down from over-study, and at the time we introduce him to the reader he was still further “down” with that most horrible complaint, sea-sickness.

Even when in the depth of his woe at this time, some flashes of Binning’s true spirit gleamed fitfully through his misery. One of those gleams was on the occasion of Dick Martin being rescued. Up to that period, since leaving Yarmouth, Binning had lain flat on his back. On hearing of the accident and the rescue he had turned out manfully and tried to speak to the rescued man, but indescribable sensations quickly forced him to retire. Again, when the first visitors began to sing one of his favourite hymns, he leaped up with a thrill of emotion in his heart, but somehow the thrill went to his stomach, and he collapsed.

At last however, Neptune appeared to take pity on the poor student. His recovery—at least as regarded the sea-sickness—was sudden. He awoke, on the morning after the opening of the case of books, quite restored. He could hardly believe it. His head no longer swam; other parts of him no longer heaved. The first intimation that Skipper Martin had of the change was John Binning bursting into a hymn with the voice of a stentor. He rose and donned his clothes.

“You’ve got your sea legs at last, sir,” said Fred Martin, as Binning came on deck and staggered towards him with a joyful salutation.

“Yes, and I’ve got my sea appetite, too, Mr Martin. Will breakfast be ready soon?”

“Just goin’ on the table, sir. I like to hear that question. It’s always a sure and good sign.”

At that moment Pat Stiver appeared walking at an acute angle with the deck, and bearing a dish of smoking turbot. He dived, as it were, into the cabin without breaking the dish, and set it on the very small table, on which tea, bread, butter, and a lump of beef were soon placed beside it. To this sumptuous repast the skipper, the student, and the mate sat down. After a very brief prayer for blessing by the skipper, they set to work with a zest which perhaps few but seafaring men can fully understand. The student, in particular, became irrepressible after the first silent and ravenous attack.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “the sea! the sea! the open sea! If you are ill, go to sea. If you are fagged, go to sea! If you are used up, seedy, washed-out, miserable, go to sea! Another slice of that turbot, please. Thanks.”

“Mind your cup, sir,” said the skipper, a few minutes after, in a warning voice; “with a breeze like this it’s apt to pitch into your lap. She lays over a good deal because I’ve got a press of sail on her this morning.”

“More than usual?” asked Binning.

“Yes. You see I’m trying to beat a coper that’s close ahead of us just now. The Sunbeam is pretty swift on her heels, an’ if the breeze holds—ha! you’ve got it, sir?”

He certainly had got it, in his lap—where neither cup, saucer, nor tea should be.

“You are right, skipper, and if your ready hands had not prevented it I should have got the teapot and sugar-basin also. But no matter. As I’ve had enough now, I’ll go on deck and walk myself dry.”

On deck a new subject of interest occupied the mind of the rapidly reviving student, for the race between the Sunbeam and the coper was not yet decided. They were trying which would be first to reach a group of smacks that were sailing at a considerable distance ahead on the port bow. At first the coper seemed to have the best of it, but afterwards the breeze freshened and the Sunbeam soon left it far astern. Seeing that the race was lost, the floating grog-shop changed her course.

“Ah, she’ll steer for other fleets where there’s no opposition,” remarked the skipper.

“To win our first race is a good omen,” said John Binning, with much satisfaction. “May the copers be thus beaten from every fleet until they are beaten from the North Sea altogether!”

“Amen to that,” said Fred Martin heartily. “You feel well enough now, sir, to think of undertaking service to-morrow, don’t you?”

“Think of it, my friend! I have done more than think,” exclaimed the student; “I have been busy while in bed preparing for the Sabbath, and if the Master sends us calm weather I will surely help in the good work you have begun so well.”

And the Master did send calm weather—so calm and so beautiful that the glassy sea and fresh air and bright blue sky seemed typical of the quiet “rest that remaineth for the people of God.” Indeed, the young student was led to choose that very text for his sermon, ignoring all his previous preparation, so impressed was he with the suitability of the theme. And when afterwards the boats of the various smacks came trooping over the sea, and formed a long tail astern of the Sunbeam, and when the capacious hold was cleared, and packed as full as possible with rugged weather-beaten men, who looked at the tall pale youth with their earnest inquiring gaze, like hungering men who had come there for something and would not be content to depart with nothing, the student still felt convinced that his text was suitable, although not a single word or idea regarding it had yet struggled in his mind to get free.

In fact the young man’s mind was like a pent-up torrent, calm for the moment, but with tremendous and ever-increasing force behind the flood-gates, for he had before him men, many of whom had scarcely ever heard the Gospel in their lives, whose minds were probably free from the peculiar prejudices of landsmen, whose lives were spent in harsh, hard, cheerless toil, and who stood sorely in need of spiritual rest and deliverance from the death of sin. Many of these men had come there only out of curiosity; a few because they loved the Lord, and some because they had nothing better to do.

Groggy Fox was among them. He had come as before for “baccy,” forgetting that the weed was not sold on Sundays, and had been prevailed on to remain to the service. Dick Martin was also there, in a retired and dark corner. He was curious to know, he remarked, what the young man had to talk about.

It was not till after prayer had been offered by the student that God opened the flood-gates. Then the stream gushed forth.

“It is,” said the preacher—in tones not loud, but so deep and impressive that every soul was at once enthralled—“it is to the servants of the devil that the grand message comes. Not to the good, and pure, and holy is the blessed Gospel or good news sent, but, to the guilty, the sin-stricken, the bad, and the sin-weary God has sent by His blessed Spirit the good and glorious news that there is deliverance in Jesus Christ for the chief of sinners. Deliverance from sin changes godless men into the children of God, and there is rest for these. Do I need to tell toilers of the deep how sweet rest is to the tired-out body? Surely not, because you have felt it, and know all about it better than I do. But it is needful to tell you about rest for the soul, because some of you have never felt it, and know not what it is. Is there no man before me who has, some time or other, committed some grievous sin, whose soul groans under the burden of the thought, and who would give all he possesses if he had never put out his hand to commit that sin? Is there no one here under the power of that deadly monster—strong drink—who, remembering the days when he was free from bondage, would sing this day with joy unspeakable if he could only escape?”

“Yes,” shouted a strong voice from a dark corner of the hold. “Thank God!” murmured another voice from a different quarter, for there were men in that vessel’s hold who were longing for the salvation of other as well as their own souls.

No notice was taken of the interrupters. The preacher only paused for an instant as if to emphasise the words— “Jesus Christ is able to save to the uttermost all who come to God through Him.”

We will not dwell on this subject further than to say that the prayer which followed the sermon was fervent and short, for that student evidently did not think that he should be “heard for his much speaking!” The prayer which was thereafter offered by the Admiral of the fleet was still shorter, very much to the point, and replete with nautical phrases, but an uncalled-for petition which followed that was briefest of all. It came in low but distinct tones from a dark corner of the hold, and had a powerful effect on the audience; perhaps, also, on the Hearer of prayer. It was merely— “God have mercy on me.”

Whatever influence might have resulted from the preaching and the prayer on that occasion, there could be no doubt whatever as to the singing. It was tremendous! The well-known powers of Wesleyan throats would have been lost in it. Saint Paul’s Cathedral organ could not have drowned it. Many of the men had learned at least the tunes of the more popular of Sankey’s hymns, first from the Admiral and a few like-minded men, then from each other. Now every man was furnished with an orange-coloured booklet. Some could read; some could not. It mattered little. Their hearts had been stirred by that young student, or rather by the student’s God. Their voices, trained to battle with the tempest, formed a safety-valve to their feelings. “The Lifeboat” was, appropriately, the first hymn chosen. Manx Bradley led with a voice like a trumpet, for joy intensified his powers. Fred Martin broke forth with tremendous energy. It was catching. Even Groggy Fox was overcome. With eyes shut, mouth wide open, and book upside down, he absolutely howled his determination to “leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore.”

But skipper Fox was not the only man whose spirit was touched on that occasion. Many of the boats clung to the mission vessel till the day was nearly past, for their crews were loath to part. New joys, new hopes, new sensations had been aroused. Before leaving, Dick Martin took John Binning aside, and in a low but firm voice said—“you’re right, sir. A grievous sin does lie heavy on me. I robbed Mrs Mooney, a poor widdy, of her little bag o’ savin’s—twenty pounds it was.”

The latter part of this confession was accidentally overheard by Bob Lumsden. He longed to hear more, but Bob had been taught somehow that eavesdropping is a mean and dishonourable thing. With manly determination, therefore, he left the spot, but immediately sought and found his little friend Pat Stiver, intent on relieving his feelings.

“What d’ee think, Pat?” he exclaimed, in a low whisper, but with indignation in his eye and tone.

“I ain’t thinkin’ at all,” said Pat.

“Would you believe it, Pat?” continued Bob, “I’ve just heerd that scoun’rel Dick Martin say that it was him as stole the money from Mrs Mooney—from the mother of our Eve!”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Pat, making his eyes remarkably wide and round.

“Yes, I does, an’ I’ve long suspected him. Whether he was boastin’ or not I can’t tell, an’ it do seem strange that he should boast of it to the young parson—leastwise, unless it was done to spite him. But now mark me, Pat Stiver, I’ll bring that old sinner to his marrow-bones before long, and make him disgorge too, if he hain’t spent it all. I give you leave to make an Irish stew o’ my carcase if I don’t. Ay, ay, sir!”

The concluding words of Bob Lumsden’s speech were in reply to an order from Skipper Lockley to haul the boat alongside. In a few minutes more the mission ship was forsaken by her strange Sabbath congregation, and left with all the fleet around her floating quietly on the tranquil sea.

Chapter Eleven.

A Consultation, a Feast, and a Plot.

There was—probably still is—a coffee-tavern in Gorleston where, in a cleanly, cheerful room, a retired fisherman and his wife, of temperance principles, supplied people with those hot liquids which are said to cheer without inebriating.

Here, by appointment, two friends met to discuss matters of grave importance. One was Bob Lumsden, the other his friend and admirer Pat Stiver. Having asked for and obtained two large cups of coffee and two slices of buttered bread for some ridiculously small sum of money, they retired to the most distant corner of the room, and, turning their backs on the counter, began their discussion in low tones.

Being early in the day, the room had no occupants but themselves and the fisherman’s wife, who busied herself in cleaning and arranging plates, cups, and saucers, etcetera, for expected visitors.

“Pat,” said Bob, sipping his coffee with an appreciative air, “I’ve turned a total abstainer.”

“W’ich means?” inquired Pat.

“That I don’t drink nothin’ at all,” replied Bob.

“But you’re a-drinkin’ now!” said Pat.

“You know what I mean, you small willain; I drink nothin’ with spirits in it.”

“Well, I don’t see what you gains by that, Bob, for I heerd Fred Martin say you was nat’rally ‘full o’ spirit,’ so abstainin’ ’ll make no difference.”

“Pat,” said Bob sternly, “if you don’t clap a stopper on your tongue, I’ll wollop you.”

Pat became grave at once. “Well, d’ee know, Bob,” he said, with an earnest look, “I do b’lieve you are right. You’ve always seemed to me as if you had a sort o’ dissipated look, an’ would go to the bad right off if you gave way to drink. Yes, you’re right, an’ to prove my regard for you I’ll become a total abstainer too—but, nevertheless, I can’t leave off drinkin’.”

“Can’t leave off drinkin’!” echoed Bob.

Pat shook his head. “No—can’t. ’Taint possible.”

“Why, wot do you mean?”

“Well, Bob, I mean that as I’ve never yet begun to drink, it ain’t possible for me to leave it off, d’ee see, though I was to try ever so hard. Howsever, I’ll become an abstainer all the same, just to keep company along wi’ you.”

Bob Lumsden gave a short laugh, and then, resuming his earnest air, said—

“Pat, I’ve found out that Dick Martin, the scoun’rel, has bin to Mrs Mooney’s hut again, an’ now I’m sartin sure it was him as stole the ’ooman’s money—not because I heerd him say so to Mr Binning, but because Eve told me she saw him flattenin’ his ugly nose against her window-pane last night, an’ recognised him at once for the thief. Moreover, he opened the door an’ looked into the room, but seein’ that he had given Eve a terrible fright, he drew back smartly an’ went away.”

“The willain!” exclaimed Pat Stiver, snapping his teeth as if he wanted to bite, and doubling up his little fists. It was evident that Bob’s news had taken away all his tendency to jest.

“Now it’s plain to me,” continued Bob, “that the willain means more mischief. P’r’aps he thinks the old ’ooman’s got more blunt hid away in her chest, or in the cupboard. Anyhow, he’s likely to frighten poor Eve out of her wits, so it’s my business to stop his little game. The question is, how is it to be done. D’ee think it would be of any use to commoonicate wi’ the police?”

The shaking of Pat Stiver’s head was a most emphatic answer.

“No,” said he, “wotiver you do, have nothin’ to do wi’ the p’leece. They’re a low-minded, pig-headed set, wi’ their ‘move on’s,’ an’ their ‘now then, little un’s;’ an’ their grabbin’s of your collars, without no regard to w’ether they’re clean or not, an’ their—”

“Let alone the police, Pat,” interrupted his friend, “but let’s have your adwice about what should be done.”

After a moment’s consideration, the small boy advised that Mrs Mooney’s hut should be watched.

“In course,” he said, “Dick Martin ain’t such a fool as to go an’ steal doorin’ the daytime, so we don’t need to begin till near dark. You are big an’ strong enough now, Bob, to go at a man like Dick an’ floor him wi a thumpin’ stick.”

“Scarcely,” returned Bob, with a gratified yet dubious shake of his head. “I’m game to try, but it won’t do to risk gettin’ the worst of it in a thing o’ this sort.”

“Well, but if I’m there with another thumpin’ stick to back you up,” said Pat, “you’ll have no difficulty wotsumdever. An’ then, if we should need help, ain’t the ‘Blue Boar’ handy, an’ there’s always a lot o’ hands there ready for a spree at short notice? Now, my adwice is that we go right off an’ buy two thumpin’ sticks—yaller ones, wi’ big heads like Jack the Giant Killer—get ’em for sixpence apiece. A heavy expense, no doubt, but worth goin’ in for, for the sake of Eve Mooney. And when, in the words o’ the old song, the shades of evenin’ is closin’ o’er us, we’ll surround the house of Eve, and ‘wait till the brute rolls by!’”

“You’re far too poetical, Pat, for a practical man, said his friend. Howsomediver, I think, on the whole, your adwice is not bad, so well try it on. But wot are we to do till the shades of evenin’ comes on?”

“Amoose ourselves,” answered Pat promptly.

“H’m! might do worse,” returned his friend. “I s’pose you know I’ve got to be at Widow Martin’s to take tea wi’ Fred an’ his bride on their return from their weddin’ trip. I wonder if I might take you with me, Pat. You’re small, an’ I suppose you don’t eat much.”

“Oh, don’t I, though?” exclaimed Pat.

“Well, no matter. It would be very jolly. We’d have a good blow-out, you know; sit there comfortably together till it began to git dark, and then start off to—to—”

“Go in an’ win,” suggested the little one.

Having thus discussed their plans and finished their coffee, the two chivalrous lads went off to Yarmouth and purchased two of the most formidable cudgels they could find, of the true Jack-the-Giant-Killer type, with which they retired to the Denes to “amoose” themselves.

Evening found them hungry and hearty at the tea-table of Mrs Martin—and really, for the table of a fisherman’s widow, it was spread with a very sumptuous repast; for it was a great day in the history of the Martin family. No fewer than three Mrs Martins were seated round it. There was old Granny Martin, who consented to quit her attic window on that occasion and take the head of the table, though she did so with a little sigh, and a soft remark that, “It would be sad if he were to come when she was not watching.” Then there was widow Martin, Fred’s mother—whose bad leg, by the way, had been quite cured by her legacy.

And lastly, there was pretty Mrs Isa Martin, Fred’s newly-married wife.

Besides these there were skipper Lockley of the Lively Poll, and his wife Martha—for it will be remembered Martha was cousin to Isa, and Stephen’s smack chanced to be in port at this time as well as the Sunbeam and the Fairy, alias the Ironclad, which last circumstance accounts for Dick Martin being also on shore. But Dick was not invited to this family gathering, for the good reason that he had not shown face since landing, and no one seemed to grieve over his absence, with the exception of poor old granny, whose love for her “wandering boy” was as strong and unwavering as was her love to the husband for whose coming she had watched so long.

Bob Lumsden, it may be remarked, was one of the guests, because Lockley was fond of him; and Pat Stiver was there because Bob was fond of him! Both were heartily welcomed.

Besides the improvement in Mrs Martin’s health, there was also vast improvement in the furniture and general appearance of the attic since the arrival of the legacy.

“It was quite a windfall,” remarked Mrs Lockley, handing in her cup for more tea.

“True, Martha, though I prefer to call it a godsend,” said Mrs Martin. “You see it was gettin’ so bad, what wi’ standin’ so long at the tub, an’ goin’ about wi’ the clo’es, that I felt as if I should break down altogether, I really did; but now I’ve been able to rest it I feel as if it was going to get quite strong again, and that makes me fit to look after mother far better. Have some more tea, granny!”

A mumbled assent and a pleased look showed that the old woman was fully alive to what was going on.

“Hand the butter to Isa, Pat. Thankee,” said the ex-washerwoman. “What a nice little boy your friend is, Bob Lumpy! I’m so glad you thought of bringin’ him. He quite puts me in mind of what my boy Fred was at his age—on’y a trifle broader, an’ taller, an stouter.”

“A sort of lock-stock-an’-barrel difference, mother,” said Fred, laughing.

“I dun know what you mean by your blocks, stocks, an’ barrels,” returned Mrs Martin, “but Pat is a sight milder in the face than you was, an I’m sure he’s a better boy.”

The subject of this remark cocked his ears and winked gently with one eye to his friend Bob, with such a sly look that the blooming bride, who observed it, went off into a shriek of laughter.

“An’ only to think,” continued Mrs Martin, gazing in undisguised admiration at her daughter-in-law, “that my Fred—who seems as if on’y yesterday he was no bigger than Pat, should have got Isa Wentworth—the best lass in all Gorleston—for a wife! You’re a lucky boy!”

“Right you are,” responded Fred, with enthusiasm. “I go wi’ you there, mother, but I’m more than a lucky boy—I’m a highly favoured one, and I thank God for the precious gift; and also for that other gift, which is second only to Isa, the command of a Gospel ship on the North Sea.”

A decided chuckle, which sounded like a choke, from granny, fortunately called for attentions from the bride at this point.

“But do ’ee really think your mission smack will do much good?” asked Martha Lockley, who was inclined to scepticism.

“I am sure of it,” replied Fred emphatically. “Why, we’ve done some good work already, though we have bin but a short time wi’ the fleet. I won’t speak of ourselves, but just look at what has bin done in the way of saving drunkards and swearers by the Cholmondeley in the short-Blue Fleet, and by the old Ensign in the Fleet started by Mr Burdett-Coutts, the Columbia fleet, and in the other fleets that have got Gospel ships. It is not too much to say that there are hundreds of men now prayin’ to God, singin’ the praises o’ the Lamb, an’ servin’ their owners better than they ever did before, who not long ago were godless drunkards and swearers.”

“Men are sometimes hypocrites,” objected Martha; “how d’ee know that they are honest, or that it will last?”

“Hypocrites?” exclaimed Fred, pulling a paper hastily from his pocket and unfolding it. “I think you’ll admit that sharp men o’ bussiness are pretty good judges o’ hypocrites as well as of good men. Listen to what one of the largest firms of smack-owners says: ‘Our men have been completely revolutionised, and we gladly become subscribers of ten guineas to the funds of the Mission.’ Another firm says, ‘What we have stated does not convey anything like our sense of the importance of the work you have undertaken.’”

“Ay, there’s something in that,” said Martha, who, like all sceptics, was slow to admit truth.

We say not this to the discredit of sceptics. On the contrary, we think that people who swallow what is called “truth” too easily, are apt to imbibe a deal of error along with it. Doubtless it was for the benefit of such that the word was given— “Prove all things. Hold fast that which is good.”

Fred then went to show the immense blessing that mission ships had already been to the North Sea fishermen—alike to their souls and bodies; but we may not follow him further, for Bob Lumsden and Pat Stiver claim individual attention just now.

When these enterprising heroes observed that the shades of evening were beginning to fall, they rose to take their leave.

“Why so soon away, lads?” asked Fred.

“We’re goin’ to see Eve Mooney,” answered Bob. “Whatever are the boys goin’ to do wi’ them thick sticks?” exclaimed Martha Lockley.

“Fit main an fore masts into a man-o’-war, I suppose,” suggested her husband.

The boys did not explain, but went off laughing, and Lockley called after them—

“Tell Eve I’ve got a rare lot o’ queer things for her this trip.”

“And give her my dear love,” cried Mrs Fred Martin.

“Ay, ay,” replied the boys as they hurried away on their self-imposed mission.

Chapter Twelve.

The Enterprise fails—remarkably.

The lads had to pass the “Blue Boar” on their way to Widow Mooney’s hut, and they went in just to see, as Bob said, how the land lay, and whether there was a prospect of help in that quarter if they should require it.

Besides a number of strangers, they found in that den of iniquity Joe Stubley, Ned Bryce, and Groggy Fox—which last had, alas! forgotten his late determination to “leave the poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore.” He and his comrades were still out among the breakers, clinging fondly to the old wreck.

The boys saw at a glance that no assistance was to be expected from these men. Stubley was violently argumentative, Fox was maudlinly sentimental, and Bryce was in an exalted state of heroic resolve. Each sought to gain the attention and sympathy of the other, and all completely failed, but they succeeded in making a tremendous noise, which seemed partially to satisfy them as they drank deeper.

“Come, nothin’ to be got here,” whispered Bob Lumsden, in a tone of disgust, as he caught hold of his friend’s arm. “We’ll trust to ourselves—”

“An’ the thumpin’ sticks,” whispered Pat, as they reached the end of the road.

Alas for the success of their enterprise if it had depended on those formidable weapons of war!

When the hut was reached the night had become so nearly dark that they ventured to approach it with the intention of peeping in at the front window, but their steps were suddenly arrested by the sight of a man’s figure approaching from the opposite direction. They drew back, and, being in the shadow of a wall, escaped observation. The man advanced noiselessly, and with evident caution, until he reached the window, and peeped in.

“It’s Dick,” whispered Bob. “Can’t see his figure-head, but I know the cut of his jib, even in the dark.”

“Let’s go at ’im, slick!” whispered Pat, grasping his cudgel and looking fierce.

“Not yet. We must make quite sure, an’ nab him in the very act.”

As he spoke the man went with stealthy tread to the door of the hut, which the drunken owner had left on the latch. Opening it softly, he went in, shut it after him, and, to the dismay of the boys, locked it on the inside.

“Now, Pat,” said Bob, somewhat bitterly, “there’s nothin’ for it but the police.”

Pat expressed strong dissent. “The p’leece,” he said, “was useless for real work; they was on’y fit to badger boys an’ old women.”

“But what can we do?” demanded Bob anxiously, for he felt that time was precious. “You an’ I ain’t fit to bu’st in the door; an’ if we was Dick would be ready for us. If we’re to floor him he must be took by surprise.”

“Let’s go an’ peep,” suggested the smaller warrior.

“Come on, then,” growled the big one.

The sight that met their eyes when they peeped was indeed one fitted to expand these orbs of vision to the uttermost, for they beheld the thief on his knees beside the invalid’s bed, holding her thin hand in his, while his head was bowed upon the ragged counterpane.

Bob Lumsden was speechless.

“Hold me; I’m a-goin’ to bu’st,” whispered Pat, by way of expressing the depth of his astonishment.

Presently Eve spoke. They could hear her faintly, yet distinctly, through the cracked and patched windows, and listened with all their ears.

“Don’t take on so, poor man,” she said in her soft loving tones. “Oh, I am so glad to hear what you say!”

Dick Martin looked up quickly.

“What!” he exclaimed, “glad to hear me say that I am the thief as stole your mother’s money! that I’m a low, vile, selfish blackguard who deserves to be kicked out o’ the North Sea fleet—off the face o’ the ’arth altogether?”

“Yes,” returned Eve, smiling through her tears—for she had been crying—“glad to hear you say all that, because Jesus came to save people like you; but He does not call them such bad names. He only calls them the ‘lost.’”

“Well, I suppose you’re right, dear child,” said the man, after a pause; “an’ I do think the Blessed Lord has saved me, for I never before felt as I do now—hatred of my old bad ways, and an awful desire to do right for His sake. If any o’ my mates had told me I’d feel an’ act like this a week ago, I’d have called him a fool. I can’t understand it. I suppose that God must have changed me altogether. My only fear is that I’ll fall back again into the old bad ways—I’m so helpless for anything good, d’ee see.”

“You forget,” returned Eve, with another of her tearful smiles; “He says, ‘I will never leave thee nor forsake thee’—”

“No, I don’t forget that,” interrupted Dick quickly; “that is what the young preacher in the mission smack said, an’ it has stuck to me. It’s that as keeps me up. But I didn’t come here to speak about my thoughts an’ feelin’s,” he continued, rising and taking a chair close to the bed, on which he placed a heavy bag. “I come here, Eve, to make restitootion. There’s every farthin’ I stole from your poor mother. I kep’ it intendin’ to go to Lun’on, and have a good long spree—so it’s all there. You’ll give it to her, but don’t tell her who stole it. That’s a matter ’tween you an’ me an’ the Almighty. Just you say that the miserable sinner who took it has bin saved by Jesus Christ, an’ now returns it and axes her pardon.”

Eve gladly promised, but while she was yet speaking, heavy footsteps were heard approaching the hut. The man started up as if to leave, and the two boys, suddenly awakening to the fact that they were eavesdropping, fled silently round the corner of the hut and hid themselves. The passer-by, whoever he was, seemed to change his mind, for the steps ceased to sound for a few moments, then they were heard again, with diminishing force, until they finally died away.

A moment later, and the key was heard to turn, and the door of the hut to open and close, after which the heavy tread of the repentant fisherman was heard as he walked quickly away.

The boys listened in silence till all was perfectly still.

“Well, now,” said Bob, drawing a long breath, “who’d have thought that things would have turned out like this?”

“Never heard of sich a case in my life before,” responded Pat Stiver with emphasis, as if he were a venerable magistrate who had been trying “cases” for the greater part of a long life. “Why, it leaves us nothin’ wotiver to do! Even a p’leeceman might manage it! The thief has gone an’ took up hisself, tried an’ condemned hisself without a jury, pronounced sentance on hisself without a judge, an’ all but hanged hisself without Jack Ketch, so there’s nothin’ for you an’ me to do but go an’ bury our thumpin’ sticks, as Red Injins bury the war-hatchet, retire to our wigwams, an’ smoke the pipe of peace.”

“Wery good; let’s go an’ do it, then,” returned Bob, curtly.

As it is not a matter of particular interest how the boys reduced this figurative intention to practice, we will leave them, and follow Dick Martin for a few minutes.

His way led him past the “Blue Boar,” which at that moment, however, proved to be no temptation to him. He paused to listen. Sounds of revelry issued from its door, and the voice of Joe Stubley was heard singing with tremendous energy—“Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves,” although he and all his companions were at that very moment thoroughly—in one or two cases almost hopelessly—enslaved to the most terrible tyrant that has ever crushed the human race!

Dick went on, and did not pause till he reached his sister’s house. By that time the family party had broken up, but a solitary candle in the attic window showed that old Granny Martin was still on her watch-tower.

“Is that you, Dick?” said his sister, opening to his tap, and letting him in; but there was nothing of welcome or pleasure in the widow’s tone.

The fisherman did not expect a warm welcome. He knew that he did not deserve it, but he cared not, for the visit was to his mother. Gliding to her side, he went down on his knees, and laid his rugged head on her lap. Granny did not seem taken by surprise. She laid her withered hand on the head, and said: “Bless you, my boy! I knew you would come, sooner or later; praise be to His blessed name.”

We will not detail what passed between the mother and son on that occasion, but the concluding sentence of the old woman was significant: “He can’t be long of coming now, Dick, for the promises are all fulfilled at last, and I’m ready.”

She turned her head slowly again in the old direction, where, across the river and the sands, she could watch the moonbeams glittering on the solemn sea.

Three days later, and the skipper of the Sunbeam received a telegram telling him to prepare for guests, two of whom were to accompany him on his trip to the fleet.

It was a bright, warm day when the guests arrived—a dozen or more ladies and gentlemen who sympathised with the Mission, accompanied by the Director.

“All ready for sea, Martin, I suppose?” said the latter, as the party stepped on board from the wharf alongside of which the vessel lay.

“All ready, sir,” responded Fred. “If the wind holds we may be with the fleet, God willing, some time to-morrow night.”

The Sunbeam was indeed all ready, for the duties on board of her had been performed by those who did their work “as to the Lord, and not to men.” Every rope was in its place and properly coiled away, every piece of brass-work about the vessel shone like burnished gold. The deck had been scrubbed to a state of perfect cleanliness, so that, as Jim Freeman said, “you might eat your victuals off it.” In short, everything was trim and taut, and the great blue MDSF flag floated from the masthead, intimating that the Gospel ship was about to set forth on her mission of mercy, to fish for men.

Among the party who were conducted by Fred and the Director over the vessel were two clergymen, men of middle age, who had been labouring among all classes on the land: sympathising with the sad, rejoicing with the glad, praying, working, and energising for rich and poor, until health had begun to give way, and change of air and scene had become absolutely necessary. A week or so at the sea, it was thought, would revive them.

And what change of air could be more thorough than that from the smoke of the city to the billows of the North Sea? The Director had suggested the change. Men of God were sorely wanted out there, he said, and, while they renewed their health among the fresh breezes of ocean, they might do grand service for the Master among the long-neglected fishermen.

The reasoning seemed just. The offer was kind. The opportunity was good, as well as unique and interesting. The land-worn clergymen accepted the invitation, and were now on their way to the scene of their health-giving work, armed with waterproofs, sou’westers, and sea-boots.

“It will do you good, sir, both body and soul,” said Skipper Martin to the elder of the two, when presented to him. “You’ll find us a strange lot, sir, out there, but glad to see you, and game to listen to what you’ve got to say as long as ever you please.”

When the visitors had seen all that was to be seen, enjoyed a cup of coffee, prayed and sung with the crew, and wished them God-speed, they went on shore, and the Sunbeam, hoisting her sails and shaking out the blue flag, dropped quietly down the river.

Other smacks there were, very much like herself, coming and going, or moored to the wharves, but as the visitors stood on the river bank and waved their adieux, the thought was forced upon them how inconceivably vast was the difference between those vessels which laboured for time and this one which toiled for eternity.

Soon the Sunbeam swept out upon the sea, bent over to the freshening breeze, and steered on her beneficent course towards her double fishing-ground.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Tide begins to turn, and Death steps in.

Let us now, good reader, outstrip the Sunbeam, and, proceeding to the fleet in advance of her, pay a night visit to one or two of the smacks. We are imaginative creatures, you see, and the powers of imagination are, as you know, almost illimitable. Even now, in fact, we have you hovering over the dark sea, which, however, like the air above it, is absolutely calm, so that the numerous lanterns of the fishing-vessels around are flickering far down into the deep, like gleams of perpendicular lightning.

It is Saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is the Lively Poll. Let us descend into her cabin.

A wonderful change has come over the vessel’s crew since the advent of the mission smack. Before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling, diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane.

On the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet. They could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. But it was evident that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around them. Like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary.

David Duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of Dickens, was growing purple in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. Stephen Lockley, who had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his elbows resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown on his face. Hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering deep into his awakening soul. Bob Lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the binnacle light on deck, had secured an American magazine, the humorous style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into hearty ripples of laughter.

But they were not equally persevering, for Joe Stubley, to whom reading was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his favourite game of “checkers.” The mate, Peter Jay, was slowly pacing the deck in profound meditation. His soul had been deeply stirred by some of the words which had fallen from the lips of John Binning, and perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely in his mind.

“Well done, little marchioness!” exclaimed David Duffy, with eyes riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, “you’re a trump!”

“Shush!” exclaimed Lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up his hand as if to check interruption. “There’s somethin’ in this, although I can’t quite see it yet.”

A roar of laughter on deck announced that Bob Lumsden had found something quite to his taste. “First-rate—ha! ha! I wonder if it’s all true.”

“Hold your noise there,” cried Hawkson; “who d’ee think can learn off a hymn wi’ you shoutin’ like a bo’sun’s mate an’ Duffy snortin’ like a grampus?”

“Ah, just so,” chimed in Stubley, looking up from his board. “Why don’t you let it out, David? You’ll bu’st the b’iler if you don’t open a bigger safety-valve than your nose.”

“Smack on the weather beam, that looks like the Gospel ship, sir,” said the mate, looking down the hatchway.

The skipper closed his book at once and went on deck, but the night was so dark, and the smack in question so far off, that they were unable to make her out among the numerous lights of the fleet.

In another part of that fleet, not far distant, floated the Cormorant. Here too, as in many other smacks, the effects of the Sunbeam’s beneficent influence had begun to tell. Groggy Fox’s crew was noted as one of the most quarrelsome and dissipated in the fleet. On this particular Saturday night, however, all was quiet, for most of the men were busy with books, pamphlets, and tracts. One who had, as his mate said, come by a broken head, was slumbering in his berth, scientifically bandaged and convalescent, and Groggy himself, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, was deep in a book which he pronounced to be “one o’ the wery best wollums he had ever come across in the whole course of his life,” leaving it to be inferred, perhaps, that he had come across a very large number of volumes in his day.

While he was thus engaged one of the men whispered in his ear, “A coper alongside, sir.”

The skipper shut the “wery best wollum” at once, and ordered out the boat.

“Put a cask o’ oysters in her,” he said.

Usually his men were eager to go with their skipper, but on this night some of them were so interested in the books they were reading that they preferred to remain on board. Others went, and, with their skipper, got themselves “fuddled” on the proceeds of the owner’s oysters. If oysters had not been handy, fish or something else would have been used instead, for Skipper Fox was not particular—he was still clinging to “the poor old stranded wreck.”

It was dawn when, according to their appropriate phrase, they “tumbled” over the side of the coper into their boat. As they bade the Dutchman good night they observed that he was looking “black as thunder” at the horizon.

“W–wat’s wrong, ol’ b–boy?” asked Groggy.

The Dutchman pointed to the horizon. “No use for me to shtop here, mit dat alongside!” he replied.

The fishermen turned their drunken eyes in the direction indicated, and, after blinking a few seconds, clearly made out the large blue flag, with its letters MDSF, fluttering in the light breeze that had risen with the sun.

With curses both loud and deep the Dutchman trimmed his sails, and slowly but decidedly vanished from the scene. Thus the tide began to turn on the North Sea!

The light breeze went down as the day advanced, and soon the mission vessel found herself surrounded by smacks, with an ever-increasing tail of boats at her stern, and an ever-multiplying congregation on her deck. It was a busy and a lively scene, for while they were assembling, Fred Martin took advantage of the opportunity to distribute books and medicines, and to bind up wounds, etcetera. At the same time the pleasant meeting of friends, who never met in such numbers anywhere else—not even in the copers—and the hearty good wishes and shaking of hands, with now and then expressions of thankfulness from believers—all tended to increase the bustle and excitement, so that the two invalid clergymen began at once to experience the recuperative influence of glad enthusiasm.

“There is plenty to do here, both for body and soul,” remarked one of these to Fred during a moment of relaxation.

“Yes, sir, thank God. We come out here to work, and we find the work cut out for us. A good many surgical cases, too, you observe. But we expect that. In five of the fleets there were more than two thousand cases treated last year aboard of the mission smacks, so we look for our share. In fact, during our first eight weeks with this fleet we have already had two hundred men applying for medicine or dressing of wounds.”

“Quite an extensive practice, Dr Martin,” said the clergyman, with a laugh.

“Ay, sir; but ours is the medical-missionary line. The body may be first in time, but the soul is first in importance with us.”

In proof of this, as it were, the skipper now stopped all that had been going on, and announced that the real work of the day was going to begin; whereupon the congregation crowded into the hold until it was full. Those who could not find room clustered on deck round the open hatch and listened—sometimes craned their necks over and gazed.

It was a new experience for the invalid clergymen, who received another bath of recuperative influence. Fervour, interest, intelligence seemed to gleam in the steady eyes of the men while they listened, and thrilled in their resonant voices when they sang. One of the clergymen preached as he had seldom preached before, and then prayed, after which they all sang; but the congregation did not move to go away. The brother clergyman therefore preached, and, modestly fearing that he was keeping them too long, hinted as much.

“Go on, sir,” said the Admiral, who was there; “it ain’t every day we gets a chance like this.”

A murmur of assent followed, and the preacher went on; but we will not follow him. After closing with the hymn, “How sweet the name of Jesus sounds in a believer’s ear,” they all went on deck, where they found a glory of sunshine flooding the Sunbeam, and glittering on the still tranquil sea.

The meeting now resolved itself into a number of groups, among whom the peculiar work of the day was continued directly or indirectly. It was indeed a wonderful condition of things on board of the Gospel ship that Sunday—wheels within wheels, spiritual machinery at work from stem to stern. A few, whose hearts had been lifted up, got out an accordion and their books, and “went in for” hymns. Among these Bob Lumsden and his friend Pat Stiver took an active part. Here and there couples of men leaned over the side and talked to each other in undertones of their Saviour and the life to come. In the bow Manx Bradley got hold of Joe Stubley and pleaded hard with him to come to Jesus, and receive power from the Holy Spirit to enable him to give up all his evil ways. In the stern Fred Martin sought to clear away the doubts and difficulties of Ned Bryce. Elsewhere the two clergymen were answering questions, and guiding several earnest souls to a knowledge of the truth, while down in the cabin Jim Freeman prevailed on several men and boys to sign the temperance pledge. Among these last was Groggy Fox, who, irresolute of purpose, was still holding back.

“’Cause why,” said he; “I’ll be sure to break it again. I can’t keep it.”

“I know that, skipper,” said Fred, coming down at the moment. “In your own strength you’ll never keep it, but in God’s strength you shall conquer all your enemies. Let’s pray, lads, that we may all be enabled to keep to our good resolutions.”

Then and there they all knelt down, and Skipper Fox arose with the determination once again to “Leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore.”

But that was a memorable Sunday in other respects, for towards the afternoon a stiff breeze sprang up, and an unusually low fall in the barometer turned the fishermen’s thoughts back again to wordly cares. The various boats left the Sunbeam hurriedly. As the Lively Poll had kept close alongside all the time, Stephen Lockley was last to think of leaving. He had been engaged in a deeply interesting conversation with one of the clergymen about his soul, but at last ordered his boat to be hauled alongside.

While this was being done, he observed that another smack—one of the so-called “ironclads”—was sailing so as to cross the bows of his vessel. The breeze had by that time increased considerably, and both smacks, lying well over, were rushing swiftly through the water. Suddenly some part of the ironclad’s tackling about the mainsail gave way, the head of the vessel fell to leeward; next moment she went crashing into the Lively Poll, and cut her down to the water’s edge. The ironclad seemed to rebound and tremble for a moment, and then passed on. The steersman at once threw her up into the wind with the intention of rendering assistance, but in another minute the Lively Poll had sunk and disappeared for ever, carrying Peter Jay and Hawkson along with her.

Of course several boats pushed off at once to the rescue, and hovered about the spot for some time, but neither the men nor the vessel were ever seen again.

There was a smack at some distance, which was about to quit the fleet next morning and return to port. The skipper of it knew well which vessel had been run down, but, not being near enough to see all that passed, imagined that the whole crew had perished along with her. During the night the breeze freshened to a gale, which rendered fishing impossible. This vessel therefore left the fleet before dawn, and carried the news to Gorleston that the Lively Poll had been run down and sunk with all her crew.

It was Fred Martin’s wife who undertook to break this dreadful news to poor Mrs Lockley.

Only those who have had such duty to perform can understand the struggle it cost the gentle-spirited Isa. The first sight of her friend’s face suggested to Mrs Lockley the truth, and when words confirmed it she stood for a moment with a countenance pale as death. Then, clasping her hands tightly together, the poor woman, with a cry of despair, sank insensible upon the floor.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Last.

But the supposed death of Stephen Lockley did not soften the heart of his wife. It only opened her eyes a little. After the first stunning effect had passed, a hard, rebellious state of mind set in, which induced her to dry her tears, and with stern countenance reject the consolation of sympathisers. The poor woman’s heart was breaking, and she refused to be comforted.

It was while she was in this condition that Mrs Mooney, of all people, took it into her head to visit and condole with her neighbour. That poor woman, although a sot, was warm-hearted, and the memory of what she had suffered when her own husband perished seemed to arouse her sympathies in an unusual degree. She was, as her male friends would have said, “screwed” when she knocked at Mrs Lockley’s door.

The poor creature was recovering from a burst of passionate grief, and turned her large dark eyes fiercely on the would-be comforter as she entered.

“My dear Mrs Lockley,” began Mrs Mooney, with sympathy beaming on her red countenance, “it do grieve me to see you like this—a’most as much as wen my—”

“You’re drunk!” interrupted Mrs Lockley, with a look of mingled sternness and indignation.

“Well, my dear,” replied Mrs Mooney, with a deprecatory smile, “that ain’t an uncommon state o’ things, an’ you’ve no call to be ’ard on a poor widdy like yourself takin’ a little consolation now an’ then when she can get it. I just thought I’d like to comfort—”

“I don’t want no comfort,” cried Mrs Lockley in a sharp tone. “Leave me. Go away!”

There was something so terrible in the mingled look of grief and anger which disturbed the handsome features of the young wife that Mrs Mooney, partly awed and partly alarmed, turned at once and left the house. She did not feel aggrieved, only astonished and somewhat dismayed. After a few moments of meditation she set off, intending to relieve her feelings in the “Blue Boar.” On her way she chanced to meet no less a personage than Pat Stiver, who, with his hands in his pockets and his big boots clattering over the stones, was rolling along in the opposite direction.

“Pat, my boy!” exclaimed the woman in surprise, “wherever did you come from?”

“From the North Sea,” said Pat, looking up at his questioner with an inquiring expression. “I say, old woman, drunk again?”

“Well, boy, who denyses of it?”

“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“No, I ain’t. Why should I? Who cares whether I’m drunk or sober?”

“Who cares, you unnat’ral old bundle o’ dirty clo’es? Don’t Eve care? An’ don’t Fred Martin an’ Bob Lumpy care? An’ don’t I care, worse than all of ’em put together, except Eve?”

“You, boy?” exclaimed the woman.

“Yes, me. But look here, old gal; where are you goin’? To have a drink, I suppose?”

“Jus’ so. That’s ’xactly where I’m a-steerin’ to.”

“Well, now,” cried Pat, seizing the woman’s hand, “come along, an’ I’ll give you somethin’ to drink. Moreover, I’ll treat you to some noos as’ll cause your blood to curdle, an’ your flesh to creep, an’ your eyes to glare, an your hair to stand on end!”

Thus adjured, and with curiosity somewhat excited, Mrs Mooney suffered herself to be led to that temperance coffee-tavern in Gorleston to which we have already referred.

“Ain’t it comf’r’able?” asked the boy, as his companion gazed around her. “Now then, missis,” he said to the attendant, with the air of an old frequenter of the place, “coffee and wittles for two—hot. Here, sit down in this corner, old lady, where you can take in the beauties o’ the place all at one squint.”

Almost before he had done speaking two large cups of hot coffee and two thick slices of buttered bread lay before them.

“There you are—all ship-shape. Now drink, an’ no heel-taps.”

Mrs Mooney drank in dumb surprise, partly at the energy and cool impudence of the boy, and partly at the discovery that there was more comfort in hot coffee than she had expected.

“You’ve heard, in course, that the Lively Poll is at the bottom of the North Sea?” said Pat.

Mrs Mooney set down her cup with a sigh and a sudden expression of woe mingled with reproof, while she remarked that there was no occasion to be lighthearted on such a subject.

“That’s all you know,” retorted Pat. “Of course we was told the moment we came alongside the wharf this mornin’, that somebody had bin blowin’ half a gale o’ lies about it, but Stephen Lockley ain’t drownded, not he, an’ don’t mean to be for some time. He was aboard of the Sunbeam at the time his wessel went down an’ all the rest of ’em, except poor Jay an’ Hawkson, an’ we’ve brought ’em all ashore. You see we got so damaged in a gale that came on to blow the wery next day that we’ve bin forced to run here for repairs. Skipper Lockley’s away up at this here minit to see his wife—leastwise, he’s waitin’ outside till one o’ the parsons goes and breaks the noos to her. The skipper didn’t see no occasion for that, an’ said he could break the noos to her hisself, but the parson said he didn’t know what the consikences might be, so Stephen he gave in, an’—. Now, old girl, if you keep openin’ of your mouth an’ eyes at that rate you’ll git lockjaw, an’ never be able to go to sleep no more.”

There was, indeed, some ground for the boy’s remark, for his “noos” had evidently overwhelmed Mrs Mooney—chiefly with joy, on account of her friend Mrs Lockley, to whom, even when “in liquor”, she was tenderly attached. She continued to gaze speechless at Pat, who took advantage of the opportunity to do a little private business on his own account.

Taking a little bit of blue ribbon with a pin attached to it from his pocket, he coolly fixed it on Mrs Mooney’s breast.

“There,” said he gravely, “I promised Bob that I’d make as many conwerts as I could, so I’ve conwerted you!”

Utterly regardless of her conversion, Mrs Mooney suddenly sprang from her seat and made for the door.

“Hallo, old gal! where away now!” cried the boy, seizing her skirt and following her out, being unable to stop her.

“I’m a-goin’ to tell Eve, an’ won’t she be glad, for she was awful fond o’ Lockley!”

“All right, I’m with ’ee. Cut along.”

“Mother!” exclaimed Eve, when the poor woman stood before her with eager excitement flushing her face to a ruddy purple. “Have you really put on the blue ribbon?”

The poor child’s thin pretty little race flushed with hope for a moment.

“Oh, it ain’t that, dear,” said Mrs Mooney, “but Lockley ain’t drownded arter all! He’s—he’s—”

Here Pat Stiver broke in, and began to explain to the bewildered girl. He was yet in the midst of his “noos,” when the door was flung open, and Mrs Lockley hurried in.

“Forgive me, Mrs Mooney,” she cried, grasping her friend’s hand, “I shouldn’t have spoke to you as I did, but my heart was very sore. Oh, it is breakin’!”

She sat down, covered her face with both hands, and sobbed violently. Her friends stood speechless and helpless. It was obvious that she must have left her house to make this apology before the clergyman who was to break the news had reached it. Before any one could summon courage to speak, a quick step was heard outside, and Lockley himself entered. He had been waiting near at hand for the clergyman to summon him, when he caught sight of his wife entering the hut.

Mrs Lockley sprang up—one glance, a wild shriek, but not of despair—and she would have fallen to the ground had not her husband’s strong arms been around her.

It is believed that joy seldom or never kills. At all events it did not kill on this occasion, for Mrs Lockley and her husband were seen that same evening enjoying the hospitality of Mrs Martin, while their little one was being fondled on the knees of the old granny, who pointed through the attic window, and tried to arouse the child’s interest in the great sea.

When Mrs Mooney succeeded in turning her attention to the blue ribbon on her breast, she laughed heartily at the idea of such a decoration—much to the sorrow of Eve, who had prayed for many a day, not that her mother might put on that honourable badge, but that she might be brought to the Saviour, in whom are included all things good and true and strong. Nevertheless, it is to be noted that Mrs Mooney did not put the blue ribbon off. She went next day to have a laugh over it with Mrs Lockley. But the fisherman’s wife would not laugh. She had found that while sorrow and suffering may drive one to despair in regard to God and self and all terrestrial things, joy frequently softens.

Surely it is the “goodness of God that leadeth to repentance.” This life, as it were, from the dead proved to be life from death to herself, and she talked and prayed with her drunken friend until that friend gave her soul to Jesus, and received the Spirit of power by which she was enabled to “hold the fort,”—to adopt and keep the pledge of which her ribbon was but the emblem.

Although we have now described the end of the Lively Poll, it must not be supposed that the crew of that ill-fated smack was dispersed and swallowed up among the fishing fleets of the North Sea. On the contrary, though separated for the time, they came together again,—ay, and held together for many a long day thereafter. And this is how it came about.

One morning, a considerable time after the events we have just narrated, Stephen Lockley invited his old comrades to meet him in the Gorleston coffee-tavern, and, over a rousing cup of “hot, with,” delivered to them the following oration:

“Friends and former messmates. I ain’t much of a speaker, so you’ll excuse my goin’ to the pint direct. A noble lady with lots o’ tin an’ a warm heart has presented a smack all complete to our Deep-Sea Fishermen Institootion. It cost, I’m told, about 2000 pounds, and will be ready to start as a Gospel ship next week. For no reason that I knows on, ’xcept that it’s the Lord’s will, they’ve appointed me skipper, with directions to choose my own crew. So, lads, I’ve got you here to ask if you’re willin’ to ship with me.”

“I’m willin’, of course,” cried Pat Stiver eagerly, “an so’s Bob Lumpy. I’ll answer for him!”

There was a general laugh at this, but Bob Lumsden, who was present, chose to answer for himself, and said he was heartily willing. So said David Duffy, and so also said Joe Stubley.

“I on’y wish,” added the latter, “that Jim Freeman was free to j’ine, but Fred Martin’s not likely to let him go, for he’s uncommon fond of him.”

“He’s doin’ good work for the Master where he is,” returned Lockley, “and we’ll manage to catch as true and able a man among the North Sea fleets afore long. There’s as good fish in the sea, you know, as ever came out of it. Our mission smack is to be called the Welcome.”

“At this rate,” observed Dick Martin, who was one of the party, “we’ll soon have a mission ship to every fleet in the North Sea; that’ll please our Director, won’t it?”

“Ay, it will,” said Lockley. “All the same, I heard the Director say only the other day, he wished people would remember that the mission needed funds to keep the smacks a-goin’ as well as to build an’ launch ’em. Howsever, we’ve no need to fear, for when the Master sends the men and the work He’s sure to find the means.”

Two weeks after the date on which this harmonious meeting was held, a new vessel, laden with spiritual treasure, unfurled her sails, shook out her MDSF ensign, and, amid the good wishes, silent prayers, and ringing cheers of sympathetic friends on shore, went forth as a beacon of love and light and hope to irradiate the toilers on the dark North Sea.

Among those cheering and praying ones were Mrs Mooney—a brand plucked from the burning—and fragile Eve, with her weak, thin, helpless body and her robust heart, chosen to do herculean and gladiator service of sympathy and rescue in the Master’s cause. And you may be sure that blooming Isa Martin was there, and her friend Martha Lockley; Manx Bradley, the Admiral, who, with other fishermen, chanced to be having their spell on shore at that time, was also there. Even old Granny Martin was there, in a sense, for she could see from her attic the great blue flag as it fluttered in the breeze, and she called her unfailing—and no longer ailing daughter to come to the window and look at it and wish it God-speed; after which she turned her old eyes again to their wonted resting-place, where the great sea rolled its crested breakers beyond the sands.

It remains but to add that the Welcome was received by the fleet to which she was sent with an enthusiasm which fully justified her name, and that her crew found her thenceforth, both as to her sea-going qualities and the nature of her blessed work, a marvellous improvement on their former home, the Lively Poll.

Note. The Office of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen is 181 Queen Victoria Street, London, EC, at the date of publication of this book.

The End.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter One.

Introduces Deep-Sea Fishermen And their Families.

On a certain breezy morning in October—not many years ago—a wilderness of foam rioted wildly over those dangerous sands which lie off the port of Yarmouth, where the Evening Star, fishing-smack, was getting ready for sea.

In one of the narrow lanes or “Rows” peculiar to that town, the skipper of the smack stood at his own door, grumbling. He was a broad burly man, a little past the prime of life, but prematurely aged by hard work and hard living.

“He’s always out o’ the way when he’s wanted, an’ always in the way when he’s not wanted,” said the skipper angrily to his wife, of whom he was at the moment taking, as one of his mates remarked, a tender farewell.

“Don’t be hard on him, David,” pleaded the wife, tearfully, as she looked up in her husband’s face.

“He’s only a bit thoughtless; and I shouldn’t wonder if he was already down at the smack.”

“If he’s not,” returned the fisherman with a frown, as he clenched his huge right hand—and a hard and horny hand it was, from constant grappling with ropes, oars, hand-spikes, and the like—“if he’s not, I’ll—”

He stopped abruptly, as he looked down at his wife’s eyes, and the frown faded. No wonder, for that wife’s eyes were soft and gentle, and her face was fair and very attractive as well as refined in expression, though not particularly pretty.

“Well, old girl, come, I won’t be hard on ’im. Now I’m off,—good-day.” And with that the fisherman stooped to kiss his wife, who returned the salute with interest. At the same time she thrust a packet into his hand.

“What’s this, Nell?”

“A Testament, David—from me. It will do your soul good if you will read it. And the tract wrapped round it is from a lady.”

The frown returned to the man’s face as he growled— “What lady?”

“The lady with the curious name, who was down here last summer for sea-bathing; don’t you remember Miss Ruth Dotropy? It is a temperance tract.”

David Bright made a motion as though he were about to fling the parcel away, but he thought better of it, and thrust it into the capacious pocket of his rough coat. The brow cleared again as he left his wife, who called after him, “Don’t be hard on Billy, David; remember he’s our only one—and he’s not bad, just a little thoughtless.”

“Never fear, Nell, I’ll make a man of him.”

Lighting a large pipe as he spoke, the skipper of the Evening Star nodded farewell, and sauntered away.

In another of the narrow lanes of Yarmouth another fisherman stood at his own door, also taking leave of his wife. This man was the mate—just engaged—of David Bright’s vessel, and very different in some respects from the skipper, being tall, handsome, fresh and young—not more than twenty-four—as well as powerful of build. His wife, a good-looking young woman, with their first-born in her arms, had bidden him good-bye.

We will not trouble the reader with more of their parting conversation than the last few words.

“Now, Maggie, dear, whatever you do, take care o’ that blessed babby.”

“Trust me for that, Joe,” said Maggie, imprinting a kiss of considerable violence and fervour on the said baby, which gazed at its mother—as it gazed at everything—in blank amazement.

“An’ don’t forget to see Miss Ruth, if you can, or send a message to her, about that matter.”

“I’ll not forget, Joe.”

The mate of the Evening Star bestowed a parting kiss of extreme gentleness on the wondering infant, and hastened away.

He had not proceeded far when he encountered a creature which filled his heart with laughter. Indeed Joe Davidson’s heart was easily filled with emotions of every kind, for he was an unusually sympathetic fellow, and rather fond of a joke.

The creature referred to was a small boy of thirteen years of age or thereabouts, with a pretty little face, a Grecian little nose, a rose-bud of a mouth, curly fair hair, bright blue eyes, and a light handsome frame, which, however, was a smart, active, and wiry frame. He was made to look as large and solid as possible by means of the rough costume of a fisherman, and there was a bold look in the blue eyes which told of a strong will. What amused Joe Davidson most, however, was the tremendous swagger in the creature’s gait and the imperturbable gravity with which he smoked a cigar! The little fellow was so deeply absorbed in thought as he passed the mate that he did not raise his eyes from the ground. An irresistible impulse seized on Joe. He stooped, and gently plucked the cigar from the boy’s mouth.

Instantly the creature doubled his little fists, and, without taking the trouble to look so high as his adversary’s face, rushed at his legs, which he began to kick and pommel furiously.

As the legs were cased in heavy sea-boots he failed to make any impression on them, and, after a few moments of exhausting effort, he stepped back so as to get a full look at his foe.

“What d’ee mean by that, Joe Davidson, you fathom of impudence?” he demanded, with flushed face and flashing eyes.

“Only that I wants a light,” answered the mate, pulling out his pipe, and applying the cigar to it.

“Humph!” returned the boy, mollified, and at the same time tickled, by the obvious pretence; “you might have axed leave first, I think.”

“So I might. I ax parding now,” returned Joe, handing back the cigar; “good-day, Billy.”

The little boy, gazed after the fisherman in speechless admiration, for the cool quiet manner in which the thing had been done had, as he said, taken the wind completely out of his sails, and prevented his usually ready reply.

Replacing the cigar in the rose-bud, he went puffing along till he reached the house of David Bright, which he entered.

“Your father’s gone, Billy,” said Mrs Bright. “Haste ye after him, else you’ll catch it. Oh! do give up smokin’, dear boy. Good-bye. God keep you, my darling.”

She caught the little fellow in a hasty embrace.

“Hold on, mother, you’ll bust me!” cried Billy, returning the embrace, however, with affectionate vigour. “An’ if I’m late, daddy will sail without me. Let go!”

He shouted the last words as if the reference had been to the anchor of the Evening Star. His mother laughed as she released him, and he ran down to the quay with none of his late dignity remaining. He knew his father’s temper well, and was fearful of being left behind.

He was just in time. The little smack was almost under weigh as he tumbled, rather than jumped, on board. Ere long she was out beyond the breakers that marked the shoals, and running to the eastward under a stiff breeze.

This was little Billy’s first trip to sea in his father’s fishing-smack, and he went not as a passenger but as a “hand.” It is probable that there never sailed out of Yarmouth a lad who was prouder of his position than little Billy of the Evening Star. He was rigged from top to toe in a brand-new suit of what we may style nautical garments. His thin little body was made to appear of twice its natural bulk by a broad-shouldered pilot-cloth coat, under which was a thick guernsey. He was almost extinguished by a large yellow sou’-wester, and all but swallowed up by a pair of sea-boots that reached to his hips. These boots, indeed, seemed so capacious as to induce the belief that if he did not take care the part of his body that still remained outside of them might fall inside and disappear.

Altogether—what between pride of position, vanity in regard to the new suit, glee at being fairly at sea and doing for himself, and a certain humorous perception that he was ridiculously small—little Billy presented a very remarkable appearance as he stood that day on the deck of his father’s vessel, with his little legs straddling wide apart, after the fashion of nautical men, and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his sea-going coat.

For some time he was so engrossed with the novelty of his situation, and the roll of the crested waves, that his eyes did not rise much higher than the legs of his comparatively gigantic associates; but when curiosity at last prompted him to scan their faces, great was his surprise to observe among them Joe Davidson, the young man who had plucked the cigar from his lips in Yarmouth.

“What! are you one o’ the hands, Joe?” he asked, going towards the man with an abortive attempt to walk steadily on the pitching deck.

“Ay, lad, I’m your father’s mate,” replied Joe. “But surely you are not goin’ as a hand?”

“That’s just what I am,” returned Billy, with a look of dignity which was somewhat marred by a heavy lurch causing him to stagger. “I’m part owner, d’ee see, an’ ready to take command when the old man retires, so you’d better mind your helm, young man, an’ steer clear of impudence in future, if you don’t want to lead the life of a dog aboard of this here smack.”

“I’ll try, sir,” said Joe Davidson, touching his forelock, while a humorous twinkle lit up his bright eyes.

“Hallo! Billy!” shouted the skipper, who was steering; “come here, boy. You didn’t come aboard to idle, you know; I’ve let you have a good look at the sea all for nothin’. It’s time now that you went to work to larn your duties. Zulu!”

The last word caused a woolly head to protrude from the after hatchway, revealing a youth about twice the size of Billy. Having some drops of black blood in him this lad had been styled Zulu—and, being a handy fellow, had been made cook.

“Here, take this boy below,” said the skipper, “and teach him something—anything you like, so long as you keep him at work. No idlers allowed on board, you know.”

“Yes, sar,” said Zulu.

Billy was delighted to obey. He was naturally a smart, active fellow, and not only willing, but proud, to submit to discipline. He descended a short ladder into the little cabin with which he had become acquainted, as a visitor, when the smack was in port on former occasions. With Zulu he was also acquainted, that youth having been for some time in his father’s service.

“Kin you do cookin’?” asked Zulu with a grin that revealed an unusually large cavern full of glistening teeth, mingled with more than an average allowance of tongue and gums.

“Oh! I say,” remonstrated Billy, “it’s growed bigger than ever!”

Zulu expanded his mouth to its utmost, and shut his eyes in enjoyment of the complimentary joke.

“Oh course it hab,” he said on recovering; “I’s ’bliged to eat so much at sea dat de mout gits wider ebery trip. Dat leetle hole what you’ve got in your face ’ll git so big as mine fore long, Billy. Den you be like some ob de leetle fishes we catch—all mout and no body worth mentioning. But you no tell me yit: Kin you do cookin’?”

“Oh yes, I can manage a Yarmouth bloater,” replied Billy.

“But,” said Zulu, “kin you cook a ’tater widout makin’ him’s outside all of a mush, an’ him’s inside same so as a stone?”

Instead of answering, Billy sat down on the settle which ran round the cabin and looked up at his dark friend very solemnly.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Zulu.

“There—there’s something wrong wi’ me,” said Billy, with a faint attempt to smile as he became rather pale.

Seeing this, his friend quietly put a bucket beside him.

“I say, Zulu,” observed the poor boy with a desperate attempt at pleasantry, “I wonder what’s up.”

“Des nuffin’ up yit but he won’t be long,” replied the young cook with a look full of sympathy.

It would be unjust to our little hero to proceed further. This being, as we have said, his first trip to sea, he naturally found himself, after an hour or two, stretched out in one of the bunks which surrounded the little cabin. There he was permitted to lie and think longingly of his mother, surrounded by dense tobacco smoke, hot vapours, and greasy fumes, until he blushed to find himself wishing, with all his heart, that he had never left home!

There we will leave him to meditate and form useless resolves, which he never carried out, while we introduce to the reader some of the other actors in our tale.

Chapter Two.

A Contrast to Chapter I.

From that heaving grey wilderness of water called the North Sea we pass now to that lively wilderness of bricks and mortar called London.

West-end mansions are not naturally picturesque or interesting subjects either for the brush or the pen, and we would not willingly drag our readers into one of them, did not circumstances—over which we have not a shadow of control—compel us to do so.

The particular mansion to which we now direct attention belonged to a certain Mrs Dotropy, whose husband’s ancestors, by the way, were said to have come over with the Conqueror—whether in his own ship or in one of the bumboats that followed is not certain. They were De Tropys at that time, but, having sunk in the social scale in the course of centuries, and then risen again in succeeding centuries through the medium of trade, they reappeared on the surface with their patronymic transformed as now presented.

“Mother,” said Ruth Dotropy to a magnificent duchess-like woman, “I’ve come to ask you about the poor—”

“Ruth, dear,” interrupted the mother, “I wish you would not worry me about the poor! They’re a troublesome, ill-doing set; always grumbling, dirty, ill-natured, suspicious, and envious of the rich—as if it was our fault that we are rich! I don’t want to hear anything more about the poor.”

Ruth, who was a soft-cheeked, soft-handed, and soft-hearted girl of eighteen, stood, hat in hand, before her mother with a slight smile on her rosy lips.

“You are not quite just to the poor, mother,” returned Ruth, scarce able to restrain a laugh at her parent’s vehemence. “Some of them are all that you say, no doubt, but there are many, even among the poorest of the poor, who are good-natured, well-doing, unsuspicious, and respectful, not only to the rich but also to each other and to everybody. There is Mrs Wolsey, for instance, she—”

“Oh! but she’s an exception, you know,” said Mrs Dotropy, “there are not many like Mrs Wolsey.”

“And there is Mrs Gladman,” continued Ruth.

“Yes, but she’s another exception.”

“And Mrs Robbie.”

“Why, Ruth, what’s the use of picking out all the exceptions to prove your point? Of course the exception proves the rule—at least so the proverb says—but a great many exceptions prove nothing that I know of, except—that is—but what’s the use of arguing, child, you’ll never be convinced. Come, how much do you want me to give?”

Easy-going Mrs Dotropy’s mind, we need scarcely point out, was of a confused type, and she “hated argument.” Perhaps, on the whole, it was to the advantage of her friends and kindred that she did so.

“I only want you to give a little time, mother,” replied Ruth, swinging her hat to and fro, while she looked archly into Mrs Dotropy’s large, dignified, and sternly-kind countenance, if we may venture on such an expression,— “I want you to go with me and see—”

“Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to say, child, you want me to go and ‘see for myself,’ which means that I’m to soil my boots in filthy places, subject my ears to profanity, my eyes to horrible sights, and my nose to intolerable smells. No, Ruth, I cannot oblige you. Of what use would it be? If my doing this would relieve the miseries of the poor, you might reasonably ask me to go among them, but it would not. I give them as much money as I can afford to give, and, as far as I can see, it does them no good. They never seem better off, and they always want more. They are not even grateful for it. Just look at Lady Openhand. What good does she accomplish by her liberality, and her tearful eyes, and sympathetic heart, even though her feelings are undoubtedly genuine? Only the other day I chanced to walk behind her along several streets and saw her stop and give money to seven or eight beggars who accosted her. She never can refuse any one who asks with a pitiful look and a pathetic cock-and-bull story. Several of them were young and strong, and quite undeserving of charity. Three, I observed, went straight to a public-house with what she had given them, and the last, a small street boy, went into fits of suppressed laughter after she had passed, and made faces at her—finishing off by putting the thumb of his left hand to his nose, and spreading out his fingers as wide as possible. I do not understand the exact significance of that action, but there is something in it so intensely insolent that it is quite incompatible with the idea of gratitude.”

“Yes, mother, I saw him too,” said Ruth, with a demure look; “it curiously enough happened that I was following you at the time. You afterwards passed the same boy with a refusal, I suppose?”

“Yes, child, of course—and a reproof.”

“I thought so. Well, after you had passed, he not only applied his left thumb to his nose and spread his fingers, but also put the thumb of his right hand against the little finger of his left, and spread out the other five fingers at you. So, whatever he meant Lady Openhand to receive, he meant you to have twice as much. But Lady Openhand makes a mistake, I think, she does not consider the poor; she only feels deeply for them and gives to them.”

“Only feels and gives!” repeated Mrs Dotropy, with a look of solemn amazement.

Being quite incapable of disentangling or expressing the flood of ideas that overwhelmed her, the good lady relieved herself after a few broken sentences, with the assertion that it was of no use arguing with Ruth, for Ruth would never be convinced.

She was so far right, in that her daughter could not change her mind on the strength of mere dogmatic assertion, even although she was a pliant and teachable little creature. So, at least, Mr Lewis, her pastor, had found her when he tried to impress on her a few important lessons—such as, that it is better to give than to receive; that man is his brother’s keeper; that we are commanded to walk in the footsteps of Jesus, who came to save the lost, to rescue the perishing, and who fed the hungry.

“But, mother,” resumed Ruth, “I want you to go with me to-day to visit some poor people who are not troublesome, who are perfectly clean, are never ill-natured, suspect nothing, and envy nobody.”

“They must indeed be wonderful people,” said Mrs Dotropy, with a laugh at Ruth’s enthusiasm, “quite angelic.”

“They are as nearly so as mortals ever become, I think,” returned Ruth, putting on her hat; “won’t you come, mother?”

Now, Mrs Dotropy had the faculty of giving in gracefully, although she could not argue. Rising with an amused smile, she kissed Ruth’s forehead and went to prepare for a visit to the poor.

Let us now turn to a small street scarcely ten minutes’ walk from the mansion where the above conversation took place.

It was what may be styled a Lilliputian street. Almost everything in it was small. The houses were small; the shops were small; the rents—well, they were certainly not so small as they should have been, the doors and windows were small; and the very children that played in the gutter, with an exceedingly small amount of clothing on them, were rather diminutive. Some of the doors stood open, revealing the fact that it had been thought wise by the builders of the houses to waste no space in lobbies or entrance halls. One or two, however, displayed entries, or passages—dark and narrow—the doors to which were blistered and severely battered, because, being the public property of several families, they had no particular owner to protect them.

There was a small flat over a green-grocer’s shop to which one of the cleanest of those entries led. It consisted of two rooms, a light-closet and a kitchen, and was low-ceilinged and poorly furnished, but there was a distinct air of cleanliness about it, with a consequent tendency to comfort. The carpet of the chief room was very old, but it had been miraculously darned and patched. The table was little larger than that of a gigantic doll’s-house, but it was covered with a clean, though threadbare, cloth, that had seen better days, and on it lay several old and well-thumbed books, besides two work-baskets.

In an old—a very old—easy-chair at one side of the fire sat a lady rather beyond middle age, with her hands clasped on her lap, and her eyes gazing dreamily at the fire. Perhaps she was speculating on the question how long two small lumps of coal and a little dross would last. The grate in which that amount of fuel burned was a miniature specimen of simplicity,—a mere hollow in the wall with two bars across. The fire itself was so small that nothing but constant solicitude saved it from extinction.

There was much of grey mingled with the fair tresses of the lady, and the remains of beauty were very distinct on a countenance, the lines of which suggested suffering, gentleness, submission, and humility. Perchance the little sigh that escaped her as she gazed at the preposterously small fire had reference to days gone by when health revelled in her veins; when wealth was lavished in her father’s house; when food and fun were plentiful; when grief and care were scarce. Whatever her thoughts might have been, they were interrupted by the entrance of another lady, who sat down beside her, laid a penny on the table, and looked at the lady in the easy-chair with a peculiar, half-comical expression.

“It is our last, Jessie,” she said, and as she said it the expression intensified, yet it seemed a little forced.

There needed no magician to tell that these two were sisters. The indescribable similarity was strong, yet the difference was great. Jessie was evidently, though not much, the elder.

“It’s almost absurd, Kate,” she said, “to think that we should actually have—come—at last—to—”

She stopped, and Kate looked earnestly at her. There was a tremulous motion about the corners of both their mouths. Jessie laid her head on Kate’s shoulder, and both wept—gently. They did not “burst into tears,” for they were not by nature demonstrative. Their position made it easy to slide down on their knees and bury their heads side by side in the great old easy-chair that had been carefully kept when all the rest was sold, because it had belonged to their father.

We may not record the scarce audible prayer. Those who have suffered know what it was. Those who have not suffered could not understand it. After the prayer they sat down in a somewhat tranquil mood to “talk it over.” Poor things—they had often talked it over, without much result, except that blessed one of evolving mutual sympathy.

“If I were only a little younger and stronger,” said Kate, who had been, and still was of a lively disposition, “I would offer myself as a housemaid, but that is out of the question now; besides, I could not leave you, Jessie, the invalid of the family—that once was.”

“Come, Kate, let us have no reference to the invalid of the family any more. I am getting quite strong. Do you know I do believe that poverty is doing my health good; my appetite is improving. I really feel quite hungry now.”

“We will have tea, then,” said Kate, getting up briskly; “the things that we got will make one good meal, at all events, though the cost of them has reduced our funds to the low ebb of one penny; so, let us enjoy ourselves while it lasts!”

Kate seized the poker as she spoke, and gave the fire a thrust that almost extinguished it. Then she heaped on a few ounces of coal with reckless indifference to the future, and put on a little kettle to boil. Soon the small table was spread with a white cloth, a silver teapot, and two beautiful cups that had been allowed them out of the family wreck; a loaf of bread, a very small quantity of brown sugar, a smaller quantity of skim-milk, and the smallest conceivable pat of salt butter.

“And this took all the money except one penny?” asked Jessie, regarding the table with a look of mingled sadness and amazement.

“All—every farthing,” replied Kate, “and I consider the result a triumph of domestic economy.”

The sisters were about to sit down to enjoy their triumph when a bounding step was heard on the stair.

“That’s Ruth,” exclaimed Kate, rising and hurrying to the door; “quick, get out the other cup, Jessie. Oh! Ruth, darling, this is good of you. We were sure you would come this week, as—”

She stopped abruptly, for a large presence loomed on the stair behind Ruth.

“I have brought mamma to see you, Kate—the Misses Seaward, mamma; you have often heard me speak of them.”

“Yes, dear, and I have much pleasure in making the Misses Seaward’s acquaintance. My daughter is very fond of you, ladies, I know, and the little puss has brought me here by way of a surprise, I suppose, for we came out to pay a very different kind of visit. She—”

“Oh! but mamma,” hastily exclaimed Ruth, who saw that her mother, whom she had hitherto kept in ignorance of the circumstances of the poor ladies, was approaching dangerous ground, “our visit here has to do with—with the people we were speaking about. I have come,” she added, turning quickly to Miss Jessie, “to transact a little business with you—about those poor people, you remember, whom you were so sorry for. Mamma will be glad to hear what we have to say about them. Won’t you, mamma?”

“Of course, of course, dear,” replied Mrs Dotropy, who, however, experienced a slight feeling of annoyance at being thus dragged into a preliminary consideration of the affairs of poor people before paying a personal visit to them. Being good-natured, however, and kind, she submitted gracefully and took note, while chairs were placed round the table for this amateur Board, that ladies with moderate means—obviously very moderate—appeared to enjoy their afternoon tea quite as much as rich people. You see, it never entered into Mrs Dotropy’s mind—how could it?—that what she imagined to be “afternoon tea” was dinner, tea, and supper combined in one meal, beyond which there lay no prospective meal, except what one penny might purchase.

With a mysterious look, and a gleam of delight in her eyes, Ruth drew forth a well-filled purse, the contents of which, in shillings, sixpences, and coppers, she poured out upon the tea-table.

“There,” she said triumphantly, “I have collected all that myself, and I’ve come to consult you how much of it should be given to each, and how we are to get them to take it.”

“How kind of you, Ruth!” exclaimed Kate and Jessie Seaward, gazing on the coin with intense, almost miserly satisfaction.

“Nonsense! it’s not kind a bit,” responded Ruth; “if you knew the pleasure I’ve had in gathering it, and telling the sad story of the poor people; and then, the thought of the comfort it will bring to them, though it is so little after all.”

“It won’t appear little in their eyes, Ruth,” said Kate, “for you can’t think how badly off some of them are. I assure you when Jessie and I think of it, as we often do, it makes us quite miserable.”

Poor Misses Seaward! In their sympathy with the distress of others they had quite forgotten, for the moment, their own extreme poverty. They had even failed to observe that their own last penny had been inadvertently but hopelessly mingled with the coin which Ruth had so triumphantly showered upon the table.

“I’ve got a paper here with the name of each,” continued the excited girl, “so that we may divide the money in the proportions you think best. That, however, will be easy, but I confess I have puzzled my brain in vain to hit on a way to get poor Bella Tilly to accept charity.”

“That will be no difficulty,” said Jessie, “because we won’t offer her charity. She has been knitting socks for sale lately, so we can buy these.”

“Oh! how stupid I am,” cried Ruth, “the idea of buying something from her never once occurred to me. We’ll buy all her socks—yes, and put our own price on them too; capital!”

“Who is Bella Tilly?” asked Mrs Dotropy.

“A young governess,” replied Jessie, “whose health has given way. She is an orphan—has not, I believe, a relative in the whole world—and has been obliged to give up her last situation, not only because of her health, but because she was badly treated.”

“But how about poor Mr Garnet the musician?” resumed Ruth, “has he anything to sell?”

“I think not,” answered Kate; “the sweet sounds in which he deals can now be no longer made since the paralytic stroke rendered his left arm powerless. His flute was the last thing he had to sell, and he did not part with it until hunger compelled him; and even then only after the doctors had told him that recovery was impossible. But I daresay we shall find some means of overcoming his scruples. He has relatives, but they are all either poor or heartless, and between the two he is starving.”

Thus, one by one, the cases of those poor ones were considered until all Ruth’s money was apportioned, and Mrs Dotropy had become so much interested, that she added a sovereign to the fund, for the express benefit of Bella Tilly. Thereafter, Ruth and her mother departed, leaving the list and the pile of money on the table, for the sisters had undertaken to distribute the fund. Before leaving, however, Ruth placed a letter in Kate’s hand, saying that it had reference to an institution which would interest them.

“Now isn’t that nice?” said Kate, sitting down with a beaming smile, when their visitors had gone, “so like Ruth. Ah! if she only knew how much we need a little of that money. Well, well, we—”

“The tea is quite cold,” interrupted Jessie, “and the fire has gone out!”

“Jessie!” exclaimed Kate with a sudden look of solemnity—“the penny!”

Jessie looked blankly at the table, and said— “Gone!”

“No, it is there,” said Kate.

“Yes, but Ruth, you know, didn’t count the money till she came here, and so did not detect the extra penny, and we forgot it. Every farthing there has been apportioned on that list and must be accounted for. I couldn’t bear to take a penny out of the sum, and have to tell Ruth that we kept it off because it was ours. It would seem so mean, for she cannot know how much we need it. Besides, from which of the poor people’s little stores could we deduct it?”

This last argument had more weight with Kate than the others, so, with a little sigh, she proceeded to open Ruth’s letter, while Jessie poured out a cup of cold tea, gazing pathetically the while at the pile of money which still lay glittering on the table.

Ruth’s letter contained two 5 pounds Bank of England notes, and ran as follows:—

“DEAREST JESSIE AND KATE,—I sent your screen to the institution for the sale of needlework, where it was greatly admired. One gentleman said it was quite a work of genius! a lady, who seemed to estimate genius more highly than the gentleman, bought it for 10 pounds, which I now enclose. In my opinion it was worth far more. However, it is gratifying that your first attempt in this way has been successful.

“Your loving RUTH.”

“Loving indeed!” exclaimed Kate in a tremulous voice.

Jessie appeared to have choked on the cold tea, for, after some ineffectual attempts at speech, she retired to the window and coughed.

The first act of the sisters, on recovering, was to double the amount on Ruth’s list of poor people, and to work out another sum in short division on the back of an old letter.

“Why did you deceive me, dear?” said Mrs Dotropy, on reaching the street after her visit. “You said you were going with me to see poor people, in place of which you have taken me to hear a consultation about poor people with two ladies, and now you propose to return home.”

“The two ladies are themselves very poor.”

“No doubt they are, child, but you cannot for a moment class them with those whom we usually style ‘the poor.’”

“No, mother, I cannot, for they are far worse off than these. Having been reared in affluence, with tenderer feelings and weaker muscles, as well as more delicate health, they are much less able to fight the battle of adversity than the lower poor, and I happen to know that the dear Misses Seaward are reduced just now to the very last extreme of poverty. But you have relieved them, mother.”

“I, child! How?”

“The nursery screen that you bought yesterday by my advice was decorated by Jessie and Kate Seaward, so I thought it would be nice to let you see for yourself how sweet and ‘deserving’ are the poor people whom you have befriended!”

Chapter Three.

Introduces Consternation to A Delicate Household.

The day following that on which Mrs Dotropy and Ruth had gone out to visit “the poor,” Jessie and Kate Seaward received a visit from a man who caused them no little anxiety—we might almost say alarm. He was a sea-captain of the name of Bream.

As this gentleman was rather eccentric, it may interest the reader to follow him from the commencement of the day on which we introduce him.

But first let it be stated that Captain Bream was a fine-looking man, though large and rugged. His upper lip and chin were bare, for he was in the habit of mowing those regions every morning with a blunt razor. To see Captain Bream go through this operation of mowing when at sea in a gale of wind was a sight that might have charmed the humorous, and horrified the nervous. The captain’s shoulders were broad, and his bones big; his waistcoat, also, was large, his height six feet two, his voice a profound bass, and his manner boisterous but hearty. He was apt to roar in conversation, but it was in a gale of wind that you should have heard him! In such circumstances, the celebrated bull of Bashan would have been constrained to retire from his presence with its tail between its legs. When we say that Captain Bream’s eyes were kind eyes, and that the smile of his large mouth was a winning smile, we have sketched a full-length portrait of him,—or, as painters might put it, an “extra-full-length.”

Well, when Captain Bream, having mown his chin, presented himself in public, on the morning of the particular day of which we write, he appeared to be in a meditative mood, and sauntered slowly, with the professional gait of a sailor, through several narrow streets near London Bridge. His hands were thrust into his coat-pockets, and a half humorous, half perplexed expression rested on his face. Evidently something troubled him, and he gave vent to a little of that something in deep tones, being apt to think aloud as he went along in disjointed sentences.

“Very odd,” he murmured, “but that girl is always after some queer—well, no matter. It’s my business to—but it does puzzle me to guess why she should want me to live in such an out-o’-the-way—however, I suppose she knows, and that’s enough for me.”

“Shine yer boots, sir?” said a small voice cutting short these broken remarks.

“What?”

“Shine yer boots, sir, an’ p’raps I can ’elp yer to clear up yer mind w’en I’m a doin’ of it.”

It was the voice of a small shoeblack, whose eyes looked wistful.

The captain glanced at his boots; they wanted “shining” sadly, for the nautical valet who should have attended to such matters had neglected his duty that morning.

“Where d’ee live, my lad?” asked the captain, who, being large-hearted and having spent most of his life at sea, felt unusual interest in all things terrestrial when he chanced to be on shore.

“I live nowheres in par-tickler,” answered the boy.

“But where d’ee sleep of a night?”

“Vell, that depends. Mostly anywheres.”

“Got any father?”

“No, sir, I hain’t; nor yet no mother—never had no fathers nor mothers, as I knows on, an’ wot’s more, I don’t want any. They’re a chancey lot, is fathers an’ mothers—most of ’em. Better without ’em altogether, to my mind. Tother foot, sir.”

Looking down with a benignant smile at this independent specimen of humanity, the captain obeyed orders.

“D’ee make much at this work now, my lad?” asked the captain.

“Not wery much, sir. Just about enough to keep soul an’ body together, an’ not always that. It was on’y last veek as I was starvin’ to that extent that my soul very nigh broke out an’ made his escape, but the doctor he got ’old of it by the tail an’ ’eld on till ’e indooced it to stay on a bit longer. There you are, sir; might shave in ’em!”

“How much to pay?”

“Vell, gen’lemen usually gives me a penny, but that’s in or’nary cases. Ven I has to shine boots like a pair o’ ships’ boats I looks for suthin’ hextra—though I don’t always get it!”

“There you are, my lad,” said the captain, giving the boy something “hextra,” which appeared to satisfy him. Thereafter he proceeded to the Bridge, and, embarking on one of the river steamers, was soon deposited at Pimlico. Thence, traversing St. George’s Square, he soon found himself in the little street in which dwelt the Misses Seaward. He looked about him for some minutes and then entered a green-grocer’s shop, crushing his hat against the top of the door-way.

Wishing the green-grocer good-morning he asked if lodgings were to be had in that neighbourhood.

“Well, yes, sir,” he replied, “but I fear that you’d find most of ’em rather small for a man of your size.”

“No fear o’ that,” replied the captain with a loud guffaw, which roused the grocer’s cat a little, “I’m used to small cabins, an’ smaller bunks, d’ee see, an’ can stow myself away easy in any sort of hole. Why, I’ve managed to snooze in a bunk only five foot four, by clewin’ up my legs—though it wasn’t comfortable. But it’s not the size I care about so much as the character o’ the landlady. I like tidy respectable people, you see—havin’ bin always used to a well-kept ship.”

“Ah! I know one who’ll just suit you. Up at the other end o’ the street. Two rooms kept by a young widow who—”

“Hold hard there,” interrupted the captain; “none o’ your young widows for me. They’re dangerous. Besides, big as I am, I don’t want two rooms to sleep in. If you know of any old maid, now, with one room—that’s what would suit me to a tee; an easy-going sort o’ woman, who—”

“I know of two elderly ladies,” interrupted the green-grocer, thoughtfully; “they’re sisters, and have got a small room to let; but—but—they’re delicate sort o’ creeters, you know; have seen better days, an’ are raither timid, an’ might want a female lodger, or a man who—who—”

“Out with it,” interrupted the captain, “a man who is soft-spoken and well-mannered—not a big noisy old sea-horse like me! Is that what you would say?”

“Just so,” answered the green-grocer with an amiable nod.

“What’s the name of the sisters?”

“Seaward.”

“Seaward! eh!” exclaimed the captain in surprise. “That’s odd, now, that a seafarin’ man should be sent to seaward for his lodgin’s, even when he gets on shore. Ha! ha! I’ve always had a leanin’ to seaward. I’ll try the sisters. They can only tell me to ’bout ship, you know, and be off on the other tack.”

And again the captain gave such boisterous vent to his mirth that the green-grocer’s cat got up and walked indignantly away, for, albeit well used to the assaults of small boys, it apparently could not stand the noise of this new and bass disturber of the peace.

Having ascertained that the Misses Seaward dwelt above the shop in which he stood, Captain Bream went straight up-stairs and rapped heavily at their door.

Now, although the sisters had been gradually reduced to the extreme of poverty, they had hitherto struggled successfully against the necessity of performing what is known as the “dirty work” of a house. By stinting themselves in food, working hard at anything they succeeded in getting to do, and mending and re-mending their garments until it became miraculous, even to themselves, how these managed to hang together, they had, up to that period in their history, managed to pay to a slender little girl, out of their slender means, a still more slender salary for coming night and morning to clean their grate, light their fire, carry out their ashes, brush their boots, wash their door-steps, and otherwise perform work for which the sisters were peculiarly unfitted by age, training, and taste. This girl’s name was Liffie Lee. She was good as far as she went but she did not go far. Her goodness was not the result of principle. She had no principle; did not know what the word meant, but she had a nature, and that nature was soft, unselfish, self-oblivious,—the last a blessing of incalculable price!

It was Liffie Lee who responded to Captain Bream’s knock. She was at the time about to leave the house in undisturbed possession of its owners—or rather, occupiers.

“Does a Miss Seaward live here?”

It was a dark passage, and Liffie Lee almost quaked at the depth and metallic solemnity of the voice, as she glanced up at the spot where it appeared to come from.

“Yes, sir.”

“May I see her?”

“I—I’ll see, sir, if you’ll wait outside, sir.”

She gently yet quickly shut the door in the captain’s face, and next moment appeared in the little parlour with a flushed face and widely open eyes.

The biggest man she had ever seen, or heard, she said, wanted to see Miss Seaward.

Why did he want to see her and what was his name?

She didn’t know, and had omitted to ask his name, having been so frightened that she had left him at the door, which she had shut against him.

“An’, please, Miss,” continued Liffie, in a tone of suppressed eagerness, “if I was you I’d lock the parlour door in case he bu’sts in the outer one. You might open the winder an’ screech for the pleece.”

“Oh! Liffie, what a frightened thing you are,” remonstrated Jessie, “go and show the man in at once.”

“Oh! no, Miss,” pleaded Liffie, “you’d better ’ave ’im took up at once. You’ve no notion what dreadful men that sort are. I know ’em well. We’ve got some of ’em where we live, and—and they’re awful!”

Another knock at this point cut the conversation short, and Kate herself went to open the door.

“May I have a word with Miss Seaward?” asked the captain respectfully.

“Ye’es, certainly,” answered Kate, with some hesitation, for, although reassured by the visitor’s manner, his appearance and voice alarmed her too. She ushered him into the parlour, however, which was suddenly reduced to a mere bandbox by contrast with him.

Being politely asked to take a chair, he bowed and took hold of one, but on regarding its very slender proportions—it was a cane chair—he smiled and shook his head. The smile did much for him.

“Pray take this one,” said Jessie, pointing to the old arm-chair, which was strong enough even for him, “our visitors are not usually such—such—”

“Thumping walruses! out with it, Miss Seaward,” said the captain, seating himself—gently, for he had suffered in this matter more than once during his life—“I’m used to being found fault with for my size.”

“Pray do not imagine,” said Jessie, hastening to exculpate herself, “that I could be so very impolite as—as to—”

“Yes, yes, I know that,” interrupted the captain, blowing his nose—and the familiar operation was in itself something awful in such a small room—“and I am too big, there’s no doubt about that however, it can’t be helped. I must just grin and bear it. But I came here on business, so we’ll have business first, and pleasure, if you like, afterwards.”

“You may go now,” said Kate at this point to Liffie Lee, who was still standing transfixed in open-mouthed amazement gazing at the visitor.

With native obedience and humility the child left the room, though anxious to see and hear more.

“You have a furnished room to let I believe, ladies,” said the captain, coming at once to the point.

Jessie and Kate glanced at each other. The latter felt a strong tendency to laugh, and the former replied:—

“We have, indeed, one small room—a very small room, in fact a mere closet with a window in the roof,—which we are very anxious to let if possible to a lady—a—female. It is very poorly furnished, but it is comfortable, and we would make it very cheap. Is it about the hiring of such a room that you come?”

“Yes, madam, it is,” said the captain, decisively.

“But is the lady for whom you act,” said Jessie, “prepared for a particularly small room, and very poorly furnished?”

“Yes, she is,” replied the captain with a loud guffaw that made the very windows vibrate; “in fact I am the lady who wants the room. It’s true I’m not very lady-like, but I can say for myself that I’ll give you less trouble than many a lady would, an’ I don’t mind the cost.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Miss Seaward with a mingled look of amusement and perplexity which she did not attempt to conceal, while Kate laughed outright; “why, sir, the room is not much, if at all, longer than yourself.”

“No matter,” returned the captain, “I’m nowise particular, an’ I’ve been recommended to come to you; so here I am, ready to strike a bargain if you’re agreeable.”

“Pray, may I ask who recommended you?” said Jessie.

The seaman looked perplexed for a moment.

“Well, I didn’t observe his name over the door,” he said, “but the man in the shop below recommended me.”

“Oh? the green-grocer!” exclaimed both ladies together, but they did not add what they thought, namely, that the green-grocer was a very impertinent fellow to play off upon them what looked very much like a practical joke.

“Perhaps the best way to settle the matter,” said Kate, “will be to show the gentleman our room. He will then understand the impossibility.”

“That’s right,” exclaimed the captain; rising—and in doing so he seemed about to damage the ceiling—“let’s go below, by all means, and see the cabin.”

“It is not down-stairs,” remarked Jessie, leading the way; “we are at the top of the house here, and the room is on a level with this one.”

“So much the better. I like a deck-cabin. In fact I’ve bin used to it aboard my last ship.”

On being ushered into the room which he wished to hire, the sailor found himself in an apartment so very unsuited to his size and character that even he felt slightly troubled.

“It’s not so much the size that bothers me,” he said, stroking his chin gently, “as the fittings.”

There was some ground for the seaman’s perplexity, for the closet in which he stood, apart from the fact of its being only ten feet long by six broad, had been arranged by the tasteful sisters after the manner of a lady’s boudoir, with a view to captivate some poor sister of very limited means, or, perhaps, some humble-minded and possibly undersized young clerk from the country. The bed, besides being rather small, and covered with a snow-white counterpane, was canopied with white muslin curtains lined with pink calico. The wash-hand stand was low, fragile, and diminutive. The little deal table, which occupied an inconveniently large proportion of the space, was clothed in a garment similar to that of the bed. The one solitary chair was of that cheap construction which is meant to creak warningly when sat upon by light people, and to resolve itself into match-wood when the desecrator is heavy. Two pictures graced the walls—one the infant Samuel in a rosewood frame, the other an oil painting—of probably the first century, for its subject was quite undistinguishable—in a gold slip. The latter was a relic of better days—a spared relic, which the public had refused to buy at any price, though the auctioneer had described it as a rare specimen of one of the old—the very old—masters, with Rembrandtesque proclivities. No chest of drawers obtruded itself in that small chamber, but instead thereof the economical yet provident sisters, foreseeing the importance of a retreat for garments, had supplied a deal box, of which they stuffed the lid and then covered the whole with green baize, thus causing it to serve the double purpose of a wardrobe and a small sofa.

“However,” said Captain Bream, after a brief but careful look round, “it’ll do. With a little cuttin’ and carvin’ here an’ there, we’ll manage to squeeze in, for you must know, ladies, that we sea-farin’ men have a wonderful knack o’ stuffin’ a good deal into small space.”

The sisters made no reply. Indeed they were speechless, and horrified at the bare idea of the entrance of so huge a lodger into their quiet home.

“Look ye here, now,” he continued in a comfortable, self-satisfied tone, as he expanded his great arms along the length of the bed to measure it, “the bunk’s about five foot eight inches long. Well, I’m about six foot two in my socks—six inches short; that’s a difficulty no doubt, but it’s get-over-able this way, we’ll splice the green box to it.”

He grasped the sofa-wardrobe as he spoke, and placed it to the foot of the bed, then embracing the entire mass of mattresses and bedding at the lower end, raised it up, thrust the green box under with his foot, and laid the bedding down on it—thus adding about eighteen inches to the length.

“There you are, d’ee see—quite long enough, an’ a foot to spare.”

“But it does not fit,” urged Kate, who, becoming desperate, resolved to throw every possible obstruction in the way.

“That’s true, madam,” returned the captain with an approving nod. “I see you’ve got a mechanical eye—there’s a difference of elevation ’tween the box and the bed of three inches or more, but bless you, that’s nothin’ to speak of. If you’d ever been in a gale o’ wind at sea you’d know that we seadogs are used to considerable difference of elevation between our heads an’ feet. My top-coat stuffed in’ll put that to rights. But you’ll have to furl the flummery tops’ls—to lower ’em altogether would be safer.”

He took hold of the muslin curtains with great tenderness as he spoke, fearing, apparently, to damage them.

“You see,” he continued, apologetically, “I’m not used to this sort o’ thing. Moreover, I’ve a tendency to nightmare. Don’t alarm yourselves, ladies, I never do anything worse to disturb folk than give a shout or a yell or two, but occasionally I do let fly with a leg or an arm when the fit’s on me, an’ if I should get entangled with this flummery, you know I’d be apt to damage it. Yes, the safest way will be to douse the tops’ls altogether. As to the chair—well, I’ll supply a noo one that’ll stand rough weather. If you’ll also clear away the petticoats from the table it’ll do well enough. In regard to the lookin’-glass, I know pretty well what I’m like, an’ don’t have any desire to study my portrait. As for shavin’, I’ve got a bull’s-eye sort of glass in the lid o’ my soap-box that serves all my purpose, and I shave wi’ cold water, so I won’t be botherin’ you in the mornin’s for hot. I’ve got a paintin’ of my last ship—the Daisy—done in water-colours—it’s a pretty big ’un, but by hangin’ Samuel on the other bulk-head, an’ stickin’ that black thing over the door, we can make room for it.”

As Captain Bream ran on in this fashion, smoothing down all difficulties, and making everything comfortable, the poor sisters grew more and more desperate, and Kate felt a tendency to recklessness coming on. Suddenly a happy thought occurred to her.

“But sir,” she interposed with much firmness of tone and manner, “there is one great difficulty in the way of our letting the room to you which I fear cannot be overcome.”

The captain looked at her inquiringly, and Jessie regarded her with admiration and wonder, for she could not conceive what this insurmountable difficulty could be.

“My sister and I,” continued Kate, “have both an unconquerable dislike to tobacco—”

“Oh! that’s no objection,” cried the captain with a light laugh—which in him, however, was an ear-splitting guffaw—“for I don’t smoke!”

“Don’t smoke?” repeated both sisters in tones of incredulity, for in their imagination a seaman who did not smoke seemed as great an impossibility as a street boy who did not whistle.

“An’ what’s more,” continued the captain, “I don’t drink. I’m a tee-total abstainer. I leave smokin’ to steam-funnels, an’ drinkin’ to the fish.”

“But,” persisted Kate, on whom another happy thought had descended, “my sister and I keep very early hours, and a latch-key we could never—”

“Pooh! that’s no difficulty,” again interrupted this unconquerable man of the sea; “I hate late hours myself, when I’m ashore, havin’ more than enough of ’em when afloat. I’ll go to bed regularly at nine o’clock, an’ won’t want a latch-key.”

The idea of such a man going to bed at all was awesome enough, but the notion of his doing so in that small room, and in that delicately arranged little bed under that roof-tree, was so perplexing, that the sisters anxiously rummaged their minds for a new objection, but could find none until their visitor asked the rent of the room. Then Kate was assailed by another happy thought, and promptly named double the amount which she and Jessie had previously fixed as its value—which amount she felt sure would prove prohibitory.

Her dismay, then, may be imagined when the captain exclaimed with a sigh—perhaps it were better to say a breeze—of relief:—

“Well, then, that’s all comfortably settled. I consider the rent quite moderate. I’ll send up my chest to-morrow mornin’, an’ will turn up myself in the evenin’. I’ll bid ye good-day now, ladies, an’ beg your pardon for keepin’ you so long about this little matter.”

He held out his hand. One after another the crushed sisters put their delicate little hands into the seaman’s enormous paw, and meekly bade him good-bye, after which the nautical giant strode noisily out of the house, shut the door with an inadvertent bang, stumbled heavily down the dark stair and passage, and finally vanished from the scene.

Then Jessie and Kate Seaward returned to their little parlour, sat down at opposite sides of the miniature grate, and gazed at each other for some minutes in solemn silence—both strongly impressed with the feeling that they had passed through a tremendous storm, and got suddenly into a profoundly dead calm.

Chapter Four.

Billy Bright the Fisher-Boy visits London—has a Fight—enlarges his Mind, and undertakes Business.

We must now return to the Evening Star fishing-smack, but only for a few minutes at present. Later on we shall have occasion to visit her under stirring circumstances. We saw her last heading eastward to her fishing-ground in the North Sea. We present her now, after a two months’ trip, sailing to the west, homeward bound.

Eight weeks at sea; nine days on shore, is the unvarying routine of the North Sea smacksman’s life, summer and winter, all the year round. Two months of toil and exposure of the severest kind, fair-weather or foul, and little more than one week of repose in the bosom of his family—varied by visits more or less frequent to the tap-room of the public-house. It is a rugged life to body and soul. Severest toil and little rest for the one; strong temptation and little refreshment to the other.

“Strong temptation!” you exclaim, “what! out on the heaving billows and among the howling gales of winter on the North Sea?”

Ay, stronger temptation than you might suppose, as, in the sequel, you shall see.

But we are homeward bound just now. One of the gales above referred to is blowing itself out and the Evening Star is threading her way among the shoals to her brief repose in Yarmouth.

The crew are standing about the deck looking eagerly towards the land, and little Billy is steering. (See Frontispiece.)

Yes, that ridiculous atom of humanity, with a rope, or “steering lanyard,” round the tiller to prevent its knocking him down or sweeping him overboard, stands there guiding the plunging smack on her course through the dangerous shoals. Of course Billy’s father has an eye on him, but he does not require to say more than an occasional word at long intervals.

Need we observe that our little hero is no longer subject to the demon which felled him at starting, and made his rosy face so pale? One glance at the healthy brown cheeks will settle that question. Another glance at his costume will suffice to explain, without words, much of Billy’s life during the past eight weeks. The sou’-wester is crushed and soiled, the coat is limp, rent, mended, button-bereaved more or less, and bespattered, and the boots wear the aspect of having seen service. The little hands too, which even while ashore were not particularly white, now bear traces of having had much to do with tar, and grease, and fishy substances, besides being red with cold, swelled with sundry bruises, and seamed with several scars—for Billy is reckless by nature, and it takes time and much experience of suffering to teach a man how to take care of his hands in the fisheries of the North Sea!

An hour or two more sufficed to carry our smack into port, and then the various members of the crew hurried home.

Billy swaggered beside his father and tried to look manly until he reached his own door, where all thought of personal appearance suddenly vanished, and he leaped with an unmanly squeal of delight into his mother’s arms. You may be sure that those arms did not spare him!

“You’ll not go down to-night, David?” said Mrs Bright, when, having half choked her son, she turned to her husband.

“No, lass,—I won’t,” said the skipper in a tone of decision.

Mrs Bright was much gratified by the promise, for well did she know, from bitter experience, that if her David went down to meet his comrades at the public-house on his arrival, his brief holidays would probably be spent in a state of semi-intoxication. Indeed, even with this promise she knew that much of his time and a good deal of his hardly earned money would be devoted to the publican.

“We’ll not have much of Billy’s company this week, I fear,” said Mrs Bright, with a glance of pride at her son, who returned it with a look of surprise.

“Why so, Nell?” asked her husband.

“Because he has got to go to London.”

“To Lun’on!” exclaimed the father.

“Lun’on!” echoed the son.

“Yes; it seems that Miss Ruth—that dear young lady, Miss Ruth Dotropy—you remember her, Billy?”

“Remember her! I should think I does,” said the boy, emphatically, “if I was to live as long as Meethusilim I’d never forget Miss Dotropy.”

“Well,” continued Mrs Bright, “she wrote and asked Joe Davidson’s wife to send her a fisher-boy to London for a day or two, and she’d pay his railway fare up an’ back, and all his expenses. What ever Miss Ruth wants to do with him I don’t know, nor any one else. Mrs Davidson couldn’t find a boy that was fit to send, so she said she’d wait till you came back, Billy, and send you up.”

“Well, wonders ain’t a-goin’ to cease yet a while,” exclaimed Billy, with a look of gratified pride. “Hows’ever, I’m game for anythink—from pitch an’ toss up’ards. When am I to start, mother?”

“To-morrow, by the first train.”

“All right—an’ what sort o’ rig? I couldn’t go in them ’ere slops, you know. It wouldn’t give ’em a k’rect idear o’ Yarmouth boys, would it?”

“Of course not sonny, an I’ve got ready your old Sunday coat, it ain’t too small for you yet—an’ some other things.”

Accordingly, rigged out, as he expressed it, in a well-mended and brushed pilot-cloth coat; a round blue-cloth cap; a pair of trousers to match, and a pair of new shoes, Billy found himself speeding towards the great city with what he styled “a stiff breakfast under hatches, four or five shillings in the locker, an’ a bu’stin’ heart beneath his veskit.”

In a few hours he found himself in the bewildering streets, inquiring his way to the great square in the West End where Mrs Dotropy dwelt.

The first person of whom he made inquiry was a street boy, and while he was speaking the city Arab regarded the provincial boy’s innocent face—for it was a peculiarly innocent face when in repose—with a look of mingled curiosity and cunning.

“Now look ’ee here, young ’un,” said the Arab, “I don’t know nothink about the Vest End squares, an’ what’s more I don’t want to, but I do know a lot about the East End streets, an’ if you’ll come with me, I’ll—”

“Thank ’ee, no,” interrupted Billy, with unlooked-for decision, “I’ve got business to look arter at the West End.”

“Yell, cooriously enough,” returned the Arab, “I’ve got business at the East End. By the vay, you don’t ’appen to ’ave any browns—any coppers—about you—eh?”

“Of course I has. You don’t suppose a man goes cruisin’ about Lun’on without any shot in the locker, do you?”

“To be sure not,” responded the street boy; “I might ’ave know’d that a man like you wouldn’t, anyhow. Now, it so ’appens that I’m wery much in want o’ change. You couldn’t give me browns for a sixpence, could you?”

The Arab said this so earnestly—at the same time producing a sixpence, or something that looked like one, from his pockets—that the provincial boy’s rising suspicions were quite disarmed.

“Let me see,” he said, plunging his hand into his trousers pocket—“one, two, three—no, I’ve only got fourpence, but—”

He was cut short by the Arab making a sudden grasp at the coins, which sent most of them spinning on the pavement.

Like lightning little Billy sprang forward and planted his right fist on the point of the Arab’s nose with such vigour that the blow caused him to stagger backwards. Before he could recover Billy followed him up with a left-hander on the forehead and a right-hander on the chest, which last sent him over on his back. So sudden was the onset that the passers-by scarcely understood what was occurring before it was all over. A grave policeman stepped forward at the moment. The Arab rose, glided into a whirl of wheels and horses’ legs, and disappeared, while Billy stood still with doubled fists glaring defiance.

“Now then, my boy, what’s all this about?” said the man in blue, placing a large hand gently on the small shoulder.

“He’s bin and knocked my coppers about,” said our little hero indignantly, as he looked up, but the stern yet kindly smile on the policeman’s face restored him, and he condescended on a fuller explanation as he proceeded to pick up his pence.

Having been cautioned about the danger of entering into conversation with strangers in London—especially with street boys—Billy was directed to a Pimlico omnibus, and deposited not far from his destination. Inquiring his way thereafter of several policemen—who were, as he afterwards related to admiring friends, as thick in London as bloaters in Yarmouth—he found himself in front of the Dotropy residence.

“Yes, my little man,” said the footman who opened the door of the West End mansion, “Miss Ruth is at ’ome, and ’as been expecting you. Come this way.”

That footman lost ground in Billy’s estimation because of using the word little. If he had said “my boy,” it would have been all right; “my man” would have been gratifying; but “my little man” was repulsive. A smart servant girl who chanced to see him on his way to the library also caused him much pain by whispering to her fellow something about a sweet innocent-faced darling, and he put on a savage frown, as he was ushered into the room, by way of counteracting the sweet innocence. A glass opposite suddenly revealed to its owner the smooth rosy-brown visage, screwed up in a compound expression. That expression changed so swiftly to sheer surprise that a burst of involuntary laughter was the result. A deep flush, and silence, followed, as the urchin looked with some confusion round the room to see if he had been observed or overheard, and a sense of relief came as he found that he was alone. No one had seen or heard him except some of the Dotropy ancestors who had “come over” with the Conqueror, and who gazed sternly from the walls. For, you see, being a family of note, the dining-room could not hold all the ancestors, so that some of them had to be accommodated in the library.

That glance round had a powerful effect on the mind of the fisher-boy, so powerful indeed that all thought of self vanished, for he found himself for the first time in a room the like of which he had never seen, or heard, or dreamed of.

He knew, of course, that there were libraries in Yarmouth, and was aware that they had something to do with books, but he had never seen a collection on a large scale, and, up to that time, had no particular curiosity about books.

Indeed, if truth must be told, Billy hated books, because the only point in regard to which he and his mother had ever differed was a book! A tattered, ragged, much-soiled book it was, with big letters at the beginning, simple arrangements of letters in the middle, and maddening compounds of them towards the end. Earnestly, patiently, lovingly, yet perseveringly, had Mrs Bright tried to drill the contents of that book into Billy’s unwilling brain, but with little success, for, albeit a willing and obliging child, there was a limit to his powers of comprehension, and a tendency in his young mind to hold in contempt what he did not understand.

One day a somewhat pedantic visitor told Billy that he would never be a great man if he did not try to understand the book in question—to thoroughly digest it.

“You hear what the gentleman says, Billy, you dirty little gurnet,” said David Bright on that occasion, “you’ve got to di-gest it, my lad, to di-gest it.”

“Yes, father,” said Billy, with a finger in his mouth and his eyes on the visitor.

The boy’s mind was inquisitive and ingenious. He pestered his father, after the visitor had gone, for an explanation as to what he meant by digesting the book.

“Why, sonny,” returned David, knitting his brows very hard, for the question was somewhat of a puzzler, “he means that you’ve got to stow away in your brain the knowledge that’s in the book, an’ work away at it—di-gest it, d’ee see—same as you stow grub into yer stummick an’ digest that.”

Billy pondered this a long time till a happy thought occurred to him.

“I’ll digest it,” said he, slapping his thigh one day when he was left alone in the house. “We’ll all di-gest it together!”

He jumped up, took the lid off a pot of pea-soup that was boiling on the fire, and dropped the hated book into it.

“What’s this i’ the soup, Nell?” said David that day at dinner, as he fished a mass of curious substance out of the pot. “Many a queer thing have I fished up i’ the trawl from the bottom o’ the North Sea, but ne’er afore did I make such a haul as this in a pot o’ pea-soup. What is’t?”

“Why, David,” replied the wife, examining the substance with a puzzled expression, “I do believe it’s the primer!”

They both turned their eyes inquiringly on the boy, who sat gravely watching them.

“All right, father,” he said, “I put ’im in. We’re a-goin’ to di-gest it, you know.”

“Dirty boy!” exclaimed his mother, flinging the remains of the boiled book under the grate. “You’ve ruined the soup.”

“Never a bit, Nell,” said the skipper, who was in no wise particular as to his food, “clean paper an’ print can’t do no damage to the soup. An’ after all, I don’t see why a man shouldn’t take in knowledge as well through the stummick as through the brain. It don’t matter a roker’s tail whether you ship cargo through the main-hatch or through the fore-hatch, so long as it gits inside somehow. Come, let’s have a bowl of it. I never was good at letters myself, an’ I’ll be bound to say that Billy and I will di-gest the book better this way than the right way.”

Thus was the finishing touch put to Billy Bright’s education at that time, and we have described the incident in order that the reader may fully understand the condition of the boy’s mind as he stood gazing round the library of the West End mansion.

“Books!” exclaimed Billy, afterwards, when questioned by a Yarmouth friend, “I should just think there was books. Oh! it’s o’ no manner o’ use tryin’ to tell ’ee about it. There was books from the floor to the ceilin’ all round the room—books in red covers, an’ blue covers, an’ green, an’ yellow, an’ pink, an’ white—all the colours in the rainbow, and all of ’em more or less kivered wi’ gold—w’y—I don’t know what their insides was worth, but sartin sure am I that they couldn’t come up to their outsides. Mints of money must ’ave bin spent in kiverin’ of ’em. An’ there was ladders to git at ’em—a short un to git at the books below, an’ a long un to go aloft for ’em in the top rows. What people finds to write about beats me to understand; but who ever buys and reads it all beats me wuss.”

While new and puzzling thoughts were thus chasing each other through the fisher-boy’s brain Ruth Dotropy entered.

“What! Billy Bright,” she exclaimed in a tone of great satisfaction, hurrying forward and holding out her hand. “I’m so glad they have sent you. I would have asked them to send you, when I wrote, but thought you were at sea.”

“Yes, Miss, but I’ve got back again,” said Billy, grasping the offered hand timidly, fearing to soil it.

For the same reason he sat down carefully on the edge of a chair, when Ruth said heartily, “Come, sit down and let’s have a talk together,” for, you see, he had become so accustomed to fishy clothes and tarred hands that he had a tendency to forget that he was now “clean” and “in a split-new rig.”

Ruth’s manner and reception put the poor boy at once at his ease. For some time she plied him with questions about the fisher-folk of Yarmouth and Gorleston, in whom she had taken great interest during a summer spent at the former town,—at which time she had made the acquaintance of little Billy. Then she began to talk of the sea and the fishery, and the smacks with their crews. Of course the boy was in his element on these subjects, and not only answered his fair questioner fully, but volunteered a number of anecdotes, and a vast amount of interesting information about fishing, which quite charmed Ruth, inducing her to encourage him to go on.

“Oh! yes, Miss,” he said, “it’s quite true what you’ve bin told. There’s hundreds and hundreds of smacks a-fishin’ out there on the North Sea all the year round, summer an’ winter. In course I can’t say whether there’s a popilation, as you calls it, of over twelve thousand, always afloat, never havin’ counted ’em myself, but I know there must be a-many thousand men an’ boys there.”

“Billy was right. There is really a population of over 12,000 men and boys afloat all the year round on the North Sea, engaged in the arduous work of daily supplying the London and other markets with fresh fish.”

“And what port do they run for when a storm comes on?” asked Ruth.

“What port, Miss? why, they don’t run for no port at all, cos why? there’s no port near enough to run for.”

“Do you mean to say, that they remain at sea during all the storms—even the worst?”

“That’s just what we does, Miss. Blow high, blow low, it’s all the same; we must weather it the best way we can. An’ you should see how it blows in winter! That’s the time we catches it wust. It’s so cold too! I’ve not bin out in winter yet myself, but father says it’s cold enough to freeze the nose off your face, an’ it blows ’ard enough a’most to blow you inside out. You wouldn’t like to face that sort o’ thing—would you, Miss?”

With a light laugh Ruth admitted that she disliked the idea of such North Sea experiences.

“Oh! you’ve no idea, Miss, how it do blow sometimes,” continued Billy, who was a naturally communicative boy, and felt that he had got hold of a sympathetic ear. “Have you ever heard of the gale that blew so ’ard that they had to station two men an’ a boy to hold on to the captain’s hair for fear it should be blowed right off his ’ead?”

“Yes,” answered Ruth, with a silvery laugh. “I’ve heard of that gale.”

“Have you, Miss?” said Billy with a slightly surprised look. “That’s queer, now. I thought nobody know’d o’ that gale ’cept us o’ the North Sea, an’, p’raps, some o’ the people o’ Yarmouth an’ Gorleston.”

“I rather think that I must have read of it somewhere,” said Ruth. Billy glanced reproachfully at the surrounding books, under the impression that it must have been one of these which had taken the wind out of his sails.

“Well, Miss,” he continued, “I don’t mean for to say I ever was in a gale that obliged us to be careful of the skipper’s hair, but I do say that father’s seed somethink like it, for many a time our smack has bin blowed over on her beam-ends—that means laid a’most flat, Miss, with ’er sails on the sea. One night father’s smack was sailin’ along close-hauled when a heavy sea struck ’er abaft the channels, and filled the bag o’ the mains’l. She was just risin’ to clear herself when another sea follared, filled the mains’l again, an’ sent ’er on ’er beam-ends. The sea was makin’ a clean breach over ’er from stem to stern, an’ cleared the deck o’ the boat an’ gear an’ everythink. Down went all hands below an’ shut the companion, to prevent ’er being swamped. Meanwhile the weight o’ water bu’st the mains’l, so that the vessel partly righted, an’ let the hands come on deck agin. Then, after the gale had eased a bit, two or three o’ their comrades bore down on ’em and towed ’em round, so as the wind got under ’er an’ lifted ’er a bit, but the ballast had bin shot from the bilge into the side, so they couldn’t right her altogether, but had to tow ’er into port that way—over two hundred miles—the snow an’ hail blowin’, too, like one o’clock!”

“Really, they must have had a terrible time of it,” returned Ruth, “though I don’t know exactly how dreadful ‘one o’clock’ may be. But tell me, Billy, do the fishermen like the worsted mitts and helmets and comforters that were sent to them from this house last year?”

“Oh! don’t they, just! I’ve heard them blessin’ the ladies as sent ’em, many a time. You see, Miss, the oil-skins chafe our wrists most awful when we’re workin’ of the gear—”

“What is the gear, Billy?”

“The nets, Miss, an’ all the tackle as belongs to ’em. An’ then the salt water makes the sores wuss—it used to be quite awful, but the cuffs keeps us all right. An’ the books an’ tracts, too, Miss—the hands are wery fond o’ them, an’—”

“We will talk about the books and tracts another time,” said Ruth, interrupting, “but just now we must proceed to business. Of course you understand that I must have some object in view in sending for a fisher-boy from Yarmouth.”

“Well, Miss, it did occur to me that I wasn’t axed to come here for nuffin’.”

“Just so, my boy. Now I want your help, so I will explain. We are to have what is called a drawing-room meeting here in a few days, in behalf of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and one of your fisher captains is to be present to give an account of the work carried on among the men of the fleet by the mission vessels. So I want you to be there as one of the boys—”

“Not to speak to ’em, Miss, I hope?” said Billy, with a look of affected modesty.

“No, not to speak,” replied Ruth, laughing, “only to represent the boys of the fleet. But that’s not the main thing I want you for. It is this, and remember, Billy, that I am now taking you into my confidence, so you must not tell what I shall speak to you about to any living soul.”

“Not even to mother?” asked the boy.

“No, not even—well, you may tell it to your mother, for boys ought to have no secrets from their mothers; besides, your mother is a discreet woman, and lives a long way off from London. You must know, then, Billy, that I have two very dear friends—two ladies—who are in deep poverty, and I want to give them money—”

“Well, why don’t you give it ’em, Miss?” said Billy, seeing that Ruth hesitated. “You must have lots of it to give away,” he added, looking contemplatively round.

“Yes, thank God, who gave it to me, I have, as you say, lots of it, but I cannot give it to the dear ladies I speak of because—because—”

“They’re too proud to take it, p’raps,” suggested Billy.

“No; they are not proud—very far from it; but they are sensitive.”

“What’s that, Miss?”

Ruth was puzzled for a reply.

“It—it means,” she said, “that they have delicate feelings, which cannot bear the idea of accepting money without working for it, when there are so many millions of poor people without money who cannot work for it. They once said to me, indeed, that if they were to accept money in charity they would feel as if they were robbing the really poor.”

“Why don’t they work, then?” asked Billy in some surprise. “Why don’t they go to sea as stooardesses or somethink o’ that sort?”

“Because they have never been trained to such work, or, indeed, to any particular work,” returned Ruth; “moreover, they are in rather delicate health, and are not young. Their father was rich, and meant to leave them plenty to live on, but he failed, and left them in broken health without a penny. Wasn’t it sad?”

“Indeed it was, Miss,” replied the boy, whose ready sympathy was easily enlisted.

“Well, now, Billy, I want you to go to see these ladies. Tell them that you are a fisher-boy belonging to the North sea trawling fleet, and that you have called from a house which wants a job undertaken. You will then explain about the fishery, and how the wrists of the men are chafed, and break out into painful sores, and how worsted mitts serve the purpose at once of prevention and cure. Say that the house by which you have been sent has many hands at work—and so I have, Billy, for many ladies send the cuffs and things made by them for the fleet to me to be forwarded, only they work gratuitously, and I want the work done by my two friends to be paid for, you understand? Tell them that still more hands are wanted, and ask them if they are open to an engagement. You must be very matter-of-fact, grave, and businesslike, you know. Ask them how many pairs they think they will be able to make in a week, and say that the price to be paid will be fixed on receipt of the first sample. But, remember, on no account are you to mention the name of the house that sent you; you will also leave with them this bag of worsted. Now, do you fully understand?”

Billy replied by a decided wink, coupled with an intelligent nod.

After a good deal of further advice and explanation, Ruth gave Billy the name and address of her friends, and sent him forth on his mission.

Chapter Five.

How Billy Conducts the Business—How Captain Bream Overcomes the Sisters, and how Jessie Seaward Sees Mystery in Everything.

“I wonder,” said Billy to himself on reaching the street as he looked down at the legs of his trousers, “I wonder if they’re any shorter. Yes, they don’t seem to be quite so far down on the shoes as when I left Yarmouth. I must have grow’d an inch or two since I came up to Lun’on!”

Under this gratifying impression the fisher-boy drew himself up to his full height, his little chest swelling with new sensations, and his whole body rolling along with a nautical swagger that drew on him the admiration of some, the contempt of others, and caused several street boys to ask “if his mother knowed ’e was hout,” and other insolent questions.

But Billy cared for none of these things. The provincial boy was quite equal to the occasion, though his return “chaff” smacked much of salt water.

Arrived at the poverty-stricken street in which the Misses Seaward dwelt, Billy mounted the narrow staircase and knocked at the door. It was opened by Liffie Lee, who had remained on that day to accomplish some extra work.

“Is your missis at home, my dear?”

“There ain’t no missis here, an’ I ain’t your dear,” was the prompt reply.

Billy was taken aback. He had not anticipated so ready and caustic a response, in one so small and child-like.

“Come now—no offence meant,” he said, “but you’re not a-goin’ to deny that the Miss Seawards does live here.”

“I ain’t a-goin’ to deny nothink,” replied Liffie, a little softened by the boy’s apologetic tone, “only when I’m expected to give a civil answer, I expects a civil question.”

“That’s all fair an’ aboveboard. Now, will you tell the Miss Seawards I wants to see ’em, on a matter of business—of importance.”

Another minute and Billy stood in the presence of the ladies he wished to see. Prepared beforehand to like them, his affections were at once fixed for ever by the first glimpse of their kindly faces.

With a matter-of-fact gravity, that greatly amused the sisters—though they carefully concealed their feelings—little Billy stated his business, and, in so doing, threw his auditors into a flutter of hope and gratitude, surprise and perplexity.

“But what is the name of the house that sends you?” asked Miss Jessie.

“That I am not allowed for to tell,” said the boy-of-business, firmly.

“A mercantile house in the city, I suppose,” said Kate.

“What sort o’ house it may be is more than a sea-farin’ man like me knows, an’ of course it’s in the city. You wouldn’t expect a business-house to be in the country, would you? all I know is that they want mitts made—hundreds of ’em—no end o’ mitts—an’ they hain’t got hands enough to make ’em, so they sent me to ask if you’ll undertake to help in the work, or if they’re to git some one else to do it. Now, will you, or will you not? that’s the pint.”

“Of course we shall be only too happy,” answered Jessie, “though the application is strange. How did you come to know that we were in want of—that is, who sent you to us?”

“The house sent me, as I said afore, Miss.”

“Yes, but how did the house come to know of our existence, and how is it that a house of any sort should send a sailor-boy as its messenger?”

“How the house came to know of you is more than I can say. They don’t tell me all the outs-an’-ins of their affairs, you know. As to a house sendin’ a sailor-boy as its messenger—did you ever hear of the great house of Messrs Hewett and Company, what supplies Billin’sgate with fish?”

“I’m not sure—well, yes, I think I have heard of that house,” said Kate, “though we are not in the way of hearing much about the commercial houses of London.”

“Well,” continued Billy, “that house sends hundreds of fisher-boys as messengers. It sends ’em to the deep-sea with a message to the fish, an the message is—‘come out o’ the water you skulkin’ critters, an’ be sent up to Billin’sgate to be sold an’ eaten!’ The fish don’t come willin’ly, I’m bound for to say that, but we make ’em come all the same, willin’ or not, for we’ve wonderful powers o’ persuasion. So you see, houses do send fisher-boys as messengers sometimes; now, what am I to say to the partikler house as sends me? will you go in for mitts? you may take comforters if you prefer it, or helmets.”

“What do you mean by helmets, my boy?”

“Worsted ones, of course. Things made to kiver up a man’s head and neck and come down to his shoulders, with a hole in front just big enough to let his eyes, nose, and cheek-bones come through. With a sou’-wester on top, and a comforter round the neck, they’re not so bad in a stiff nor’-wester in Janoowairy. Now’s your chance, ladies, now, or niver!”

There was something so ludicrous in the manly tone and decided manner of the smooth-faced little creature before them, that the sisters burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“Forgive us, dear boy, but the idea of our being asked in this sudden way to make innumerable mitts and comforters and worsted helmets seems so odd that we can’t help laughing. What is your name? That is not a secret, I hope?”

“By no means. My name is Billy Bright. If you’re very partikler, you may call me Willum.”

“I prefer Billy,” said Kate. “Now, Billy, it is near our dinner hour. Will you stay and dine with us? If you do, you’ll meet such a nice man—such a big man too—and somewhat in your own line of life; a sea-captain. We expect him every—”

“No, thank ’ee, Miss,” interrupted the boy, rising abruptly. “I sees more than enough o’ big sea-captings when I’m afloat. Besides, I’ve got more business on hand, so I’ll bid ’ee good-day.”

Pulling his forelock he left the room.

“The ladies has undertook some work for me, my dear,” said Billy to Liffie Lee, as he stood at the door buttoning up his little coat, “so p’raps I may see you again.”

“It won’t break my ’art if you don’t,” replied Liffie; “no, nor yet yours.”

“Speak for yourself, young ’ooman. You don’t know nothing about my ’art.”

As he spoke, a heavy foot was heard at the bottom of the stair.

“That’s our lodger,” said Liffie; “no foot but his can bang the stair or make it creak like that.”

“Well, I’m off,” cried Billy, descending two steps at a time.

Half-way down he encountered what seemed to him a giant with a chest on his shoulder. It was the darkest part of the stair where they met.

“Look out ahead! Hard a starboard!” growled Captain Bream, who seemed to be heavily weighted.

“Ay, ay, sir!” cried Billy, as he brushed past, bounded into the street, and swaggered away.

“What boy was that, Liffie?” asked the captain, letting down the chest he carried with a shock that caused the frail tenement to quiver from cellar to roof-tree.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“He must be a sailor-boy, from his answer,” rejoined the captain. “Open the door o’ my cabin, lass, and I’ll carry it right in. It’s somewhat heavy.”

He lifted the chest, which was within an eighth of an inch of being too large to pass through the little door-way, and put it in a corner, after which he entered the parlour, and sat down in a solid wooden chair which he had supplied to the establishment for his own special use.

“You see,” he had said, on the day when he introduced it, “I’ve come to grief so often in the matter of chairs that I’ve become chary as to how I use ’em. If all the chairs that I’ve had go crash under me was put together they’d furnish a good-sized house. Look before you leap is a well-known proverb, but look before you sit down has become a more familiar experience to me through life. It’s an awkward thing bein’ so heavy, and I hope you’ll never know what it is, ladies.”

Judging from their appearance just then there did not seem much prospect of that!

“Now,” continued the captain, rubbing his hands and looking benignantly at Jessie, “I have settled the matter at last; fairly said good-bye to old Ocean, an’ fixed to cast anchor for good on the land.”

“Have you indeed, captain?” said Jessie, “I should fancy that you must feel rather sorry to bid farewell to so old a friend.”

“That’s true, Miss Seaward. An old and good friend the sea has been to me, thank God. But I’m gettin’ too old myself to be much of a friend to it, so I’ve fixed to say good-bye. And the question is, Am I to stop on here, or am I to look out for another lodgin’? You see I’ve been a good many weeks with you now, an’ you’ve had a fair taste of me, so to speak. I know I’m a rough sort o’ fish for the like o’ you to have to do with, and, like some o’ the hermit crabs, rather too big for my shell, so if you find me awkward or uncomfortable don’t hesitate to say so. I won’t be surprised, though I confess I should be sorry to leave you.”

“Well, Captain Bream,” said Kate, who was generally the speaker when delicate, difficult or unpleasant subjects had to be dealt with, “since you have been so candid with us we will be equally candid with you. When you first came to us, I confess that we were much alarmed; you seemed—so very big,” (the captain tried to shrink a little—without success—and smiled in a deprecating manner), “and our rooms and furniture seemed so very small and delicate, so to speak; and then your voice was so fearfully deep and gruff,” (the captain cleared his throat softly—in B natural of the bass clef—and smiled again), “that we were almost frightened to receive you; but, now that we have had experience of you, we are quite willing that you should continue with us—on one condition, however.”

“And that is?” asked the captain anxiously.

“That you pay us a lower rent.”

“A—a higher rent you mean, I suppose?”

“No; I mean a lower.”

Captain Bream’s benign visage became grave and elongated.

“You see, captain,” continued Kate, flushing a little, “when you first came, we tried—excuse me—to get rid of you, to shake you off, and we almost doubled the rent of our little room, hoping that—”

“Quite right, quite right,” interrupted the captain, “and according to strict justice, for ain’t I almost double the size of or’nary men, an’ don’t I give more than double the trouble?”

“Not so,” returned Kate, firmly, “you don’t give half the trouble that other men do.”

“Excuse me, Miss Kate,” said the captain with a twinkle in his grey eye, “you told me I was your first lodger, so how can you know how much trouble other men would give?”

“No matter,” persisted Kate, a little confused, “you don’t give half the trouble that other lodgers would have given if we had had them.”

“Ah! h’m—well,” returned the captain softly, in the profoundest possible bass, “looking at the matter in that light, perhaps you are not far wrong. But, go on.”

“Well, I have only to add,” continued Kate, “that you have been so kind to us, and so considerate, and have given us so little—so very little trouble, that it will give us both great pleasure to have you continue to lodge with us if you agree to the reduction of the rent.”

“Very well,” said Captain Bream, pulling out an immense gold chronometer—the gift, in days gone by, of a band of highly grateful and appreciative passengers. “I’ve got business in the city an hour hence. We shall have dinner first. Two hours afterwards I will return with a cab and take away my boxes. That will give you plenty of time to make out your little bill and—”

“What do you mean, captain?” interrupted Kate, in much surprise.

“I mean, dear ladies, that you and I entered into an agreement to rent your little cabin for so much. Now it has been my rule in life to stick to agreements, and I mean to stick to this one or throw up my situation. Besides, I’m not goin’ to submit to have the half of my rent cut off. I can’t stand it. Like old Shylock, I mean to stick to the letter of the bond. Now, is it ‘to be, or not to be?’ as Hamlet said to the ass.”

“I was not aware that Hamlet said that to an ass,” remarked Jessie, with a little laugh.

“Oh yes! he did,” returned the captain quite confidently; “he said it to himself, you know, an’ that was the same thing. But what about the agreement?”

“Well, since you are so determined, I suppose we must give in,” said Kate.

“We can’t resist you, captain,” said Jessie, “but there is one thing that we must positively insist on, namely, that you come and sit in this room of an evening. I suppose you read or write a great deal, for we see your light burning very late sometimes, and as you have no fire you must often feel very cold.”

“Cold!” shouted the captain, with a laugh that caused the very window-frames to vibrate. “My dear ladies, I’m never cold. Got so used to it, I suppose, that it has no power over me. Why, when a man o’ my size gets heated right through, it takes three or four hours to cool him even a little. Besides, if it do come a very sharp frost, I’ve got a bear-skin coat that our ship-carpenter made for me one voyage in the arctic regions. It is hot enough inside almost to cook you. Did I ever show it you? I’ll fetch it.”

Captain Bream rose with such energy that he unintentionally spurned his chair—his own solid peculiar chair—and caused it to pirouette on one leg before tumbling backward with a crash. Next minute he returned enveloped from head to foot in what might be termed a white-bear ulster, with an enormous hood at the back of his neck.

Accustomed as the sisters were to their lodger’s bulk, they were not prepared for the marvellous increase caused by the monstrous hairy garment.

“It would puzzle the cold to get at me through this, wouldn’t it?” said its owner, surveying it with complacency. “It was my own invention too—at least the carpenter and I concocted it between us.

“The sleeves are closed up at the ends, you see, and a thumb attached to each, so as to make sleeves and mittens all of a piece, with a slit near the wrists to let you shove your hands out when you want to use them naked, an’ a flap to cover the slit and keep the wind out when you don’t want to shove out your hands. Then the hood, you see, is large and easy, so that it can be pulled well for’ard—so—and this broad band behind it unbuttons and comes round in front of the face and buttons, so—to keep all snug when you lay down to sleep.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the sisters as the captain stood before them like a great pillar of white fur, with nothing of him visible save the eyes and feet.

“But that’s not all,” continued the ancient mariner, turning his back to the sisters. “You see that great flap hooked up behind?”

“Yes,” answered Jessie and Kate in the same breath.

“Well, then, notice what I do.”

He sat down on the floor, and unhooking the flap, drew it round in front, where he re-hooked it to another row of eyes in such a manner that it completely covered his feet and lower limbs.

“There, you see, I’m in a regular fur-bag now, all ready for a night in the snow.”

By way of illustration he extended himself on the floor at full-length, and, by reason of that length being so great, and the room so narrow, his feet went into the window-recess while his head lay near the door.

All ignorant of this illustration of arctic life going on, Liffie Lee, intent on dinner purposes, opened the door and drove it violently against the captain’s head.

“Avast there!” he shouted, rising promptly. “Come in, lass. Come in—no damage done.”

“Oh! sir,” exclaimed the horrified Liffie, “I ax your parding.”

“Don’t put yourself about my girl. I’m used to collisions, and it’s not in the power o’ your small carcass to do me damage.”

Disrobing himself as he spoke, the lodger retired to his cabin to lay aside his curious garment, and Liffie, assisted by Kate, took advantage of his absence to spread their little board.

“I never saw such a man,” said Kate in a low voice as she bustled about.

“Saw!” exclaimed Jessie under her breath, “I never even conceived of such a man. He is so violent in his actions that I constantly feel as if I should be run over and killed. It feels like living in the same house with a runaway mail coach. How fortunate that his spirit is so gentle and kind!”

A tremendous crash at that moment caused Jessie to stop with a gasp.

“Hallo! fetch a swab—a dish-clout or somethin’, Liffie,” came thundering from the captain’s room. “Don’t be alarmed, ladies, it’s only the wash-hand basin. Knocked it over in hangin’ up the coat. Nothin’ smashed. It’s a tin basin, you know. Look alive, lass, else the water’ll git down below, for the caulkin’ of these planks ain’t much to boast of, an’ you’ll have the green-grocer up in a towering rage!”

A few minutes later this curious trio sat down to dinner, and the captain, according to a custom established from the commencement of his sojourn, asked a blessing on the meat in few words, but with a deeply reverent manner, his great hands being clasped before him, and with his eyes shut like a little child.

“Well now, before beginning,” he said, looking up, “let me understand; is this matter of the lodging and rent settled?”

“Yes, it is settled,” answered Jessie. “We’ve got used to you, captain, and should be very, very sorry to lose you.”

“Come, that’s all right. Let’s shake hands on it over the leg of mutton.”

He extended his long arm over the small table, and spread out his enormous palm in front of Jessie Seaward. With an amused laugh she laid her little hand in it—to grasp it was out of the question—and the mighty palm closed for a moment with an affectionate squeeze. The same ceremony having been gone through with Kate, he proceeded to carve.

And what a difference between the dinners that once graced—perhaps we should say disgraced—that board, and those that smoked upon it now! Then, tea and toast, with sometimes an egg, and occasionally a bit of bacon, were the light viands; now, beef, mutton, peas, greens, potatoes, and other things, constituted the heavy fare.

The sisters had already begun to get stronger on it. The captain would have got stronger, no doubt, had that been possible.

And what a satisfactory thing it was to watch Captain Bream at his meals! There was something grand—absolutely majestic—in his action. Being a profoundly modest and unselfish man it was not possible to associate the idea of gluttony with him, though he possessed the digestion of an ostrich, and the appetite of a shark. There was nothing hurried, or eager, or careless, in his mode of eating. His motions were rather slow than otherwise; his proceedings deliberate. He would even at times check a tempting morsel on its way to his mouth that he might more thoroughly understand and appreciate something that Jessie or Kate chanced to be telling him. Yet with all that, he compelled you, while looking at him, to whisper to yourself—“how he does shovel it in!”

“I declare to you, Kate,” said Jessie, on one occasion after the captain had left the room, “I saw him take one bite to-day which ought to have choked him, but it didn’t. He stuck his fork into a piece of mutton as big—oh! I’m afraid to say how big; it really seemed to me the size of your hand, and he piled quite a little mound of green peas on it, with a great mass of broken fragments and gravy, and put it all into his mouth at once, though that mouth was already pretty well-filled with the larger half of an enormous potato. I thought he would never get it in, but something you said caused him to laugh at the time, and before the laugh was over the bite had disappeared. Before it was properly swallowed he was helping himself to another slice from the leg of mutton! I declare to you, Kate, that many a time I have dined altogether on less than that one bite!”

Poor Miss Seaward had stated a simple truth in regard to herself, but that truth was founded on want of food, not on want of appetite or capacity for more.

At first it had been arranged that an account-book should be kept, and that the captain should pay for one-third of the food that was consumed in the house, but he had consumed so much, and the sisters so ridiculously little, that he refused to fall in with such an arrangement and insisted on paying for all the food consumed, with the exception of the cup of coffee, cream, and sugar, with which he regaled himself every day after dinner. Of course they had had a battle over this matter also, but the captain had carried the day, as he usually did, for he had marvellous powers of suasion. He had indeed so argued, and talked, and bamboozled the meek sisters—sometimes seriously, oftener jocularly,—that they had almost been brought to the belief that somehow or other their lodger was only doing what was just! After all, they were not so far wrong, for all that they ate of the captain’s provisions amounted to a mere drop in the bucket, while the intellectual food with which they plied their lodger in return, and the wealth of sympathy with which they surrounded him, was far beyond the power of gold to purchase.

“No,” said Captain Bream, sipping his coffee and shaking his head, when Jessie again pressed on him the propriety of sitting in the parlour of an evening, “I can’t do it. The fact is that I’m studying—though you may think I’m rather an oldish student—and I can’t study except when I’m alone.”

“What are you studying?” asked Kate, and then, observing that the captain looked slightly confused, and feeling that she ought not to have put the question, she quickly changed the subject by adding—“for whatever it is, you will be quite free from interruption here. My sister and I often sit for hours without talking, and—”

“No, no, dear Miss Kate. Say no more,” interrupted the captain; “I must stick to my own cabin except at meal-times, and, of course, when we want a bit of a talk together. There is one thing, however, that I would like. I know you have family worship with your little lass. May I join you?”

“Oh! it would give us such pleasure,” exclaimed Kate, eagerly, “if you would come and conduct worship for us.”

The captain protested that he would not do that, but finally gave in, and afterwards acted the part of chaplain in the family.

“By the way,” he said, when about to quit the parlour, “I’ve brought another chest to the house.”

“Yes,” said Kate, “we felt the shock when you put it down.”

“Well, it is a bit heavy. I’ve fairly given up my connection with my last ship, and as the new commander took possession this morning I was obliged to bring away my last box. Now, I don’t want Liffie to move it about when putting things to rights, or to meddle with it in any way. When we want to sweep behind or under it I’ll shift it myself. But, after all, you’re safe not to move it, for the three of you together couldn’t if you were to try ever so much. So, good-day. I’ll be back to tea.”

“Kate,” said Jessie, after he was gone, “I am quite sure that there is some mystery connected with that box.”

“Of course you are,” replied Kate, with a laugh, “you always see mystery in things that you don’t understand! You saw mystery too, didn’t you, in the late sitting up and studies of Captain Bream.”

“Indeed I did, and I am quite sure that there is some mystery about that, too.”

“Just so, and I have no doubt that you observe mystery of some sort,” added Kate, with a humorous glance, “in the order for worsted work that we have just received.”

“Undoubtedly I do,” replied Jessie, with decision. “The whole affair is mysterious—ridiculously so. In truth it seems to me that we are surrounded by mystery.”

“Well, well, sister mine,” said the matter-of-fact Kate, going to a small cupboard and producing an ample work-box that served for both, “whatever mysteries may surround us, it is our business to fulfil our engagements, so we will at once begin our knitting of cuffs and comforters for the fishermen of the North Sea.”

Chapter Six.

The Curse of the North Sea; and the Trawls at Work.

There are few objects in nature, we think, more soothing to the feelings and at the same time more heart-stirring to the soul than the wide ocean in a profound calm, when sky and temperature, health, hour, and other surrounding conditions combine to produce unison of the entire being.

Such were the conditions, one lovely morning about the end of summer, which gladdened the heart of little Billy Bright as he leaned over the side of the Evening Star, and made faces at his own reflected image in the sea, while he softly whistled a slow melody to which the gentle swell beat time.

The Evening Star was at that time the centre of a constellation—if we may so call it—of fishing-smacks, which floated in hundreds around her. It was the “Short Blue” fleet of deep-sea trawlers; so named because of the short square flag of blue by which it was distinguished from other deep-sea fleets—such as the Grimsby fleet, the Columbia fleet, the Great Northern, Yarmouth, Red Cross, and other fleets—which do our fishing business from year’s end to year’s end on the North Sea.

But Billy was thoughtless and apt to enjoy what was agreeable, without reference to its being profitable. Some of the conditions which rejoiced his heart had the reverse effect on his father. That gruff-spirited fisherman did not want oily seas, or serene blue skies, or reflected clouds and sunshine—no, what he wanted was fish, and before the Evening Star could drag her ponderous “gear” along the bottom of the sea, so as to capture fish, it was necessary that a stiffish breeze should not only ruffle but rouse the billows of the North Sea—all the better if it should fringe their crests with foam.

“My usual luck,” growled David Bright, as he came on deck after a hearty breakfast, and sat down on the bulwarks to fill his pipe and do what in him lay to spoil his digestion—though, to do David justice, his powers in that line were so strong that he appeared to be invulnerable to tobacco and spirits. We use the word “appeared” advisedly, for in reality the undermining process was going on surely, though in his case slowly.

His “hands,” having enjoyed an equally good breakfast, were moving quietly about, paying similar attention to their digestions!

There was our tall friend Joe Davidson, the mate; and Ned Spivin, a man of enormous chest and shoulders, though short in the legs; and Luke Trevor, a handsome young fellow of middle size, but great strength and activity, and John Gunter, a big sour-faced man with a low brow, rough black hair, and a surly spirit. Billy was supposed to be minding the tiller, but, in the circumstances, the tiller was left to mind itself. Zulu was the only active member on board, to judge from the clatter of his pots and pans below.

“My usual luck,” said the skipper a second time in a deeper growl.

“Seems to me,” said Gunter, in a growl that was even more deep and discontented than that of the skipper, “that luck is always down on us.”

“’Tis the same luck that the rest o’ the fleet has got, anyhow,” observed Joe Davidson, who was the most cheerful spirit in the smack; but, indeed, all on board, with the exception of the skipper and Gunter, were men of a hearty, honest, cheerful nature, more or less careless about life and limb.

To the mate’s remark the skipper said “humph,” and Gunter said that he was the unluckiest fellow that ever went to sea.

“You’re always growling, Jack,” said Ned Spivin, who was fond of chaffing his mates; “they should have named you Grunter when they were at it.”

“I only wish the Coper was alon’side,” said the skipper, “but she’s always out of the way when she’s wanted. Who saw her last?”

“I did,” said Luke Trevor, “just after we had crossed the Silver Pits; and I wish we might never see her again.”

“Why so, mate?” asked Gunter.

“Because she’s the greatest curse that floats on the North Sea,” returned Luke in a tone of indignation.

“Ah!—you hate her because you’ve jined the teetotallers,” returned Gunter with something of a sneer.

“No, mate, I don’t hate her because I’ve jined the teetotallers, but I’ve jined the teetotallers because I hate her.”

“Pretty much the same thing, ain’t it?”

“No more the same thing,” retorted Luke, “than it is the same thing to put the cart before the horse or the horse before the cart. It wasn’t total-abstainin’ that made me hate the Coper, but it was hatred of the Coper that made me take to total-abstainin’—don’t you see?”

“Not he,” said Billy Bright, who had joined the group; “Gunter never sees nothing unless you stick it on to the end of his nose, an’ even then you’ve got to tear his eyes open an’ force him to look.”

Gunter seized a rope’s-end and made a demonstration of an intention to apply it, but Billy was too active; he leaped aside with a laugh, and then, getting behind the mast, invited the man to come on “an’ do his wust.”

Gunter laid down the rope’s-end with a grim smile and turned to Luke Trevor.

“But I’m sure you’ve got no occasion,” he said, “to blackguard the Coper, for you haven’t bin to visit her much.”

“No, thank God, I have not,” said Luke earnestly, “yet I’ve bin aboard often enough to wish I had never bin there at all. It’s not that, mates, that makes me so hard on the Coper, but it was through the accursed drink got aboard o’ that floatin’ grog-shop that I lost my best friend.”

“How was that, Luke? we never heerd on it.”

The young fisherman paused a few moments as if unwilling to talk on a distasteful subject.

“Well, it ain’t surprisin’ you didn’t hear of it,” he said, “because I was in the Morgan fleet at the time, an’ it’s more than a year past. The way of it was this. We was all becalmed, on a mornin’ much like this, not far off the Borkum Reef, when our skipper jumped into the boat, ordered my friend Sterlin’ an’ me into it, an’ went off cruisin’. We visited one or two smacks, the skippers o’ which were great chums of our skipper, an’ he got drunk there. Soon after, a stiff breeze sprang up, an’ the admiral signalled to bear away to the nor’-west’ard. We bundled into our boat an’ made for our smack, but by ill luck we had to pass the Coper, an’ nothin’ would please the skipper but to go aboard and have a glass. Sterlin’ tried to prevent him, but he grew savage an’ told him to mind his own business. Well, he had more than one glass, and by that time it was blowin’ so ’ard we began to think we’d have some trouble to get back again. At last he consented to leave, an’ a difficult job it was to get him into the boat wi’ the sea that was runnin’. When we got alongside of our smack, he laid hold of Sterlin’s oar an’ told him to throw the painter aboard. My friend jumped up an’ threw the end o’ the painter to one of the hands. He was just about to lay hold o’ the side an’ spring over when the skipper stumbled against him, caused him to miss his grip, an’ sent him clean overboard. Poor Sterlin’ had on his long boots an’ a heavy jacket. He went down like a stone. We never saw him again.”

“Did none o’ you try to save him?” asked Joe quickly.

“We couldn’t,” replied Luke. “I made a dash at him, but he was out o’ sight by that time. He went down so quick that I can’t help thinkin’ he must have struck his head on the side in goin’ over.”

Luke Trevor did not say, as he might have truly said, that he dived after his friend, being himself a good swimmer, and nearly lost his own life in the attempt to save that of Sterling.

“D’ye think the skipper did it a’ purpose, mate?” asked David.

“Sartinly not,” answered Luke. “The skipper had no ill-will at him, but he was so drunk he couldn’t take care of himself, an’ didn’t know what he was about.”

“That wasn’t the fault o’ the Coper,” growled Gunter. “You say he got half-screwed afore he went there, an’ he might have got dead-drunk without goin’ aboard of her at all.”

“So he might,” retorted Luke; “nevertheless it was the Coper that finished him off at that time—as it has finished off many a man before, and will, no doubt, be the death o’ many more in time to come.”

The Copers, which Luke Trevor complained of so bitterly, are Dutch vessels which provide spirits and tobacco, the former of a cheap, bad, and peculiarly fiery nature. They follow the fleets everywhere, and are a continual source of mischief to the fishermen, many of whom, like men on shore, find it hard to resist a temptation which is continually presented to them.

“There goes the admiral,” sang out little Billy, who, while listening to the conversation, had kept his sharp little eyes moving about.

The admiral of the fleet, among North Sea fishermen, is a very important personage. There is an “admiral” to each fleet, though we write just now about the admiral of the “Short Blue.” He is chosen for steadiness and capacity, and has to direct the whole fleet as to the course it shall steer, the letting down of its “gear” or trawls, etcetera, and his orders are obeyed by all. One powerful reason for such obedience is that if they do not follow the admiral they will find themselves at last far away from the steamers which come out from the Thames daily to receive the fish; for it is a rule that those steamers make straight for the admiral’s vessel. By day the admiral is distinguished by a flag half way up the maintop-mast stay. By night signals are made with rockets.

While the crew of the Evening Star were thus conversing, a slight breeze had sprung up, and Billy had observed that the admiral’s smack was heading to windward in an easterly direction. As the breeze came down on the various vessels of the fleet, they all steered the same course, so that in a few minutes nearly two hundred smacks were following him like a shoal of herring. The glassy surface of the sea was effectually broken, and a field of rippling indigo took the place of the ethereal sheet of blue.

Thus the whole fleet passed steadily to windward, the object being to get to such a position on the “fishing-grounds” before night-fall, that they could put about and sail before the wind during the night, dragging their ponderous trawls over the banks where fish were known to lie.

Night is considered the best time to fish, though they also fish by day, the reason being, it is conjectured, that the fish do not see the net so well at night; it may be, also, that they are addicted to slumber at that period! Be the reason what it may, the fact is well-known. Accordingly, about ten o’clock the admiral hove-to for a few minutes. So did the fleet. On board the Evening Star they took soundings, and found twenty-five fathoms. Then the admiral called attention by showing a “flare.”

“Look out now, Billy,” said David Bright to his son, who was standing close by the capstan.

Billy needed no caution. His sharp eyes were already on the watch.

“A green rocket! There she goes, father.”

The green rocket signified that the gear was to be put down on the starboard side, and the fleet to steer to the southward.

Bustling activity and tremendous vigour now characterised the crew of the Evening Star as they proceeded to obey the order. A clear starry sky and a bright moon enabled them to see clearly what they were about, and they were further enlightened by a lantern in the rigging.

The trawl which they had to put down was, as we have said, a huge and ponderous affair, and could only be moved by means of powerful blocks and tackle aided by the capstan. It consisted of a thick spar called the “beam”, about forty-eight feet long, and nearly a foot thick, supported on a massive iron hoop, or runner, at each end. These irons were meant to drag over the bottom of the sea and keep the beam from touching it. Attached to this beam was the bag-net—a very powerful one, as may be supposed, with a small mesh. It was seventy feet long, and about sixteen feet of the outermost end was much stronger than the rest, and formed the bag, named the cod-end, in which the fish were ultimately collected. Besides being stronger, the cod-end was covered by flounces of old netting to prevent the rough bottom from chafing it too much. The cost of such a net alone is about 7 pounds. To the beam, attached at the two ends, was a very powerful rope called the bridle. It was twenty fathoms long. To this was fastened the warp—a rope made of best manilla and hemp, always of great strength. The amount of this paid out depended much on the weather; if very rough it might be about 40 fathoms, if moderate about 100. Sometimes such net and gear is carried away, and this involves a loss of about 60 pounds sterling. We may dismiss these statistics by saying that a good night’s fishing may be worth from 10 pounds to 27 pounds, and a good trip—of eight weeks—may produce from 200 to 280 pounds.

Soon the gear was down in the twenty-five fathom water, and the trawl-warp became as rigid almost as an iron bar, while the speed of the smack through the water was greatly reduced—perhaps to three miles an hour—by the heavy drag behind her, a drag that ever increased as fish of all sorts and sizes were scraped into the net. Why the fish are such idiots as to remain in the net when they could swim out of it at the rate of thirty miles an hour is best known to themselves.

Besides the luminaries which glittered in the sky that night the sea was alive with the mast-head lights of the fishing smacks, but these lower lights, unlike the serenely steady lights above, were ever changing in position, as well as dancing on the crested waves, giving life to the dark waters, and creating, at least in the little breast of Billy Bright, a feeling of companionship which was highly gratifying.

“Now, lad, go below and see if Zulu has got something for us to eat,” said David to his son. “Here, Luke Trevor, mind the helm.”

The young fisherman, who had been labouring with the others at the gear like a Hercules, stepped forward and took the tiller, while the skipper and his son descended to the cabin, where the rest of the men were already assembled in anticipation of supper. The cabin was remarkably snug, but it was also pre-eminently simple. So, also, was the meal. The arts of upholstery and cookery had not been brought to bear in either case. The apartment was about twelve feet long by ten broad, and barely high enough to let Joe Davidson stand upright. Two wooden lockers ran along either side of it. Behind these were the bunks of the men. At the inner end were some more lockers, and aft, there was an open stove, or fireplace, alongside of the companion-ladder. A clock and a barometer were the chief ornaments of the place. The atmosphere of it was not fresh by any means, and volumes of tobacco smoke rendered it hazy.

But what cared these heavy-booted, rough-handed, big-framed, iron-sinewed, strong-hearted men for fresh air? They got enough of that, during their long hours on deck, to counteract the stifling odours of the regions below!

“Now, then, boys, dar you is,” said Zulu, placing a huge pot on the floor, containing some sort of nautical soup. “I’s cook you soup an’ tea, an’ dar’s sugar an’ butter, an’ lots o’ fish and biskit, so you fire away till you bu’st yourselves.”

The jovial Zulu bestowed on the company a broad and genial grin as he set the example by filling a bowl with the soup. The others did not require a second bidding. What they lacked in quality was more than made up in quantity, and rendered delicious by appetite.

Conversation flagged, of course, while these hardy sons of toil were busy with their teeth, balancing themselves and their cups and bowls carefully while the little vessel rolled heavily over the heaving waves. By degrees the teeth became less active and the tongues began to wag.

“I wish that feller would knock off psalm-singin’,” said Gunter with an oath, as he laid down his knife and wiped his mouth.

He referred to Luke Trevor, who possessed a sweet mellow voice, and was cheering himself as he stood at the helm by humming a hymn, or something like one, for the words were not distinguishable in the cabin.

“I think that Luke, if he was here, would wish some other feller to knock off cursin’ an’ swearin’,” said Joe.

“Come, Joe,” said the skipper, “don’t you pretend to be one o’ the religious sort, for you know you’re not.”

“That’s true,” returned Joe, “and I don’t pretend to be; but surely a man may object to cursin’ without bein’ religious. I’ve heard men say that they don’t mean nothin’ by their swearin’. P’raps the psalm-singin’ men might say the same; but for my part if they both mean nothin’ by it, I’d rather be blessed than cursed by my mates any day.”

“The admiral’s signallin’, sir,” sung out Luke, putting his head down the companion at that moment.

The men went on deck instantly; nevertheless each found time to light the inevitable pipe before devoting himself entirely to duty.

The signal was to haul up the trawl, and accordingly all the fleet set to work at their capstans, the nets having by that time been down about three or four hours.

It was hard work and slow, that heaving at the capstans hour after hour, with the turbulent sea tossing about the little smacks, few of which were much above seventy tons burden. One or two in the fleet worked their capstans by steam-power—an immense relief to the men, besides a saving of time.

“It’s hard on the wrists,” said Gunter during a brief pause in the labour, as he turned up the cuffs of his oiled frock and displayed a pair of wrists that might well have caused him to growl. The constant chafing of the hard cuffs had produced painful sores and swellings, which were further irritated by salt water.

“My blessin’s on de sweet ladies what takes so much trouble for us,” said Zulu, pulling up his sleeves and regarding with much satisfaction a pair of worsted cuffs; “nebber had no sore wrists since I put on dese. W’y you no use him, Gunter?”

“’Cause I’ve lost ’em, you black baboon,” was Gunter’s polite reply.

“Nebber mind, you long-nosed white gorilla,” was Zulu’s civil rejoinder, “you kin git another pair when nixt we goes aboard de mission-ship. Till den you kin grin an enjoy you’self.”

“Heave away, lads,” said the skipper, and away went the capstan again as the men grasped the handles and bent their strong backs, sometimes heaving in a few turns of the great rope with a run as the trawl probably passed over a smooth bit of sand; sometimes drawing it in with difficulty, inch by inch, as the net was drawn over some rough or rocky place, and occasionally coming for a time to a dead lock, when—as is not unfrequently the case—they caught hold of a bit of old wreck, or, worse still, were caught by the fluke of a lost anchor.

Thus painfully but steadily they toiled until the bridle or rope next to the beam appeared above the waves, and then they knew that the end of all their labour was at hand.

Chapter Seven.

A Haul and its Consequences—Mysterious News from the Land.

“Now Billy, you shrimp,” cried David Bright, seizing his son by the collar and giving him a friendly shake that would have been thought severe handling by any but a fisher-boy, “don’t go excitin’ of yourself. You’ll never make a man worth speakin’ of if you can’t keep down your feelin’s.”

But Billy could not keep down his feelings. They were too strong for him. He was naturally of an excitable—what we may call a jovial—jumping—disposition, and although he had now been some months at sea he had not yet succeeded in crushing down that burst of delight with which he viewed the cod-end of the great deep-sea net as it was hoisted over the side by the power of block and tackle.

“You never trouble yourself about my feelin’s, father, so long’s I do my dooty,” said the boy with native insolence, as he looked eagerly over the side at the mass of fish which gleamed faintly white as it neared the surface, while he helped with all his little might to draw in the net.

“But I want to teach you more than dooty, my boy,” returned the skipper. “I’ve got to make a man of you. I promised that to your mother, you know. If you want to be a man, you must foller my example—be cool an’ steady.”

“If I’m to foller your example, father, why don’t you let me foller it all round, an’ smoke an’ drink as well?”

“Shut up, you agrawatin’ sinner,” growled the skipper. “Heave away, lads. Here, hand me the rope, an’ send aft the tackle.”

By this time the heavy beam had been secured to the side of the vessel, most of the net hauled in, and the bag, or cod-end, was above the surface filled almost to bursting with upwards of a ton of turbots, soles, haddocks, plaice, dabs, whitings, etcetera, besides several hundredweight of mud, weeds, stones, and oysters. Sometimes, indeed, this bag does burst, and in one moment all the profit and toil of a night’s fishing is lost.

When the skipper had secured a strong rope round the bag and hooked it on to a block and tackle made fast to the rigging, the order was given to heave away, and gradually the ponderous mass rose like an oval balloon, or buoy, over the vessel’s side. When it cleared the rail it was swung inwards and secured in a hanging position, with the lower end sweeping the deck as the smack rolled from side to side. In all these operations, from the prolonged heaving at the capstan to the hauling in of the net, hand over hand, the men were exerting their great physical powers to the uttermost—almost without a moment’s relaxation—besides being deluged at times by spray, which, however, their oiled frocks, long boots, and sou’-westers prevented from quite drenching them. But now all danger of loss was over, and they proceeded to liberate the fish.

The cod-end had its lower part secured by a strong rope. All that had to be done, therefore, was to untie the rope and open the bottom of the net.

It fell to Luke Trevor to do this. Billy was standing by in eager expectation. Ned Spivin stood behind him. Now, we have said that Spivin was fond of chaffing his mates and of practical jokes. So was Billy, and between these two, therefore, there was a species of rivalry.

When Spivin observed that Luke was about to pull out the last loop that held the bag, he shouted in a loud voice of alarm—

“Hallo! Billy, catch hold of this rope, quick!”

Billy turned like a flash of light and seized the rope held out to him. The momentary distraction was enough. Before he could understand the joke the bottom of the bag opened, the ton-and-a-half, more or less, of fish burst forth, spread itself over the deck like an avalanche, swept Billy off his little legs, and almost overwhelmed him, to the immense delight of Spivin, who impudently bent down and offered to help him to rise.

“Come here, Billy, and I’ll help you up,” he said, kindly, as the tail of a skate flipped across the boy’s nose and almost slid into his mouth.

Billy made no reply, but, clearing himself of fish, jumped up, seized a gaping cod by the gills, and sent it all alive and kicking straight into Spivin’s face. The aim was true. The man was blinded for a few moments by the fish, and his mates were well-nigh choked with laughter.

“Come, come—no sky-larking!” growled the skipper. “Play when your work is done, boys.”

Thus reproved, the crew began to clear away the mass of weeds and refuse, after which all hands prepared the trawl to be ready for going down again, and then they set to work to clean and sort the fish. This was comparatively easy work at that season of the year, but when winter gales and winter frosts sweep over the North Sea, only those who suffer it know what it is to stand on the slimy pitching deck with naked and benumbed hands, disembowelling fish and packing them in small oblong boxes called “trunks,” for the London market. And little do Londoners think, perhaps, when eating their turbot, sole, plaice, cod, haddock, whiting, or other fish, by what severe night-work, amid bitter cold, and too often tremendous risks, the food has been provided for them.

It is not, however, our purpose to moralise just now, though we might do so with great propriety, but to tell our story, on which some of the seemingly trifling incidents of that night had a special bearing. One of those incidents was the cutting of a finger. Ned Spivin, whose tendency towards fun and frolic at all times rendered him rather slap-dash and careless, was engaged in the rather ignoble work of cutting off skates’ tails—these appendages not being deemed marketable. This operation he performed with a hatchet, but some one borrowed the hatchet for a few minutes, and Spivin continued the operation with his knife. One of the tails being tough, and the knife blunt, the impatient man used violence. Impatience and violence not unfrequently result in damage. The tail gave way unexpectedly, and Spivin cut a deep gash in his left hand. Cuts, gashes, and bruises are the frequent experience of smacksmen. Spivin bound up the gash with a handkerchief, and went on with his work.

Before their work was quite done, however, a gale, which had been threatening from the nor’-west, set in with considerable force, and rapidly increased, so that the packing of the last few trunks, and stowing them into the hold, became a matter not only of difficulty but of danger.

By that time the sky had clouded over, and the lantern in the rigging alone gave light.

“It will blow harder,” said Trevor to Billy as they stood under shelter of the weather bulwarks holding on to the shrouds. “Does it never come into your mind to think where we would all go to if the Evening Star went down?”

“No, Luke. I can’t say as it does. Somehow I never think of father’s smack goin’ down.”

“And yet,” returned Luke in a meditative tone, “it may happen, you know, any night. It’s not six months since the Raven went down, with all hands, though she was as tight a craft as any in the fleet, and her captain was a first-rate seaman, besides bein’ steady.”

“Ay, but then, you see,” said Billy, “she was took by three heavy seas one arter the other, and no vessel, you know, could stand that.”

“No, not even the Evening Star if she was took that fashion, an’ we never know when it’s goin’ to happen. I suspect, Billy, that the psalm-singers, as Gunter calls ’em, has the best of it. They work as well as any men in the fleet—sometimes I think better—an’ then they’re always in such a jolly state o’ mind! If good luck comes, they praise God for it, an’ if bad luck comes they praise God that it’s no worse. Whatever turns up they appear to be in a thankful state o’ mind, and that seems to me a deal better than growlin’, swearin’, and grumblin’, as so many of us do at what we can’t change. What d’ee think, Billy?”

“Well, to tell ’ee the truth, Luke, I don’t think about it at all—anyhow, I’ve never thought about it till to-night.”

“But it’s worth thinkin’ about, Billy?”

“That’s true,” returned the boy, who was of a naturally straightforward disposition, and never feared to express his opinions freely.

Just then a sea rose on the weather quarter, threatening, apparently, to fall inboard. So many waves had done the same thing before, that no one seemed to regard it much; but the experienced eye of the skipper noticed a difference, and he had barely time to give a warning shout when the wave rushed over the side like a mighty river, and swept the deck from stem to stern. Many loose articles were swept away and lost, and the boat which lay on the deck alongside of the mast, had a narrow escape. Billy and his friend Luke, being well under the lee of the bulwarks, escaped the full force of the deluge, but Ned Spivin, who steered, was all but torn from his position, though he clung with all his strength to the tiller and the rope that held it fast. The skipper was under the partial shelter of the mizzenmast, and clung to the belaying-pins. John Gunter was the only one who came to grief. He was dashed with great violence to leeward, but held on to the shrouds for his life. The mate was below at the moment and so was Zulu, whose howl coming from the cabin, coupled with a hiss of water in the fire, told that he had suffered from the shock.

The immense body of water that filled the main-sail threw the vessel for a short time nearly on her beam-ends—a position that may be better understood when we say that it converts one of the sides of the vessel into the floor, the other side into the ceiling, and the floor and deck respectively into upright walls!

Fortunately the little smack got rid of the water in a few seconds, arose slowly, and appeared to shake herself like a duck rising out of the sea. Sail had already been reduced to the utmost; nevertheless, the wind was so strong that for three hours afterwards the crew never caught sight of the lee-bulwarks, so buried were they in foam as the Evening Star leaned over and rushed madly on her course.

Towards morning the wind moderated a little, and then the crew gazed anxiously around on the heaving grey waves, for well did they know that such a squall could not pass over the North Sea without claiming its victims.

“It blowed that ’ard at one time,” said Ned Spivin to Joe Davidson, “that I expected to see the main-mast tore out of ’er.”

“I’m afeard for the Rainbow,” said Joe. “She’s nothin’ better than a old bunch o’ boards.”

“Sometimes them old things hold out longer than we expect,” returned Ned.

He was right. When the losses of that night came to be reckoned up, several good vessels were discovered to be missing, but the rotten old Rainbow still remained undestroyed though not unscathed, and a sad sight met the eyes of the men of the fleet when daylight revealed the fact that some of the smacks had their flags flying half-mast, indicating that many men had been washed overboard and lost during the night.

As the day advanced, the weather improved, and the fishermen began to look anxiously out for the steamer which was to convey their fish to market, but none was to be seen. Although a number of steamers run between Billingsgate and the Short Blue fleet, it sometimes happens that they do not manage to find the fleet at once, and occasionally a day or more is lost in searching for it—to the damage of the fish if the weather be warm. It seemed as if a delay of this kind had happened on the occasion of which we write; the admiral therefore signalled to let down the nets for a day haul.

While this was being done, a vessel was seen to join the fleet from the westward.

“That’s Singin’ Peter,” said David Bright to his mate. “I’d know his rig at any distance.”

“So it is. P’raps he’s got letters for us.”

Singing Peter was one of the many fishermen who had been brought to a knowledge of Jesus Christ and saved from his sins. Wild and careless before conversion, he afterwards became an enthusiastic follower of the Lamb of God, and was so fond of singing hymns in His praise that he became known in the fleet by the sobriquet of Singing Peter. His beaming face and wholly changed life bore testimony to what the Holy Spirit had wrought in him.

Peter had been home to Gorleston on his week of holiday, and had now returned to the fleet for his eight weeks’ fishing-cruise, carrying a flag to show that he had just arrived, bringing letters and clothes, etcetera, for some of the crews.

“I used to think Peter warn’t a bad feller,” said David Bright, as the new arrival drew near; “he was always good company, an’ ready for his glass, but now he’s taken to singin’ psalms, I can make nothin’ of ’im.”

“There’s them in the fleet that like him better since he took to that,” said Luke Trevor.

“It may be so, lad, but that’s not accordin’ to my taste,” retorted the skipper.

David was, however, by no means a surly fellow. When Peter’s vessel came within hail, he held up his hand and shouted—

“What cheer! what cheer, Peter!” as heartily as possible.

Singing Peter held up his hand in reply, and waved it as he shouted back—

“What cheer! All well, praise the Lord!”

“D’ye hear that Billy?” said Luke, in a low voice. “He never forgets to praise the Lord.”

When the vessels drew nearer, Peter again waved his hand, and shouted—

“I’ve got letters for ’ee.”

“All right my hearty! I’ll send for ’em.”

In less than five minutes the boat of the Evening Star was launched over the side, stern-foremost, and she had scarce got fairly afloat on the dancing waves when Joe and Luke “swarmed” into her, had the oars out and were sweeping off so as to intercept Peter’s vessel They soon reached her, received a packet wrapped up in a bit of newspaper, and quickly returned.

The packet contained two letters—one for the skipper, the other for the mate—from their respective wives.

“Joe,” said the skipper, when he had perused his letter, “come down below. I want to speak to ’ee.”

“That’s just what I was goin’ to say to yourself, for the letter from my missis says somethin’ that consarns you.”

When master and mate were alone together in the cabin, each read to the other his letter.

“My missis,” said the skipper, unfolding his letter and regarding it with a puzzled expression, “although she’s had a pretty good edication, has paid little attention to her pot-hooks—but this is how it runs—pretty near. ‘Dear old man,’ (she’s always been an affectionate woman, Joe, though I do treat her badly when I’m in liquor), ‘I hope you are having a good time of it and that darling Billy likes the sea, and is a good boy. My reason for writing just now is to tell you about that dear sweet creature, Miss Ruth Dotropy. She has been down at Yarmouth again on a visit, and of course she has been over to see me and Mrs Davidson, in such a lovely blue—’ (ah! well, Joe, there’s no need to read you that bit; it’s all about dress—as if dress could make Miss Ruth better or worse! But women’s minds will run on ribbons an’ suchlike. Well, after yawin’ about for a bit, she comes back to the pint, an’ steers a straight course again. She goes on, after a blot or two that I can’t make nothin’ of), ‘You’ll be surprised to hear, David, that she’s been making some particular inquiries about you and me; which I don’t understand at all, and looking as if she knew a deal more than she cared to tell. She’s been asking Mrs Davidson too about it, and what puzzles me most is—’ There’s another aggrawatin’ blot here, Joe, so that I can’t make out what puzzles her. Look here. Can you spell it out?”

Joe tried, but shook his head.

“It’s a puzzler to her,” he said, “an’ she’s took good care to make it a puzzler to everybody else, but go on.”

“There’s nothin’ else to go on wi’, Joe, for after steerin’ past the blot, she runs foul o’ Miss Ruth’s dress again, and the only thing worth mentionin’ is a post-script, where she says, ‘I think there’s something wrong, dear David, and I wish you was here.’ That’s all.”

“Now, that is strange, for my missis writes about the wery same thing,” said Joe, “only she seems to have gone in for a little more confusion an’ blots than your missis, an’ that blessed little babby of ours is always gittin’ in the way, so she can’t help runnin’ foul of it, but that same puzzler crops up every now an’ then. See, here’s what she writes:—

“‘Darlin’ Joe,’ (a touch more affectionate than yours—eh! skipper?) ‘if our dear darlin’ babby will let me, I’m a-goin’ to write you a letter—there, I know’d she wouldn’t. She’s bin and capsized the wash-tub, though, as you know, she can’t walk yet, but she rolls about most awful, Joe, just what you say the Evening Star does in a gale on the North Sea. An’ she’s got most dreadful heels—oh! you’ve no idear! Whativer they comes down upon goes—’ There’s a big blot here,” said Joe, with a puzzled look, “‘goes—whativer they comes down upon goes—’ No, I can’t make it out.”

“‘Goes to sticks an’ stivers,’ p’raps,” said the skipper.

“No, my Maggie never uses words like that,” said Joe with decision.

“‘Goes all to smash,’ then,” suggested the skipper.

“No, nor it ain’t that; my Maggie’s too soft-tongued for that.”

“Well, you know, things must go somewhere, or somehow, Joe, when such a pair o’ heels comes down on ’em—but steer clear o’ the blot and the babby, an’ see what comes next.”

“‘Well,’” continued Joe, reading on, “‘I was goin’ to tell you, when babby made that last smash, (“I told you it was a smash,” said David, softly), that dear Miss Ruth has bin worritin’ herself—if babby would only keep quiet for two minutes—worritin’ herself about Mrs Bright in a way that none of us can understand. She’s anxious to make inquiries about her and her affairs in a secret sort o’ way, but the dear young lady is so honest—there’s babby again! Now, I’ve got her all right. It was the milk-can this time, but there warn’t much in it, an’ the cat’s got the benefit. Well, darlin’ Joe, where was I—oh, the dear young lady’s so honest an’ straitfor’ard, that even a child could see through her, though none of us can make out what she’s drivin’ at. Yesterday she went to see Mrs Bright, an’ took a liar with her—’”

“Hallo! Joe, surely she’d niver do that,” said the skipper in a remonstrative tone.

“She means a lawyer,” returned Joe, apologetically, “but Maggie niver could spell that word, though I’ve often tried to teach ’er—‘Maggie,’ says I, ‘you mustn’t write liar, but law-yer.’

“‘La! yer jokin’,’ says she.

“‘No,’ says I, ‘I’m not, that’s the way to spell it,’ an’ as Maggie’s a biddable lass, she got to do it all right, but her memory ain’t over strong, so, you see, she’s got back to the old story. Howsever, she don’t really mean it, you know.”

“Just so,” returned the skipper, “heave ahead wi’ the letter, Joe.”

Knitting his brows, and applying himself to the much-soiled and crumpled sheet, the mate continued to read:—

“‘An’ the liar he puzzled her with all sorts o’ questions, just as if he was a schoolmaster and she a school-girl. He bothered her to that extent she began to lose temper, (“he better take care,” muttered the skipper, chuckling), but Miss Ruth she sees that, an’ putt a stop to it in her own sweet way, (“lucky for the liar,” muttered the skipper), an’ so they went away without explainin’. We’ve all had a great talk over it, an’ we’re most of us inclined to think—oh! that babby, she’s bin an rammed her darlin’ futt into the tar-bucket! but it ain’t much the worse, though it’s cost about half-a-pound o’ butter to take it off, an’ that ain’t a joke wi’ butter at 1 shilling, 4 pence a pound, an’ times so bad—well, as I was goin’ to say, if that blessed babby would only let me, we’re all inclined to think it must have somethin’ to do wi’ that man as David owes money to, who said last year that he’d sell his smack an’ turn him an’ his family out o’ house an’ home if he didn’t pay up, though what Miss Ruth has to do wi’ that, or how she come for to know it we can’t make out at all.’”

“The blackguard!” growled the skipper, fiercely, referring to ‘that man,’ “if I only had his long nose within three futt o’ my fist, I’d let him feel what my knuckles is made of!”

“Steamer in sight, father,” sang out Billy at that moment down the companion-hatch.

The conference being thus abruptly terminated, the skipper and mate of the Evening Star went on deck to give orders for the immediate hauling up of the trawl and to “have a squint” at the steamer, which was seen at that moment like a little cloud on the horizon.

Chapter Eight.

Dangers, Difficulties, and Excitements of the Traffic; Loading the Steamer.

Bustling activity of the most vigorous kind was now the order of the day in the Short Blue fleet, for the arrival of the carrying-steamer, and the fact that she was making towards the admiral, indicated that she meant to return to London in a few hours, and necessitated the hauling of the trawls, cleaning the fish, and packing them; getting up the “trunks” that had been packed during the night, launching the boats, and trans-shipping them in spite of the yet heavy sea.

As every one may understand, such perishable food as fish must be conveyed to market with the utmost possible despatch. This is accomplished by the constant running of fast steamers between the fleets and the Thames. The fish when put on board are further preserved by means of ice, and no delay is permitted in trans-shipment. As we have said, the steamers are bound to make straight for the admiral’s smack. Knowing this, the other vessels keep as near to the admiral as they conveniently can, so that when the steamer is preparing to return, they may be ready to rush at her like a fleet of nautical locusts, and put their fish on board.

Hot haste and cool precision mark the action of the fishermen in all that is done, for they know well that only a limited time will be allowed them, and if any careless or wilful stragglers from the fleet come up when the time is nearly past, they stand a chance of seeing the carrier steam off without their fish, which are thus left to be shipped the following day, and to be sold at last as an inferior article, or, perhaps, condemned and thrown away as unfit for human food.

The Evening Star chanced to be not far from the admiral when the steamer appeared. It was one of the fleet of steam-carriers owned by the well-known fish firm of Messrs Hewett and Company of London. When it passed David Bright’s smack the crew had got in the trawl and were cleaning and packing the catch—which was a good one—as if their very lives depended on their speed. They immediately followed in the wake of the carrier toward the admiral.

As all the smacks were heading towards the same centre, they came in on every tack, and from all points of the compass.

“Look sharp, boys,” said David Bright, who was steering, “we must git every fish aboard. It’s now eight o’clock, an’ she won’t wait beyond eleven or twelve, you may be sure.”

There was no need for the caution. Every man and boy was already doing his utmost.

It fell to Billy’s lot to help in packing the trunks, and deftly he did it,—keeping soles, turbot, and halibut separate, to form boxes, or “trunks of prime,” and packing other fish as much as possible according to their kind, until he came to roker, dabs, gurnets, etcetera, which he packed together under the name of “offal.” This does not mean refuse, but only inferior fish, which are bought by hawkers, and sold to the poor. The trunks were partly open on top, but secured by cords which kept the fish from slipping out, and each trunk was labelled with the name of the smack to which it belonged, and the party to whom it was consigned.

As the fleet converged to the centre, the vessels began to crowd together and friends to recognise and hail each other, so that the scene became very animated, while the risk of collision was considerable. Indeed, it was only by consummate skill, judgment and coolness that, in many cases, collisions were avoided.

“There’s the Sparrow,” said Billy to Trevor, eagerly, as he pointed to a smack, whose master, Jim Frost, he knew and was fond of. It bore down in such a direction as to pass close under the stern of the Evening Star.

“What cheer! what cheer!” cried Billy, holding one of his little hands high above his head.

“What cheer!” came back in strong, hearty tones from the Sparrow’s deck.

“What luck, Jim?” asked David Bright, as the vessel flew past.

“We fouled an old wreck this mornin’, an’ tore the net all to pieces, but we got a good haul last night—praise the Lord.”

“Which piece o’ luck d’ye praise the Lord for?” demanded David, in a scoffing tone.

“For both,” shouted Frost, promptly. “It might have bin worse. We might have lost the gear, you know—or one o’ the hands.”

When this reply was finished, the vessels were too far apart for further intercourse.

“Humph!” ejaculated Gunter, “one o’ the psalm-singin’ lot, I suppose.”

“If it’s the psalm-singin’,” said Spivin, “as makes Jim Frost bear his troubles wi’ good temper, an’ thank God for foul weather an’ fair, the sooner you take to it the better for yourself.”

“Ay, an’ for his mates,” added Zulu, with a broad grin.

“Shove out the boat now, lads,” said the skipper.

At this order the capacious and rather clumsy boat, which had hitherto lain on the deck of the Evening Star like a ponderous fixture, was seized by the crew. A vigorous pull at a block and tackle sent it up on the side of the smack. A still more vigorous shove by the men—some with backs applied, some with arms, and all with a will—sent it stern-foremost into the sea. It took in a few gallons of water by the plunge, but was none the worse for that.

At the same moment Zulu literally tumbled into it. No stepping or jumping into it was possible with the sea that was running. Indeed the fishermen of the North Sea are acrobats by necessity, and their tumbling is quite as wonderful, though not quite so neat, as that of professionals. Perchance if the arena in which the latter perform were to pitch about as heavily as the Evening Star did on that occasion, they might be beaten at their own work by the fishermen!

Zulu was followed by Ned Spivin, while Gunter, taking a quick turn of the long and strong painter round a belaying-pin, held on.

The Evening Star was now lying-to, not far from the steam-carrier. Her boat danced on the waves like a cork, pitching heavily from side to side, with now the stern and now the bow pointing to the sky; at one moment leaping with its gunwale above the level of the smack’s bulwarks; at the next moment eight or ten feet down in the trough of the waves; never at rest for an instant, always tugging madly at its tether, and often surging against the vessel’s side, from actual contact with which it was protected by strong rope fenders. But indeed the boat’s great strength of build seemed its best guarantee against damage.

To one unaccustomed to such work it might have seemed utterly impossible to put anything whatever on board of such a pitching boat. Tying a mule-pack on the back of a bouncing wild horse may suggest an equivalent difficulty to a landsman. Nevertheless the crew of the Evening Star did it with as much quiet determination and almost as much speed as if there was no sea on at all. Billy and Trevor slid the trunks to the vessel’s side; the mate and Gunter lifted them, rested them a moment on the edge; Zulu and Spivin stood in the surging boat with outstretched arms and glaring eyes. A mighty swing of the boat suggested that the little craft meant to run the big one down. They closed, two trunks were grappled, let go, deposited, and before the next wave swung them alongside again, Spivin and Zulu were glaring up—ready for more—while Joe and Gunter were gazing down—ready to deliver.

When the boat was loaded the painter was cast off and she dropped astern. The oars were shipped, and they made for the steamer. From the low deck of the smack they could be seen, now pictured against the sky on a wave’s crest, and then lost to view altogether for a few seconds in the watery valley beyond.

By that time quite a crowd of little boats had reached the steamer, and were holding on to her, while their respective smacks lay-to close by, or sailed slowly round the carrier, so that recognitions, salutations, and friendly chaff were going on all round—the confusion of masts, and sails, and voices ever increasing as the outlying portions of the fleet came scudding in to the rendezvous.

“There goes the Boy Jim,” said Luke Trevor, pointing towards a smart craft that was going swiftly past them.

“Who’s the Boy Jim?” growled Gunter, whose temper, at no time a good one, had been much damaged by the blows he had received in the fall of the previous night.

“He’s nobody—it’s the name o’ that smack,” answered Luke.

“An’ her master, John Johnston, is one o’ my best friends,” said Billy, raising his fist on high in salutation. “What cheer, John! what cheer, my hearty!”

The master of the Boy Jim was seen to raise his hand in reply to the salutation, and his voice came strong and cheerily over the sea, but he was too far off to be heard distinctly, so Billy raised his hand again by way of saying, “All right, my boy!”

At the same time a hail was heard at the other side of the vessel. The crew turned round and crossed the deck.

“It’s our namesake—or nearly so—the Morning Star,” said Trevor to Gunter, for the latter being a new hand knew little of the names of either smacks or masters.

“Is her skipper a friend o’ yours too?” asked Gunter of Billy.

“Yes, Bowers is a friend o’ mine—an’ a first-rate fellow too; which is more than you will ever be,” retorted Billy, again stretching up the ready arm and hand. “What cheer, Joseph, what cheer!”

“What cheer! Billy—why, I didn’t know you, you’ve grow’d so much,” shouted the master of the Morning Star, whose middle-sized, but broad and powerful frame was surmounted by a massive countenance, with good humour in the twinkling eyes, and kindly chaff often in the goodly-sized mouth.

“Yes, I’ve grow’d,” retorted Billy, “an’ I mean to go on growin’ till I’m big enough to wallop you.”

“Your cheek has been growin’ too, Billy.”

“So it has, but nothin’ like to your jaw, Joseph.”

“What luck?” shouted David as the Morning Star was passing on.

“Fifteen trunks. What have you got?”

The skipper held up his hand to acknowledge the information, and shouted “nineteen,” in reply.

“You seem to have a lot o’ friends among the skippers, Billy,” said Gunter, with a sneer, for he was fond of teasing the boy, who, to do him justice, could take chaff well, except when thrown at him by ill-natured fellows.

“Yes, I have a good lot,” retorted Billy. “I met ’em all first in Yarmouth, when ashore for their week’s holiday. There’s Joseph White, master of the mission smack Cholmondeley, a splendid feller he is; an’ Bogers of the Cephas, an’ Snell of the Ruth, an’ Kiddell of the Celerity, an’ Moore of the M.A.A., an’ Roberts of the Magnet, an’ Goodchild and Brown, an’ a lot more, all first-rate fellers, whose little fingers are worth the whole o’ your big body.”

“Well, well, what a lucky fellow you are!” said Gunter, with affected surprise; “an’ have you no bad fellers at all among your acquaintance?”

“Oh yes,” returned the boy quickly, “I knows a good lot o’ them too. There’s Dick the Swab, of the White Cloud, who drinks like a fish, an’ Pimply Brock, who could swear you out o’ your oiled frock in five minutes, an’ a lot of others more or less wicked, but not one of ’em so bad as a big ugly feller I knows named John Gunter, who—”

Billy was interrupted by Gunter making a rush at him, but the boy was too nimble for the man, besides which, Gunter’s bruises, to which we have before referred, were too painful to be trifled with. Soon afterwards the boat returned for another cargo of trunks, and the crew of the Evening Star went to work again.

Meanwhile the “power of littles” began to tell on the capacious hold of the steamer. Let us go on board of her for a few minutes and mount the bridge. The fleet had now closed in and swarmed around her so thickly, that it seemed a miracle that the vessels did not come into collision. From the smacks boat after boat had run alongside and made fast, until an absolute flotilla was formed on either side. As each boat came up it thrust itself into the mass, the man who had pulled the bow-oar taking the end of the long painter in his hand ready for a leap. Some boats’ crews, having trans-shipped their trunks, were backing out; others were in the midst of that arduous and even dangerous operation; while still more came pouring in, seeking a place of entrance through the heaving mass.

The boat of the Evening Star was ere long among the latter with her second load—Zulu grinning in the bow and Spivin in the stern. Zulu was of that cheery temperament that cannot help grinning. If he had been suddenly called on to face Death himself, we believe he would have met him with a grin. And, truly, we may say without jesting, that Zulu had often so faced the King of Terrors, for it is a sad fact that many a bold and brave young fellow meets his death in this operation of trans-shipping the fish—a fall overboard is so very easy, and, hampered as these men are with huge sea-boots and heavy garments, it too often happens that when they chance to fall into the sea they go down like a stone.

They never seem to think of that, however. Certainly Zulu did not as he crouched there with glittering eyes and glistening teeth, like a dark tiger ready for a spring.

There was strict discipline, but not much interference with the work, on board the steamer. No boat was permitted to put its trunks aboard abaft a certain part of the vessel, but in front of that the fishermen were left to do the work as best they could. They were not, however, assisted—not even to the extent of fastening their painters—the crew of the steamer being employed below in stowing and iceing the fish.

When the Evening Star’s boat, therefore, had forced itself alongside, Zulu found himself heaving against the steamer’s side, now looking up at an iron wall about fifteen feet high, anon pitching high on the billows till he could see right down on the deck. He watched his opportunity, threw himself over the iron wall, with the painter in one hand, (while Spivin and the boat seemed to sink in the depths below), rolled over on the deck, scrambled to his feet, made the painter fast to the foremast shrouds, and ran to look over the side.

Spivin was there ready for him, looking up, with a trunk on the boat’s gunwale. Next moment he was looking down, for a wave had lifted the boat’s gunwale absolutely above the vessel’s bulwark for an instant. No words were needed. Each knew what to do. Zulu made a powerful grab, Spivin let go, the trunk was on the steamer’s rail, whence it was hurled to the deck, narrowly missing the legs and toes of half-a-dozen reckless men who seized it and sent it below. Almost before Zulu could turn round Spivin was up again with another trunk, another wild grab was made, but not successfully, and Spivin sank to rise again. A second effort proved successful—and thus they went on, now and then missing the mark, but more frequently hitting it, until the boat was empty.

You have only to multiply this little scene by forty or fifty, and you have an idea of the loading of that steamer on the high seas. Of course you must diversify the picture a little, for in one place you have a man hanging over the side with a trunk in mid-air, barely caught when in its descent, and almost too heavy for him by reason of his position. In another place you have a man glaring up at a trunk, in another glaring down;—in all cases action the most violent and most diversified, coupled with cool contempt of crushed fingers and bruised shins and toes.

At last the furore began to subside. By degrees the latest boats arrived, and in about three hours from the time of commencing, the crew of the steamer began to batten down the hatches. Just then, like the “late passenger,” the late trawler came up. The captain of the steamer had seen it long before on the horizon doing its best to save the market, and good-naturedly delayed a little to take its fish on board, but another smack that came up a quarter of an hour or so after that, found the hatches closed, and heard the crushing reply to his hail—“Too late!”

Then the carrying-steamer turned her sharp bow to the sou’-west, put on full steam, and made for the Thames—distant nearly 300 miles—with over 2000 trunks of fresh fish on board, for the breakfast, luncheon and dinner tables of the Great City. Thus, if the steamer were to leave early on a Monday, it would arrive on Tuesday night and the fish be sold in the market on Wednesday morning about five o’clock.

With little variation this scene is enacted every day, all the year round, on the North Sea. It may not be uninteresting to add, that on the arrival of the steamer at Billingsgate, the whole of her cargo would probably be landed and sold in less than one hour and a half.

Chapter Nine.

Another Drag-Net hauled—The Mission Smack.

When the steamer left the fleet the wind was beginning to moderate, and all eyes were turned as usual towards the admiral’s smack to observe his movements.

The fishing vessels were still crowded together, running to and fro, out and in, without definite purpose, plunging over the heaving swells—some of them visible on the crests, others half hidden in the hollows—and behaving generally like living creatures that were impatiently awaiting the signal to begin a race.

While in this position two smacks came so near to the Evening Star, on opposite sides, that they seemed bent on running her down. David Bright did not concern himself, however. He knew they were well able to take care of themselves. They both sheered off to avoid him, but after doing so, ran rather near to each other.

“One o’ them b’longs to the Swab,” said Billy.

“Ay,” said Joe, “if he hadn’t swabbed up too much liquor this morning, he wouldn’t steer like that. Why, he will foul her!”

As he spoke the Swab’s bowsprit passed just inside one of the ropes of the other vessel, and was snapped off as if it had been a pipe-stem.

“Sarves him right,” growled Gunter.

“It’s a pity all the same,” said Trevor. “If we all got what we deserve, we’d be in a worse case than we are to-day mayhap.”

“Come, now, Gunter,” said Joe, “don’t look so cross. We’ll have a chance this arternoon, I see, to bear away for the mission-ship, an’ git somethin’ for your shins, and a bandage for Spivin’s cut, as well as some cuffs for them that wants ’em.”

Captain Bright did not like visiting the mission-ship, having no sympathy with her work, but as she happened to be not far distant at the time, and he was in want of surgical assistance, he had no reasonable ground for objecting.

By this time the admiral had signalled to steer to the nor’-east, and the fleet was soon racing to windward, all on the same tack. Gradually the Evening Star overhauled the mission-ship, but before she had quite overtaken her, the wind, which had been failing, fell to a dead calm. The distance between the two vessels, however, not being great, the boat was launched, and the skipper, Luke Trevor, Gunter and Billy went off in her.

The mission vessel, to which reference has more than once been made, is a fishing-smack in the service of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and serves the purpose of a floating church, a dispensary, a temperance halt and a library to a portion of the North Sea fleet. It fills a peculiar as well as a very important position, which requires explanation.

Only a few years ago a visitor to the North Sea fleet observed, with much concern, that hundreds of the men and boys who manned it were living godless as well as toilsome lives, with no one—at least in winter—to care for their souls. At the same time he noted that the Dutch copers, or floating grog-shops, were regularly appointed to supply the fleets with cheap and bad spirits, and stuck to them through fair-weather and foul, in summer and winter, enduring hardship and encountering danger and great risk in pursuit of their evil calling. Up to that time a few lay missionaries and Bible-readers had occasionally gone to visit the fleets in the summer-time, (see Appendix), but the visitor of whom we write felt that there was a screw loose here, and reasoned with himself somewhat thus:—

“Shall the devil have his mission-ships, whose crews are not afraid to face the winter gales, and shall the servants of the Lord be mere fair-weather Christians, carrying their blessed and all-important message of love and peace to these hard-working and almost forsaken men only during a summer-trip to the North Sea? If fish must be caught, and the lives of fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons be not only risked but lost for the purpose, has not the Master got men who are ready to say, ‘The glorious Gospel must be carried to these men, and we will hoist our flag on the North Sea summer and winter, so as to be a constant witness there for our God and His Christ?’”

For thirty years before, it has been said, a very few earnest Christians among the fishermen of the fleet had been praying that some such thoughts might be put into the hearts of men who had the power to render help.

We venture to observe in passing that, perchance, those praying fishermen were not so “few” as appearances might lead us to suppose, for God has His “hidden ones” everywhere, and some of these may have been at the throne of grace long prior to the “thirty years” here mentioned.

Let not the reader object to turn aside a few minutes to consider how greatly help was needed—forty-six weeks or so on the sea in all weathers all the year round, broken by a week at a time—or about six or seven weeks altogether—on shore with wife and family; the rest, hard unvarying toil and exposure, with nothing to do during the brief intervals of leisure—nothing to read, nothing new to think of, no church to raise the mind to the Creator, and distinguish the Sabbath from the week-day, and no social intercourse of a natural kind, (for a society of men only is not natural), to elevate them above the lower animals, and with only drinking and gambling left to degrade them below these creatures; and this for forty or fifty years of their lives, with, in too many cases, neither hope nor thought beyond!

At last the fishermen’s prayers were answered, the thoughts of the visitor bore fruit, and, convinced that he was being led by God, he began to move in the matter with prayer and energy. The result was that in the year 1881 he received the unsolicited offer of a smack which should be at his entire disposal for mission purposes, but should endeavour to sustain herself, if possible, by fishing like the rest of the fleet. The vessel was accepted. A Christian skipper and fisherman, named Budd, and a like-minded crew, were put into her; she was fitted out with an extra cabin, with cupboards for a library and other conveniences. The hold was arranged with a view to being converted into a chapel on Sundays, and it was decided that, in order to keep it clear on such days, the trawl should not be let down on Saturday nights; a large medicine-chest—which was afterwards reported to be “one of the greatest blessings in the fleet,”—was put on board; the captain made a colporteur of the Bible Society, agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society and of the Church of England Temperance Society. The Religious Tract Society, and various publishers, made a grant of books to form the nucleus of a free lending library; the National Lifeboat Institution presented an aneroid barometer, and Messrs Hewett and Company made a present of the insurance premium of 50 pounds. Thus furnished and armed, as aforesaid, as a Mission Church, Temperance Hall, Circulating Library, and Dispensary, the little craft one day sailed in amongst the smacks of the “Short Blue” fleet, amid the boisterous greetings of the crews, and took up her position under the name of the Ensign, with a great twenty-feet Mission-flag flying at the main-mast-head.

This, then was the style of vessel towards which the boat of the Evening Star was now being pulled over a superficially smooth but still heaving sea. The boat was not alone. Other smacks, the masters of which as well as some of the men were professed Christians, had availed themselves of the opportunity to visit the mission smack, while not a few had come, like the master of the Evening Star, to procure medicine and books, so that when David Bright drew near he observed the deck to be pretty well crowded, while a long tail of boats floated astern, and more were seen coming over the waves to the rendezvous.

It was no solemn meeting that. Shore-going folk, who are too apt to connect religious gatherings with Sunday clothes, subdued voices, and long faces, would have had their ideas changed if they had seen it. Men of the roughest cast, mentally and physically, were there, in heavy boots and dirty garments, laughing and chatting, and greeting one another; some of the younger among them sky-larking in a mild way—that is, giving an occasional poke in the ribs that would have been an average blow to a “land-lubber,” or a tip to a hat which sent it on the deck, or a slap on the back like a pistol-shot. There seemed to be “no humbug,” as the saying goes, among these men; no pretence, and all was kindly good-fellowship, for those who were on the Lord’s side showed it—if need were, said it—while those who were not, felt perhaps, that they were in a minority and kept quiet.

“Come along, Joe, what cheer!”

“Here you are, Bill—how goes it, my hearty!”

“All well, praise the Lord.”

“Ay, hasn’t He sent us fine weather at the right time? just to let us have a comfortable meetin’!”

“That’s so, Dick, the Master does all things well.”

“What cheer! Johnson, I’m glad to see you here. The boy has got some cocoa for’ard—have some?”

“Thank ’ee, I will.”

Such were some of the expressions heartily uttered, which flew about as friend met friend on the mission deck.

“I say, Harry,” cried one, “was it you that lost your bowsprit this mornin’?”

“No, it was the Swab,” said Harry, “but we lost our net and all the gear last night.”

“That was unfort’nit,” remarked a friend in a tone of sympathy, which attracted the attention of some of those who stood near.

“Ah! lads,” said the master of the mission-ship, “that was a small matter compared with the loss suffered by poor Daniel Rodger. Did you hear of it?”

“Yes, yes,” said some. “No,” said another. “I thought I saw his flag half-mast this mornin’, but was too fur off to make sure.”

Most of the men crowded round the master of the smack, while, in deep sad tones, he told how the son of Daniel Rodger had, during the night, been swept overboard by a heavy sea and drowned before the boat could be launched to rescue him. “But,” continued the speaker in a cheerful voice, “the dear boy was a follower of Jesus, and he is now with Him.”

When this was said, “Praise the Lord!” and “Thank God!” broke from several of the men in tones of unmistakable sincerity.

It was at this point that the boat of the Evening Star ranged alongside. The master of the mission smack went to the side and held out his hand, which David Bright grasped with his right, grappling the smack’s rail at the same time with his left, and vaulted inboard with a hearty salutation. As heartily was it returned, especially by the unbelievers on board, who, perchance, regarded him as a welcome accession to their numbers!

Billy, Gunter, and the others tumbled on to the deck in the usual indescribable manner, and the former, making fast the long painter, added the Evening Star’s boat to the lengthening flotilla astern.

“Your man seems to be hurt,” said the master of the mission smack—whom we may well style the missionary—“not badly, I hope. You’re limpin’ a bit.”

“Oh! nothin’ to speak of,” growled Gunter, “on’y a bit o’ skin knocked off.”

“We’ll put that all right soon,” returned the missionary, shaking hands with the other members of the crew. “But p’r’aps you’d like to go below with us, first. We’re goin’ to hold a little service. It’ll be more comfortable under hatches than on deck.”

“No, thank ’ee,” replied Gunter with decision. “I’ll wait till yer done.”

“P’r’aps you would like to come?” said the missionary to the captain.

“Well, I—I may as well as not,” said David with some hesitation.

“Come along then, lads,” and the genial sailor-missionary led the way to the capacious hold, which had been swept clean, and some dozens of fish-boxes set up on end in rows. These, besides being handy, formed excellent seats to men who were not much used to arm-chairs.

In a few seconds the little church on the Ocean Wilderness was nearly full of earnest, thoughtful men, for these fishermen were charmingly natural as well as enthusiastic. They did not assume solemn expressions, but all thought of sky-larking or levity seemed to have vanished as they entered the hold, and earnestness almost necessarily involves gravity.

With eager expectation they gazed at their leader while he gave out a hymn.

“You’ll find little books on the table here, those of you who haven’t got ’em,” he said, pointing to a little pile of red-covered booklets at his side. “We’ll sing the 272nd.

“‘Sing them over again to me,

Wonderful words of life!’”

Really, reader, it is not easy to convey in words the effect of the singing of that congregation! Nothing that we on land are accustomed to can compare with it. In the first place, the volume of sound was tremendous, for these men seemed to have been gifted with leathern lungs and brazen throats. Many of the voices were tuneful as well as powerful. One or two, indeed, were little better than cracked tea-kettles, but the good voices effectually drowned the cracked kettles. Moreover, there was deep enthusiasm in many of the hearts present, and the hold was small. We leave the rest to the reader’s imagination, but we are bound to say that it had a thrilling effect. And they were sorry, too, when the hymn was finished. This was obvious, for when one of the singers began the last verse over again the others joined him with alacrity and sang it straight through. Even Gunter and those like-minded men who had remained on deck were moved by the fervour of the singing.

Then the sailor-missionary offered a prayer, as simple as it was straightforward and short, after which a chapter was read, and another hymn sung. Then came the discourse, founded on the words, “Whosoever will.”

“There you have it, lads—clear as the sun at noonday—free as the rolling sea. The worst drunkard and swearer in the Short Blue comes under that ‘whosoever’—ay, the worst man in the world, for Jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost.” (“Praise God!” ejaculated one of the earnest listeners fervently.)

But fear not, reader, we have no intention of treating you to a semi-nautical sermon. Whether you be Christian or not, our desire is simply to paint for you a true picture of life on the North Sea as we have seen it, and, as it were unwise to omit the deepest shadows from a picture, so would it be inexcusable to leave out the highest lights—even although you should fail to recognise them as such.

The discourse was not long, but the earnestness of the preacher was very real. The effect on his audience was varied. Most of them sympathised deeply, and seemed to listen as much with eyes as ears. A few, who had not come there for religious purposes, wore somewhat cynical, even scornful, expressions at first, but these were partially subdued by the manner of the speaker as he reasoned of spiritual things and the world to come.

On deck, Gunter and those who had stayed with him became curious to know what the “preachin’ skipper” was saying, and drew near to the fore-hatch, up which the tones of his strong voice travelled. Gradually they bent their heads down and lay at full-length on the deck listening intently to every word. They noted, also, the frequent ejaculations of assent, and the aspirations of hope that escaped from the audience.

Not one, but two or three hymns were sung after the discourse was over, and one after another of the fishermen prayed. They were very loath to break up, but, a breeze having arisen, it became necessary that they should depart, so they came on deck at last, and an animated scene of receiving and exchanging books, magazines, tracts, and pamphlets ensued. Then, also, Gunter got some salve for his shins, Ned Spivin had his cut hand dressed and plastered. Cuffs were supplied to those whose wrists had been damaged, and gratuitous advice was given generally to all to give up drink.

“An’ don’t let the moderate drinkers deceive you lads,” said the skipper, “as they’re apt to do—an’ no wonder, for they deceive themselves. Moderate drinkin’ may be good, for all I know, for old folk an’ sick folk, but it’s not good for young and healthy men. They don’t need stimulants, an’ if they take what they don’t need they’re sure to suffer for it. There’s a terrible line in drinkin’, an’ if you once cross that line, your case is all but hopeless. I once knew a man who crossed it, and when that man began to drink he used to say that he did it in ‘moderation,’ an’ he went on in ‘moderation,’ an’ the evil was so slow in workin’ that he never yet knew when he crossed the line, an’ he died at last of what he called moderate drinkin’. They all begin in moderation, but some of ’em go on to the ruin of body, soul, an’ spirit, rather than give up their moderation! Come now, lads, I want one or two o’ you young fellows to sign the temperance pledge. It can’t cost you much to do it just now, but if you grow up drinkers you may reach a point—I don’t know where that point lies—to come back from which will cost you something like the tearing of your souls out o’ your bodies. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll go,” said a bright young fisherman with a frame like Hercules and a face almost as soft as that of a girl.

“That’s right! Come down.”

“And I’ve brought two o’ my boys,” said a burly man with a cast-iron sort of face, who had been himself an abstainer for many years.

While the master of the mission smack was producing the materials for signing the pledge in the cabin, he took occasion to explain that the signing was only a help towards the great end of temperance; that nothing but conversion to God, and constant trust in the living Saviour, could make man or woman safe.

“It’s not hard to understand,” he said, looking the youths earnestly in the eyes. “See here, suppose an unbeliever determines to get the better of his besettin’ sin. He’s man enough to strive well for a time. At last he begins to grow a little weary o’ the battle—it is so awful hard. Better almost to die an’ be done with it, he sometimes thinks. Then comes a day when his temptation is ten times more than he is able to bear. He throws up the sponge; he has done his best an’ failed, so away he goes like the sow that was washed to his wallowing in the mire. But he has not done his best. He has not gone to his Maker; an’ surely the maker of a machine is the best judge o’ how to mend it. Now, when a believer in Jesus comes to the same point o’ temptation he falls on his knees an’ cries for help; an’ he gets it too, for faithful is He that has promised to help those who call upon Him in trouble. Many a man has fallen on his knees as weak as a baby, and risen up as strong as a giant.”

“Here,” said a voice close to the speaker’s elbow, “here, hand me the pen, an’ I’ll sign the pledge.”

“What, you, Billy Bright!” said the missionary, smiling at the precocious manliness of the little fellow. “Does your father want you to do it?”

“Oh! you never mind what my father wants. He leaves me pretty much to do as I please—except smoke, and as he won’t let me do that. I mean to spite him by refusin’ to drink when he wants me to.”

“But I’m afraid, Billy,” returned the missionary, laughing, “that that’s not quite the spirit in which to sign the pledge.”

“Did I say it was, old boy!” retorted Billy, seizing the pen, dabbing it into the ink, and signing his name in a wild straggling sort of way, ending with a huge round blot.

“There, that’ll do instead of a full stop,” he said, thrusting his little hands into his pockets as he swaggered out of the cabin and went on deck.

“He’ll make a rare good man, or an awful bad ’un, that,” said the missionary skipper, casting a kindly look after the boy.

Soon afterwards the boats left the mission smack, and her crew began to bustle about, making preparation to let down the gear whenever the Admiral should give the signal.

“We carry two sorts of trawl-nets, Andrew,” said the captain to his mate, who was like-minded in all respects, “and I think we have caught some men to-day with one of ’em—praise the Lord!”

“Yes, praise the Lord!” said the mate, and apparently deeming this, as it was, a sufficient reply, he went about his work in silence.

The breeze freshened. The shades of night gathered; the Admiral gave his signal; the nets were shot and the Short Blue fleet sailed away into the deepening darkness of the wild North Sea.

Note. Since that day additional vessels have been attached to the Mission-fleet, which now, 1886, consists of five smacks—and will probably, ere long, number many more—all earning their own maintenance while serving the Mission cause. But these do by no means meet the requirements of the various North Sea fleets. There are still in those fleets thousands of men and boys who derive no benefit from the Mission vessels already sent out, because they belong to fleets to which Mission-ships have not yet been attached; and it is the earnest prayer of those engaged in the good work that liberal-minded Christians may send funds to enable them not only to carry on, but to extend, their operations in this interesting field of labour.

Chapter Ten.

A Strong Contrast—A Victim of the Coper.

Birds of a feather flock together, undoubtedly—at sea as well as on land. As surely as Johnston, and Moore, and Jim Frost, and such men, hung about the mission-ship—ready to go aboard and to have a little meeting when suitable calms occurred, so surely did David Bright, the Swab, and other like-minded men, find themselves in the neighbourhood of the Coper when there was nothing to be done in the way of fishing.

Two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, the Swab—whose proper name was Dick Herring, and who sailed his own smack, the White Cloud—found himself in the neighbourhood of the floating grog-shop.

“Get out the boat, Brock,” said Herring to his mate—who has already been introduced to the reader as Pimply Brock, and whose nose rendered any explanation of that name unnecessary; “take some fish, an’ get as much as you can for ’em.”

The Swab did not name what his mate was to procure in barter with the fish, neither did Brock ask. It was an old-established order, well understood.

Soon Brock and two hands were on their way to the floating “poison-shop,” as one of the men had named it. He was affectionately received there, and, ere long, returned to the White Cloud with a supply of fire-water.

“You’re good at a bargain, Brock,” said his master, with an approving nod, tossing off a glass of the demon that held him as if in chains of steel—chains that no man could break. “I wish,” he added, looking round on the sea wistfully, “that some of our friends would come to join us in a spree.”

“So do I,” said Brock, slightly inflaming his nasal pimples, by pouring a glass of spirits down his throat.

There must be some strange, subtle sympathy between drunkards, for, at the very time these two men expressed their wish, the master of the Evening Star said to Gunter, “Get out the boat. I’ll go cruisin’.”

It must not be supposed that by this he meant to declare his intention of going off on a lengthened voyage in his little boat. David Bright only meant that, having observed through his telescope the little transaction between the White Cloud and the Coper, his intention was to pay that vessel a visit—to go carousing, or, as the North Sea smacksmen have it, “cruisin’.”

Gunter obeyed the order with satisfaction and alacrity.

“Jump in, Spivin, and you come too, Billy.”

“I say, father,” said the boy in a low voice, “are ye goin’ to drink wi’ the Swab after what ye heard aboard the mission smack?”

“You clap a stopper on your jaw an’ obey orders,” replied the skipper angrily.

Although full of light-hearted insolence, which his mates called cheek, Billy was by no means a rebellious boy. He knew, from sad experience, that when his father made up his mind to “go in for a drinking-bout,” the consequences were often deplorable, and fain would he have dissuaded him, but he also knew that to persist in opposing him would only make matters worse, and probably bring severe chastisement on himself. With an air of quiet gravity, therefore, that seemed very unnatural to him, he leaped into the boat and took an oar.

“What cheer, David?” said the Swab, offering his rugged hand when the former jumped on the deck of the White Cloud. “I thought you’d come.”

“You was right, Dick,” returned David, shaking the proffered hand.

“Come below, an’ wet your whistle. Bring your men too,” said Dick. “This is a new hand?” pointing to Ned.

“Ay, he’s noo, is Ned Spivin, but he can drink.”

“Come down, then, all of ’ee.”

Now, Ned Spivin was one of those yielding good-natured youths who find it impossible to resist what may be styled good-fellowship. If you had tried to force Ned Spivin, to order him, or to frighten him into any course, he would have laughed in your face and fought you if necessary; but if you tempted Ned to do evil by kindly tones and looks, he was powerless to resist.

“You’re right, skipper, I can drink—sometimes.” They all went below, leaving Billy on deck “to look after the boat,” as his father said, though, being made fast, the boat required no looking after.

Immediately the party in the little cabin had a glass round. Ere long it occurred to them that they might have another glass. Of course they did not require to be reminded of their pipes, and as nearly all the crew was in the little cabin, besides the visitors, the fumes from pipes and glasses soon brought the atmosphere to a condition that would have failed to support any but the strongest kind of human life. It supported these men well enough, however, for they soon began to use their tongues and brains in a manner that might have surprised a dispassionate observer.

It is, perhaps, needless to say that they interlarded their conversation with fearful oaths, to which of course we can do no more than make passing reference.

By degrees the conversation degenerated into disputation, for it is the manner of some men, when “in liquor,” to become intensely pugnacious as well as owlishly philosophical. The subject-matter of dispute may be varied, but the result is nearly always the same—a series of amazing convolutions of the brain, which is supposed to be profound reasoning, waxing hotter and hotter as the utterances grow thicker and thicker, and the tones louder and louder, until the culminating point is reached when the point which could not be proved by the mind is hammered home with the fist.

To little Billy, who had been left in sole charge of the deck, and whose little mind had been strangely impressed on board the mission-ship, the words and sounds, to say nothing of the fumes, which proceeded from the cabin furnished much food for meditation. The babel of tongues soon became incessant, for three, if not four or five, of the speakers had become so impressed with the importance of their opinions, and so anxious to give their mates the benefit, that they all spoke at once. This of course necessitated much loud talking and gesticulation by all of them, which greatly helped, no doubt, to make their meaning clear. At least it did not render it less clear. As the din and riot increased so did the tendency to add fuel to the fire by deeper drinking, which resulted in fiercer quarrelling.

At last one of the contending voices shouted so loud that the others for a few moments gave way, and the words became audible to the little listener on deck. The voice belonged to Gunter.

“You said,” he shouted fiercely, “that I—”

“No, I didn’t,” retorted Brock, breaking in with a rather premature contradiction.

“Hear him out. N–nothin’ like fair play in ar–argiment,” said an extremely drunken voice.

“Right you are,” cried another; “fire away, Gunter.”

“You said,” resumed Gunter with a little more of argument in his tone, though still vehemently, “that I said—that—that—well, whativer it was I said, I’ll take my davy that I niver said anything o’ the sort.”

“That’s a lie,” cried Brock.

“You’re another,” shouted Gunter, and waved his hand contemptuously.

Whether it was accident or design we know not, but Gunter’s hand knocked the pipe out of Brook’s mouth.

To Billy’s ear the well-known sound of a blow followed, and he ran to look down into the cabin, where all was instantly in an uproar.

“Choke him off,” cried David Bright. “Knock his brains out,” suggested Herring. Billy could not see well through the dense smoke, but apparently the more humane advice was followed, for, after a good deal of gasping, a heavy body was flung upon the floor.

“All right, shove him into a bunk,” cried the Swab.

At the same moment Ned Spivin sprang on deck, and, stretching himself with his arms extended upwards, drew a long breath of fresh air.

“There, Billy,” he said, “I’ve had enough of it.”

“Of grog, d’ye mean?” asked the boy.

“No, but of the hell-upon-earth down there,” replied the young man.

“Well, Ned, I should just think you have had enough o’ that,” said Billy, “an’ of grog too—though you don’t seem much screwed after all.”

“I’m not screwed at all, Billy—not even half-seas-over. It’s more the smoke an’ fumes that have choked me than the grog. Come, lad, let’s go for’ard an’ git as far from it as we can.”

The man and boy went to the bow of the vessel, and seated themselves near the heel of the bowsprit, where the sounds from the cabin reached them only as a faint murmur, and did not disturb the stillness of the night.

And a day of quiet splendour it certainly was—the sea as calm as glass, insomuch that it reflected all the fleecy clouds that hung in the bright sky. Even the ocean-swell had gone to rest with just motion enough left to prove that the calm was not a “dead” one, but a slumber. All round, the numerous vessels of the Short Blue fleet floated in peaceful idleness. At every distance they lay, from a hundred yards to the far-off horizon.

We say that they floated peacefully, but we speak only as to appearance, for there were other hells in the fleet, similar to that which we have described, and the soft sound of distant oars could be distinguished now and then as boats plied to and fro between their smacks and the Coper, fetching the deadly liquid with which these hells were set on fire.

Other sounds there were, however, which fell pleasantly on the ears of the two listeners.

“Psalm-singers,” said Billy.

“They might be worse,” replied Ned. “What smack does it come from, think ’ee?”

“The Boy Jim, or the Cephas—not sure which, for I can’t make out the voices. It might be from the Sparrow, but that’s it close to us, and there could be no mistake about Jim Frost’s voice if he was to strike up.”

“What! has Jim Frost hoisted the Bethel-flag?”

“Ay, didn’t you see it flyin’ last Sunday for the first time?”

“No, I didn’t,” returned Ned, “but I’m glad to hear it, for, though I’m not one o’ that set myself. I do like to see a man not ashamed to show his colours.”

The flag to which they referred is supplied at half cost to the fleet by the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen—and is hoisted every Sabbath-day by those skippers in the fleet who, having made up their minds boldly to accept all the consequences of the step, have come out decidedly on the Lord’s side.

While the two shipmates were conversing thus in low tones, enjoying the fresh air and the calm influences around them, the notes of an accordion came over the water in tones that were sweetened and mellowed by distance.

“Ha! that’s Jim Frost now,” said Billy, in subdued excitement, while pleasure glittered in his eyes. “Oh! Ned, I does like music. It makes my heart fit to bu’st sometimes, it does. An’ Jim plays that—that what’s ’is name—so beautiful!”

“His accordion,” said Ned.

“Yes—his accordium—”

“No, Billy, not accordium, but accordion.”

“Well, well—no matter. I don’t care a button what you calls it, so long as Jim plays it. Why, he’d make his fortin’ if he was to play that thing about the streets o’ Lun’on. Listen.”

Jim Frost deserved all the praise that the enthusiastic boy bestowed on him, for, besides possessing a fine ear and taste for music, and having taught himself to play well, he had a magnificent tenor voice, and took great delight in singing the beautiful hymns which at that time had been introduced to the fleet. On this particular day he was joined by his crew, whose voices—more or less tuneful—came rolling over the water in a great volume of melody.

“He’s got Singin’ Peter a-visitin’ him,” said Billy. “Don’t you hear him?”

“Ay, I hear him, boy. There’s no mistakin’ Singin’ Peter’s voice. I’d know it among a thousand.”

“If it’s hell here,” remarked Billy, with a great sigh of satisfaction, after the hymn was done, “it do seem like heaven over there. I only wish we had Jim Frost on board of us instead of that brute Gunter.”

“Don’t be hard on Gunter, Billy,” said Ned. “We don’t know what he’s got to bear. Some men are born, you see, wi’ narves that are for ever screwin’ at ’em, an’ ticklin’ of ’em up; an’ other men have narves that always keep smoothin’ of ’em down. The last are the pleasantest to have to do with, no doubt, but the others ain’t quite so bad as they look sometimes. Their bark is worse than their bite.”

“Hush!” exclaimed the boy, holding up a finger at the moment, for Jim Frost’s accordion again sent forth its rich tones in the prelude to a hymn. A few moments later and the tuneful voices came rolling towards them in that beautiful hymn, the chorus of which ends:—

“We shall know each other better when the mists are rolled away.”

When the last verse was sung little Billy found a tear struggling to get out of each eye, and a lump sticking in his throat, so he turned his head away to conceal them.

“Ain’t it beautiful?” he said, when the lump had disappeared.

“And ain’t it curious,” answered Ned, “that it should touch on what we was talkin’ about afore they began? P’r’aps we shall know John Gunter better ‘when the mists are rolled away.’”

Billy shook his head dubiously. “I’m not so sure o’ that,” he said. “Anyhow, there’s a deal o’ mist to be rolled away before we can know him better.”

“There’s a breeze comin’ up from the south’ard,” remarked Ned, who, to say truth, did not seem to care very much about getting to know his surly shipmate better; “we’ll have to get your father aboard soon.”

“That won’t be an easy matter,” said Billy, and he was right, for when David Bright was set down with a friend, and a glass, and a pack of cards, it was very difficult to move him. He was, indeed, as fond of gambling as of drinking, and lost much of his hardly earned gains in that way. Billy, therefore, received little but abuse when he tried to induce him to return to his own vessel, but the freshing of the breeze, and a sudden lurch of the smack, which overturned his glass of grog into Gunter’s lap, induced him at last to go on deck.

There the appearance of things had changed considerably. Clouds were beginning to obscure the bright sky, the breeze had effectually shattered the clear mirror of the sea, and a swell was beginning to roll the White Cloud, so that legs which would have found it difficult to steady their owners on solid land made sad work of their office on the heaving deck.

“Haul up the boat,” cried Brock in a drivelling voice as he came on deck; “where are you steerin’ to? Let me take the helm.”

He staggered toward the tiller as he spoke, but Dick Herring and one of his mates, seeing that he was quite unable to steer, tried to prevent him. Brock, however, had reached that stage of drunkenness in which men are apt to become particularly obstinate, and, being a powerful man, struggled violently to accomplish his purpose.

“Let him have it,” said Herring at last. “He can’t do much damage.”

When set free, the miserable man grasped the tiller and tried to steady himself. A lurch of the vessel, however, rendered his effort abortive. The tiller fell to leeward. Brock went headlong with it, stumbled over the side, and, before any one could stretch out a hand to prevent it, fell into the sea and sank.

His comrades were apparently sobered in an instant. There was no need for the hurried order to jump into the boat alongside. Ned Spivin and Billy were in it with the painter cast off and the oars out in a couple of seconds. The boat of the White Cloud was also launched with a speed, that only North Sea fishermen, perhaps, can accomplish, and both crews rowed about eagerly while the smack lay-to. But all without success. The unfortunate man was never more seen, and the visitors left the vessel in sobered silence, and rowed, without exchanging a word, to their own smack, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant on the port quarter.

Chapter Eleven.

Ruth and Captain Bream take to Scheming.

Returning to London, we will follow Captain Bream, who, one fine morning, walked up to Mrs Dotropy’s mansion at the west end, and applied the knocker vigorously.

“Is Miss Ruth at home?”

Yes, Miss Ruth was at home, and would he walk in.

He was ushered into the library of the mansion; that room in which the Dotropy ancestors, who could not find space among their kindred in the dining-room, held, so to speak, an overflow meeting to themselves. Ruth soon joined him.

“I’m so glad to see you, Captain Bream,” she said, shaking with much fervency the hand held out to her. “Sit down. It is so kind of you to come at once to help me in my little schemes—though I have not seen you to explain why I asked you—but there, I was almost off on another subject before I had begun the one I wish to consult you about. And, do you know, captain,” added Ruth, with a slightly perplexed look, “I find scheming a very troublesome business!”

“I should think you did, Miss Ruth, and it seems to me that it’s always better to go straight at what you’ve got to do without scheming—all fair an’ aboveboard. Excuse me, my dear, but an old man who has sailed your lamented father’s ships for over thirty years, and known you since you were a baby, may be allowed to say he’s surprised that you should take to scheming.”

“An old man who has not only sailed my dear father’s ships for over thirty years,” said Ruth, “but has brought me toys from all parts of the world, and has, besides, been as true to the family as the needle to the pole—or truer, if all be true that is said of needles—may say to my father’s daughter exactly what he pleases without the smallest chance of giving offence. But, let me tell you, sir, that you are a foolish old man, and much too quick in forming your opinions. Scheming is both justifiable and honourable at times—as I shall soon convince you.”

A beaming smile overspread the captain’s visage as he said—

“Very well, Miss Ruth. Go on.”

“But before I go on tell me how are the Miss Seawards?”

“Quite well, I believe. At least I have no reason to think otherwise. Rather thinnish if anything, but filled out wonderfully since I first saw ’em.”

“That’s good,” said Ruth, laughing. “And now, do you know why I asked you to go and lodge with them?”

“Well, I always thought it was because you knew I wanted a lodgin’, though I confess it has puzzled me to make out why you wanted me to come to such an out-o’-the-way part o’ the city; and, to tell you the truth, it is rather inconvenient, but your letter was so urgent, Miss Ruth, that I knew you must have some good reason, and as your dear father’s daughter has a right to command me, I obeyed, as you know, without question.”

“You are a good old man,” returned Ruth, laying her hand on the brown fist of the captain and looking up in his face with the same loving girlish look that she had bestowed on him many a time in years past on his frequent visits with foreign toys, “and I shall test your goodness a good deal before I have done with you.”

“Test away, Miss Ruth. You’ll find I can stand a good deal of testin’. I haven’t sailed the salt sea for forty years for nothing.”

“Well then,” said Ruth, looking slightly perplexed again. “What would you do, Captain Bream, if you knew of two ladies who were unable to work, or to find suitable work, and so poor as to be literally starving—what would you do?”

“Give ’em money, of course.”

“But suppose that, owing to some delicacy of feeling, or, perhaps, some sort of mistaken pride, they would not accept money, and flushed very much and felt hurt if you ventured to offer it to them?”

“Why, then, I’d send ’em victuals.”

“But suppose,” continued Ruth, “that there were great difficulties in the way of doing that, and they felt as much objection to receive gratuitous victuals as money, what would you do then? you would not let them starve, would you?”

“Of course not,” returned the captain, promptly. “If it fairly came to that I’d be apt to treat ’em as nurses do obstinate infants and castor oil. I’d take ’em on my knee, force open their mouths, and shove the victuals down their throats.”

Ruth burst into a merry little laugh at this.

“But,” said she, “don’t you think that before proceeding to such forcible treatment you might scheme a little to get them to take it willingly, as nurses sometimes disguise the taste of the oil with coffee or milk?”

“Well, you might scheme a little on that sort of principle, Miss Ruth; but in ordinary cases I prefer straightforward plans myself.”

“Then why, let me ask,” said Ruth with some severity in her look, “do you dare to scheme with the wind as you and all sailors do when it is dead against you?”

“You’re becomin’ too deep for me now, my dear; what d’ee mean?”

“When the wind blows dead against you, say from the north,” replied Ruth, “don’t you begin your naughty—at least your nautical—scheming at once? Don’t you lay your course to the nor’-west and pretend you are going in that direction, and then don’t you soon tack about—isn’t that what you call it—and steer nor’-east, pretending that you are going that way, when all the time you are wanting to go due north? What do you call that, sir, if it is not scheming to circumvent the wind?”

While she was speaking, Captain Bream’s smile expanded and broke forth at last in one of his bass broadsides of laughter, which gave Ruth great delight for she had, as a little girl, enjoyed these thunderous laughs excessively, and her taste for them had not departed.

“Well, my dear,” said her visitor, “I admit that there are some sorts o’ fair-an’-above-board schemin’ which ain’t dishonourable, or unworthy of a British sailor.”

“Very good,” returned Ruth; “then listen while I reveal some of my recent scheming. Some time ago I found out that two very dear friends of mine—who were in delicate health and quite unable to work hard, as well as being unable to find any kind of work whatever—were on the point of starvation. They would not accept money. I schemed a little to get them to earn money, but it was not easy, and the result was not a sufficiently permanent income. At last I thought I would try to get them a boarder—a somewhat rich boarder, whose powerful appetite and large meals might leave some crumbs for—”

“You don’t mean to tell me, Miss Ruth,” interrupted the captain, in amazement, “that the Miss Seawards were in a state of starvation when I went to ’em!”

“Indeed I do,” replied Ruth; “at least as nearly in that state as was compatible with existence.”

“Well, well,” said the captain, “no wonder they looked so thin; and no wonder they’re beginnin’ to be a little better in flesh now, wi’ the legs o’ mutton an’ chops an’ such like things that I get in to take the edge off my appetite—which, as you justly observe, Miss Ruth, is not a bad one. I’m glad you’ve told me this, however, for I’ll go in for extra heavy feedin’ now.”

“That’s right. But stay, Captain Bream, I have not nearly done with my scheming yet. And I shall still want you to help me.”

“Go ahead, my dear. I’m your man, for, to tell ’ee the downright truth, I’ve taken a great fancy to these two sisters, an’ would steer a long way out o’ my course to help ’em.”

“I knew you would,” returned Ruth with a little look of triumph. “Whoever comes in contact with these dear friends of mine thinks exactly as you do. Now, their health is not nearly as good as it ought to be, so I want them to have a change of air. You see, the poor little street in which they live is not the freshest in London.”

“Exactly so. They want a trip to Brighton or Broadstairs or Ramsgate, and a whiff of fresh sea-air, eh?” said the captain with a look of satisfaction.

“No not to these places,” said Ruth; “I thought of Yarmouth.”

“Well, Yarmouth—just as good. Any part o’ the coast will do to blow the London cobwebs out o’ their brains—say Yarmouth.”

“Very good, captain, but my difficulty is, how to manage it.”

“Nothing easier, Miss Ruth. I will take an afternoon train, run down, hire a lodgin’, come up to-morrow, an’ carry the Miss Seawards off wi’ me.”

“But suppose they won’t go?”

“But they must go. I’m quite able to take up one under each arm an’ carry ’em off by force if they won’t.”

“I would highly approve of that method, captain, if it were possible, but I’m afraid such things are not permitted in this free country. No, if done at all, the thing must be gone about with a little more care and delicacy.”

“Well then, I’ll go down an’ take a lodgin’, an’ write up and ask them to pay me a visit for the benefit of their health.”

Ruth shook her pretty little head and frowned.

“Won’t do,” she said. “I know them too well. They’re so unselfish that they won’t budge a step to benefit themselves.”

“H’m! I see, Miss Ruth, we want a little scheming here—eh? Well, I’ll manage it. You leave this little matter in my hands, and see if I don’t get ’em to visit Yarmouth, by hook or by crook. By the way, Miss Ruth, was it one o’ your little schemes, givin’ ’em these mitts and comforters to make?”

“Of course it was,” Ruth replied with a laugh and a blush. “You see these things are really very much wanted by the North sea fishermen, and a great many benevolent women spend much time in knitting for them—and not only women, but also boys.”

“Boys!” echoed the captain in surprise—“boys knit mitts and comforters?”

“Yes. I assure you that the telegraph boys of the Notting Hill branch of the Post-office have actually spent some of their spare time in doing this work.”

“I’ll look upon telegraph boys with more respect ever after this,” said the captain with emphasis.

“Well, as I was saying,” continued Ruth, “Mamma bought far more worsted for me than I could ever find time to work up into mitts or comforters, so I have employed the Miss Seawards to do it for me—at so much a pair. But they don’t know it’s for me, so be careful not to—”

“Yes, yes, I see—more scheming. Well, I’ll take care not to blab.”

“And I sent the worsted and arranged the transaction through such a dear pretty little fisher-boy from Yarmouth. But perhaps you have seen him at your lodging.”

“No, I haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard a good deal about him. The ladies seem to be as much impressed with his sweetness and prettiness as yourself, Miss Ruth. For my part, I’m not over fond o’ sweet pretty boys. I prefer ’em rough-cast or even ugly, so long’s they’re smart an’ willin’.”

“Oh! but you have no idea what a smart and willing boy he is,” said Ruth, firing up in defence of her little friend. “I assure you he is most willing and intelligent, and I do believe he would scratch his face and twist his little nose into a screw if by so doing he could make himself ugly, for I have observed that he is terribly annoyed when people call him pretty—as they often foolishly do.”

“Well, I’ll be off now on this little business,” said the captain, rising and smoothing his hat with his cuff. “But—but—Miss Ruth—excuse me, you said something about sending the Miss Seawards a rich lodger when you sent me. How d’ee know I’m rich?”

“Well, I only guessed it,” returned Ruth with a laugh, “and, you know, more than once you have hinted to me that you had got on very well—that God had prospered you—I think these were the words you have sometimes used.”

“These are the words I would always use,” returned the captain. “The prosperity that has attended me through life I distinctly recognise at being the result of God’s will, not of my wisdom. Don’t we see that the cleverest of men sometimes fail, and, on the other hand, the most stupid fellows sometimes succeed? It is God that setteth up one and putteth down another.”

“I’m glad to hear that you think so clearly on this point, captain, though I did not know it before. It is another bond between us. However, if I have been wrong in supposing you to be rich, I—”

“Nay, I did not deny it, Miss Ruth, but it does not follow that a man means to say he is rich when he says that he has got on very well. However, my dear, I don’t mind tellin’ you, as a secret that I am rich—as rich, that is, as there’s any use to be, an’ far richer than I deserve to be. You must know,” continued the captain, sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, “that your dear father used to allow me to put my savin’s into his hands for investment, and the investments succeeded so well that at last I found myself in possession of five hundred a year!”

Captain Bream said this with much deliberation and an emphatic nod for each word, while he gazed solemnly in Ruth’s face. “Not a bad fortune for an old bachelor, eh? Then,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “when I was wrecked, two years ago in Australia, I took a fancy to have a look at the gold diggin’s, so off I went to Bendigo, and I set to work diggin’ for the mere fun o’ the thing, and the very first day I turned up a nugget as big as my fist and two of the same sort the day after, an’ then a lot o’ little ones; in fact I had got hold of a first-rate claim, an’ when I had dug away for a month or so I put it all in a big chest, sold the claim, and came straight home, bringin’ the chest with me. I have it now, up in my cabin yonder. It well-nigh broke my back gittin’ it up the stair, though my back ain’t a weak one.”

“And how much is the gold worth?” eagerly asked Ruth, who had listened with a sympathetic expression on her face.

“That’s more than I can tell. I scarce know how to go about convertin’ it into cash; but I’m in no hurry. Now mind, Miss Ruth, not a word o’ this to any livin’ soul. Not even to your own mother, for she ain’t my mother, d’ee see, an’ has no right to know it. In fact I’ve never told it to any one till this day, for I have no one in the wide world to care about it. Once, indeed, I had—”

He stopped short.

“Ah! you are thinking of your sister?” said the sympathetic Ruth; “the sister whom you once told me about long ago.”

“Yes, Miss Ruth, I was thinkin’ o’ her; but—” He stopped again.

“Do tell me about her,” said Ruth, earnestly. “Has she been long dead?”

“Dead! my dear. I didn’t say she was dead, an’ yet it ain’t unlikely she is, for it’s long, long since I heard of her. There’s not much to tell about her after all,” said the captain, sadly. “But she was a dear sweet little girl at the time—just turned eighteen—an’ very fond o’ me. We had no parents living, an’ no kindred except one old aunt, with whom my sister lived. I was away at the time on a long voyage, and had to take a cargo from the East Indies to China before returnin’ home. At Hongkong I fell ill, an’ was laid up there for months. Altogether a good many troubles came on me at that time—though they were blessed troubles to me, for they ended in the saving o’ my soul through my eyes bein’ opened to see my sins and Jesus Christ as my Saviour. It was three years before I set foot in England again, and when I got back I found that my old aunt was dead, and that my dear sister had married a seaman and gone away—no one knew where.”

“And you’ve never heard of her since?” asked Ruth.

“Never.”

“And don’t know who she married?”

“Know nothin’ more about her, my dear, than I’ve told ’ee. Good-bye now, Miss Ruth. I must look sharp about this business of yours.”

He showed such evident disinclination to continue the painful subject, that Ruth forbore to press it, and they parted to prosecute their respective schemes.

Chapter Twelve.

Captain Bream develops a Capacity for Scheming.

At dinner that day Captain Bream paused in the act of conveying a whole potato to his mouth on the end of his fork, and said—

“Miss Seaward, I’m going to leave you—”

“Leave us!” cried Kate, interrupting him with a look of consternation, for she and Jessie had both become so fond of the amiable seaman, with the frame of Goliath and the heart of Samuel, that they were now as much afraid of losing, as they had formerly been of possessing him. “Leave us, captain!”

“Only for a time, Miss Kate—only for a time,” he replied, hastily, as he checked the power of further utterance with the potato. “Only for a time,” he repeated, on recovering the power. “You see, I’ve got a little bit of business to transact down at Yarmouth, and it will take me a good while to do it. Some weeks at the least—perhaps some months—but there’s no help for it, for the thing must be done.”

The captain said this with so much decision, that Kate could scarcely forbear laughing as she said—

“Dear me, it must be very important business since you seem so determined about it. Is there anything or any one likely to oppose you in transacting the business?”

“Well, not exactly at present,” returned the captain blandly, “but there are two obstinate friends of mine who, I have been told, would oppose me pretty stoutly if I was to tell ’em all the truth about it.”

“Is there any necessity,” asked Jessie, “for telling these obstinate friends anything about the business at all?”

“Well, yes,” replied the captain with a chuckle that almost brought on a choking fit; “I can’t well avoid tellin’ them somethin’ about it, for they’ve a right to know, but—”

“Wouldn’t it save you all trouble, then,” broke in Kate, seeing his hesitation, “to tell them just as much of the business as they were entitled to know, and no more.”

“That’s just the very thing I mean to do,” replied the captain, bursting into a laugh so deep and thunderous that the small domestic, Liffie Lee, entered the room abruptly to ask if anything was wanted, but in reality to find out what all the fun was about. Having been dismissed with a caution not to intrude again till rung for, the captain helped himself to an enormous slice of beef; earnestly, but unsuccessfully, pressed the sisters to “go in for more and grow fat,” and then continued his discourse.

“You must know, ladies, that I have taken to studyin’ a good deal in my old age. Another potato—thank ’ee.”

“Yes, we have observed that,” said Kate. “May I ask what is the nature of your studies—navigation?”

“Navigation!” shouted the captain with another laugh so rich and racy that poor Liffie Lee almost entered in defiance of orders; “no, Miss Kate, it ain’t navigation! I’ve bin pretty well grounded in that subject for the last forty years. No, my study now is theology.”

“Theology!” exclaimed the sisters in surprise.

“Yes, theology. Is it so strange, then, that a man drawin’ near the close of life should wish to be more particular than when he was young in tryin’ to find out all he can about his Maker?” returned the captain gravely.

“Forgive us,” said Jessie, hastening to explain; “it is not that. If you had said you had taken to reading the Bible carefully and systematically, we would not have been surprised, but it—it was—your talking so quietly about theology that made us—”

“Yes, yes, I see,” interrupted the good-natured seaman; “well, it is reading the Word of God that I mean. You see, I regard the Bible as my class-book, my book o’ logarithms, chart compass, rudder, etcetera, all rolled into one. Now, I don’t mind tellin’ you a secret. When I first went to sea I was a very wild harum-scarum young fellow, an’ havin’ some sort of influence over my mates, I did ’em a deal of damage and led ’em astray. Well, when the Lord in His great mercy saved my soul, I could not forget this, and although I knew I was forgiven, my heart was grieved to think of the mischief I had done. I felt as if I would give anything in life to undo it if I could. As this was not possible, however, I bethought me that the next best thing would be to do as much good as I could to the class that I had damaged, so, when I came home and left the sea for good, I used to go down about the docks and give away Bibles and Testaments to the sailors. Then I got to say a word or two to ’em now and then about their souls but I soon found that there are professed unbelievers among the tars, an’ they put questions that puzzled me at times, so I took to readin’ the Bible with a view to answering objectors an’ bein’ able to give a reason of the hope that is in me—to studyin’, in fact, what I call theology. But I ain’t above takin’ help,” continued the captain with a modest look, “from ordinary good books when I come across ’em—my chief difficulty bein’, to find out what are the best books to consult, and this has led me sometimes to think of buyin’ up all the theological books I can lay hands on, an’ glancin’ ’em all through so as to make notes of such as seemed worth readin’ with care. The labour however seems so great, that up to now I’ve bin kept back, but I’ve had a talk with a friend to-day which has decided me, so I’ll go off to Yarmouth to-morrow an’ buy a whole lot o’ theological books—a regular library in fact—and set to work to read up. But there’s one thing I would like, which would save me an enormous amount o’ labour, if I could get it.”

“What is that?” asked the sisters, eagerly, and in the same breath, for they had become quite interested in their friend’s aspirations.

“I would like,” said the captain, slowly, and fixing his eyes on his plate, for he was now beginning to scheme, “I would like to find some one—a clever boy perhaps, though a girl would be preferable—who would take the trouble off my hands of glancin’ through the books first, an’ makin’ notes of their contents for me, so as to prevent my wastin’ time on those that are worthless.”

“I fear,” said Jessie, “that few boys or girls would be capable of such work, for it would require not only intelligence but a considerable amount of scriptural knowledge.”

The captain heaved a deep sigh. “Yes,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “you’re right, and I’m afraid I’ll have to get some grown-up person to help me, but that won’t be easy. And then, d’ee know, I don’t feel as if I could git on in such investigations with a stranger.”

“What a pity,” said Kate, “that you could not bring the books here, and then I could help you, for although I do not pretend to be deeply learned in scriptural knowledge, I daresay I know enough for your purpose; but why not get the books in London? Is there any necessity for buying them in Yarmouth?”

Poor Captain Bream was so unused to scheming, that he had made no preparation for such a question, and felt much confused. He could give no good reason for making his purchase in Yarmouth, and nothing would have induced him to tell a falsehood.

“Well, really,” he said, after a few moments’ hesitation, “there are circumstances sometimes in a man’s life which render it difficult for him to explain things, but—but I have a reason for wishin’ to buy this library in Yarmouth, an’ it seems to me a good one. Besides, I’ve got a likin’ for sea-air, bein’ my native air, so to speak, and I’ve no doubt that theology would come more easy to me if I was in a snug little room facin’ the sea, where I could see the blue waters dancin’, an’ the shipping go by, an’ the youngsters playin’ on the sands. Yes, it must be done at Yarmouth. London would never do; it’s too hot an’ stuffy. Not that I care for that, but then you might—ah—that is—I mean to say—you might agree with me on this point if you were there. But why,” he added with fresh animation as he saw the way opening up before him, “why, Miss Kate, since you are so kind as to say you’d like to help me, why might you not take a run down to Yarmouth with me, an’ help me there?”

“Because,” answered Kate, laughing, “I could not very well leave my sister alone.”

“Of course not—quite right, but there’s no need for that; she could come too, and it would do you both much good, not to speak o’ the immense advantage to me! I do assure you I’d feel well-nigh as helpless as an infant, if left to tackle this business alone.”

From this point there began a regular skirmish between the captain and the sisters; the one trying to convince the others that it would be doing him a favour for which he could never find words to thank them, and the others endeavouring to show by every sort of argument that the thing was utterly unpossible, that the captain little knew what a burden he proposed to take on his shoulders, and that there was no use whatever in talking about it.

But Captain Bream was a man of resolution. He stuck to his point and pleaded his own cause so powerfully that the sisters began to waver.

“But think,” urged Kate, who did the most of the fighting, “you forget Liffie Lee. She is no longer a mere visitor for an hour or two of a morning, as she used to be, but a regular hired servant and we could not leave her behind.”

“I know that. It was my coming that made you hire her; and, now I think of it, I’ve a right to claim at least part of her, so she can come too, an’ we’ll lock up the house an’ get Mr Green-grocer to look after it—air it now and then. Come, just make up your minds. Only think, how beautiful the blue sea will be just now, an’ the sunny skies, an’ the yellow sands—I declare it makes me long to go. An’ then you’ll see that pretty boy you’ve taken such a fancy to—what’s ’is name?”

“Billy Bright,” said Kate.

“Just so—Billy Bright—though I can’t say that I’m over fond o’ pretty little boys. They’re too often soft an’—”

“But I tell you he’s as bold as a lion, and wise as a man, and tough as—as—”

“As a beefsteak,” said the captain; “yes, yes, I know all that, and I’m quite prepared to believe that he is an exception. Well, now, it’s agreed to—is it?”

But the sisters did not at once give in. They fought on with true feminine courage until the captain tried the effect of deep dejection and innocent submission, when their tender hearts could stand out no longer, and, hauling down their colours, they finally agreed to become librarians and accompany their lodger to Yarmouth.

Then the captain left them to report the victory to his commodore, Ruth Dotropy.

“I never had such a battle in my life!” he said to that scheming young creature. “They didn’t give in till they’d fired off every shot in their locker. Trafalgar and the Nile were nothin’ to it.”

“But do you really mean to say,” asked Ruth, who could hardly speak at first for laughing, “that you intend to buy all these theological books and set the sisters to work?”

“To be sure I do. You didn’t suppose that I was goin’ to tell a parcel o’ lies to help out your schemes, my dear? It has been for some months past simmerin’ in my brain that I ought to go through a small course of education in that line. And all you have done for me is to make me go in for it somewhat sooner, and a little heavier than I had intended in the way of books. And there’s no doubt I’ll study better at the sea-side than in London. Besides, I shall have the fishermen to try the effects of my studies on, and you may be sure I won’t let the poor things work too hard at the books.”

“I’ll trust you for that,” said Ruth.

Now, while these little plans were being arranged, an event was pending in the North Sea fleet which merits particular notice.

Chapter Thirteen.

Run down in a Fog—Captain Bream acts surprisingly.

One day a fishing-smack was on the eve of quitting the Short Blue fleet for its little holiday of a week in port. It was the Sparrow, of which Jim Frost was master. A flag was flying to indicate its intention, and invite letters, etcetera, for home, if any of the crews should feel disposed to send them.

Several boats put off from their respective smacks in reply to the signal. One of these belonged to Singing Peter.

“Glad to see you, Peter,” said Jim Frost as the former leaped on the Sparrow’s deck.

“Same to you, lad. I wish you a pleasant spell ashore, and may the Master be with you,” returned Peter.

“The Master is sure to be with me,” replied Frost, “for has he not said, ‘I will never leave thee?’ Isn’t it a fine thing, Peter, to think that, whatever happens, the Lord is here to guard us from evil?”

“Ay, Jim, an’ to take us home when the time comes.”

“‘Which is far better,’” responded Jim.

“You’ll not get away to-night,” remarked Peter as he gazed out upon the sea. “It’s goin’ to fall calm.”

“No matter. I can wait.”

“What say ye, lad, to a hymn?” said Peter.

“I’m your man,” replied Jim, with a laugh, “I thought it wouldn’t be long before Singin’ Peter would want to raise his pipe.”

“He can’t help it, d’ee see,” returned Peter, answering the laugh with a smile; “if I didn’t sing I’d blow up. It’s my safety-valve, Jim, an’ I like to blow off steam when I gets alongside o’ like-minded men.”

“We’re all like-minded here. Fetch my accordion,” said Jim, turning to one of his men.

In a few minutes a lively hymn was raised in lusty tones which rolled far and wide over the slumbering sea. Then these like-minded men offered up several prayers, and it was observed that Jim Frost was peculiarly earnest that night. Of course they had some more hymns, for as the calm was by that time complete, and it was not possible for any sailing vessel to quit the fleet, there was no occasion to hurry. Indeed there is no saying how long these iron-framed fishermen would have kept it up, if it had not been for a slight fog which warned the visitors to depart.

As the night advanced the fog thickened, so that it was not possible to see more than fifty yards around any of the fishing-smacks.

Now it is probably known to most people that the greatest danger to which those who do business on the sea are exposed is during fog.

When all around is calm and peaceful; when the sound of voices comes with muffled sound over the smooth water; when the eye sees nothing save a ghostly white horizon all round close at hand; when almost the only sound that breaks on the ear is the gentle lapping of the sea, or the quiet creak of plank and spar, as the vessel slowly lifts and falls on the gentle swell, and when landsmen perchance feel most secure—then it is that the dark cloud of danger lowers most heavily, though perhaps unrecognised, over the mariner, and stirs him to anxious watchfulness, when apparently in profoundest repose.

Jim Frost knew well the dangers of the situation, but he had been long accustomed to face all the dangers peculiar to his calling on the deep without flinching—strong in the confidence of his well-tried courage and seamanship, and stronger still in his trust in Him who holds the water in the hollow of His hand. Many a time had he been becalmed in fog on the North Sea. He knew what to do, kept the fog-horn blowing, and took all the steps for safety that were possible in the circumstances.

But, somehow, the young fisherman did not feel his usual easy-going indifference on that particular night, though his trust in God was not less strong. He felt no fear, indeed, but a solemn sobriety of spirit had taken the place of his wonted cheery temperament, and, instead of singing in lively tones as he paced the deck, he hummed airs of a slow pathetic kind in a soft undertone.

It is often said that men receive mysterious intimations, sometimes, of impending disaster. It may be so. We cannot tell. Certainly it seemed as if Jim Frost had received some such intimation that night.

“I can’t understand it, Evan,” he said to his mate when the latter came on deck a little after midnight to relieve him. “A feeling as if something was going to happen has taken possession of me, and I can’t shake it off. You know I’m not the man to fancy danger when there’s none.”

Evan—a youth whom he had been the means of rescuing when about to fall, under great temptation—replied that perhaps want of sleep was the cause.

“You know,” he said, “men become little better than babbies when they goes long without sleep, an’ you’ve not had much of late. What with that tearin’ o’ the net an’ the gale that’s just gone, an’ that book, you know—”

“Ah!” interrupted Jim, “you mustn’t lay the blame on the book, Evan. I haven’t bin sittin’ up very late at it; though I confess I’m uncommon fond o’ readin’. Besides, it’s a good book, more likely to quiet a man’s mind than to rouse it. How we ever got on without readin’ before that mission-ship came to us, is more than I can understand! Why, it seems to have lifted me into a new world.”

“That’s so. I’m fond o’ readin’ myself,” said Evan, who, although not quite so enthusiastic or intellectual as his friend, appreciated very highly the library-bags which had been recently sent to the fleet.

“But the strange thing is,” said Jim, returning to the subject of his impressions—“the strange thing is, that my mind is not runnin’ on danger or damaged gear, or books, or gales, but on my dear wife at home. I’ve bin thinkin’ of Nancy in a way that I don’t remember to have done before, an’ the face of my darlin’ Lucy, wi’ her black eyes an’ rosy cheeks so like her mother, is never absent from my eyes for a moment.”

“Want o’ sleep,” said the practical Evan. “You’d better turn in an’ have a good spell as long as the calm lasts.”

“You remember the patch o’ green in front o’ my cottage in Gorleston?” asked Jim, paying no attention to his mate’s advice.

“Yes,” answered Evan.

“Well, when I was sittin’ for’ard there, not half-an-hour since, I seed my Nancy a-sittin’ on that green as plain as I see you, sewin’ away at somethin’, an’ Lucy playin’ at her knee. They was so real-like that I couldn’t help sayin’ ‘Nancy!’ an’ I do assure you that she stopped sewin’ an’ turned her head a-one side for a moment as if she was listenin’. An’ it was all so real-like too.”

“You was dreamin’; that was all,” said the unromantic Evan.

“No, mate. I wasn’t dreamin’,” returned Jim. “I was as wide awake as I am at this moment for I was lookin’ out all round just as keen as if I had not bin thinkin’ about home at all.”

“Well, you’d as well go below an’ dream about ’em now if you can,” suggested Evan, “an’ I’ll keep a sharp look-out.”

“No, lad, I can’t. I’m not a bit sleepy.”

As Jim said this he turned and went to the bow of the smack.

At that moment the muffled sound of a steamer’s paddles was heard. Probably the fog had something to do with the peculiarity of the sound, for next moment a fog-whistle sounded its harsh tone close at hand, and a dark towering shadow seemed to rush down upon the Sparrow.

Even if there had been a breeze there would have been no time to steer clear of the danger. As it was, the little vessel lay quite helpless on the sea, Evan shouted down the companion for the men to turn out for their lives. The man at the bow sounded the fog-horn loud and long. At the same instant Jim Frost’s voice rang out strong and clear a warning cry. It was answered from above. There were sudden screams and cries. The fog-whistle shrieked. Engines were reversed. “Hard a-port!” was shouted. Steam was blown off, and, amid confusion and turmoil indescribable, an ocean steamer struck the little Sparrow amidships, and fairly rammed her into the sea.

It could scarcely be said that there was a crash. The one was too heavy and the other too light for that. The smack lay over almost gracefully, as if submitting humbly to her inevitable doom. There was one great cry, and next moment she was rolling beneath the keel of the monster that had so ruthlessly run her down.

Not far off—so near indeed that those on board almost saw the catastrophe—lay the Evening Star. They of course heard the cries and the confusion, and knew only too well what had occurred.

To order out the boat was the work of an instant. With powerful strokes Joe, Spivin, Trevor, and Gunter, caused it to leap to the rescue. On reaching the spot they discovered and saved the mate. He was found clinging to an oar, but all the others had disappeared. The steamer which had done the deed had lowered a boat, and diligent search was made in all directions round the spot where the fatal collision had occurred. No other living soul, however, was found. Only a few broken spars and the upturned boat of the smack remained to tell where Jim Frost, and the rest of his like-minded men, had exchanged the garb of toil for the garments of glory!

As a matter of course this event made a profound impression for a time on board of the Evening Star and of such vessels as were near enough next morning to be informed of the sad news. A large portion of the fleet, however, was for some time unaware of what had taken place, and some of the masters and crews who were averse to what they styled “psalm-singin’ and prayin’,” did not seem to be much affected by the loss.

Whether grieved or indifferent however, the work of the fleet had to be done. Whether fishermen live or die, sink or swim, the inexorable demand of Billingsgate for fish must be met! Accordingly, next day about noon, a fresh breeze having sprung up, and a carrier-steamer being there ready for her load, the same lively scene which we have described in a previous chapter was re-enacted, and after the smacks were discharged they all went off as formerly in the same direction, like a shoal of herrings, to new fishing-grounds.

When they had got well away to the eastward and were beating up against a stiff northerly breeze, David Bright who stood near the helm of the Evening Star, said to his son in a peculiarly low voice—

“Now, Billy, you go below an’ fetch me a glass of grog.”

Billy went below as desired, but very unwillingly, for he well knew his father’s varying moods, and recognised in the peculiar tone in which the order was given, a species of despondency—almost amounting to despair—which not unfrequently ushered in some of his worst fits of intemperance.

“Your fadder’s in de blues to-day,” said Zulu, as he toiled over his cooking apparatus in the little cabin; “when he spok like dat, he goes in for heavy drink.”

“I know that well enough,” returned Billy, almost angrily.

“Why you no try him wid a ’speriment?” asked the cook, wrinkling up his nose and displaying his tremendous gums.

“For any sake don’t open your mouth like that, Zulu, but tell me what you mean by a ’speriment,” said the boy.

“How kin I tell what’s a ’speriment if I’m not to open my mout’?”

“Shut up, you nigger! an’ talk sense.”

“Der you go agin, Billy. How kin I talk sense if I’m to shut up? Don’t you know what a ’speriment is? Why it’s—it’s—just a ’speriment you know—a dodge.”

“If you mean a dodge, why don’t you say a dodge?” retorted Billy; “well, what is your dodge? look alive, for daddy’ll be shoutin’ for his grog in a minute.”

“You jus’ listen,” said the cook, in a hoarse whisper, as he opened his enormous eyes to their widest, “you jus’ take a wine-glass—de big ’un as your fadder be fond of—an’ put in ’im two teaspoonfuls o’ vinegar, one tablespoonful o’ parafine hoil, one leetle pinch o’ pepper, an’ one big pinch ob salt with a leetle mustard, an’ give ’im dat. Your fadder never take time to smell him’s grog—always toss ’im off quick.”

“Yes, an’ then he’d toss the wine-glass into my face an’ kick me round the deck afterwards, if not overboard,” said Billy, with a look of contempt. “No, Zulu, I don’t like your ’speriment, but you’ve put a notion into my head, for even when a fool speaks a wise man may learn—”

“Yes, I often tink dat,” said the cook, interrupting, with a look of innocence. “You quite right, so speak away, Billy, an’ I’ll learn.”

“You fetch me the wine-glass,” said the boy, sharply.

Zulu obeyed.

“Now, fill it up with water—so, an’ put in a little brown sugar to give it colour. That’s enough, stir him up. Not bad rum—to look at. I’ll try father wi’ that.”

Accordingly, our little hero went on deck and handed the glass to his father—retreating a step or two, promptly yet quietly, after doing so.

As Zulu had said, David Bright did not waste time in smelling his liquor. He emptied the glass at one gulp, and then gazed at his son with closed lips and gradually widening eyes.

“It’s only sugar and water, daddy,” said Billy, uncertain whether to laugh or look grave.

For a few moments the skipper was speechless. Then his face flushed, and he said in a voice of thunder, “Go below an’ fetch up the keg.”

There was no disobeying that order! The poor boy leaped down the ladder and seized the rum-keg.

“Your ’speriment might have been better after all, Zulu,” he whispered as he passed up again, and stood before his father.

What may have passed in the mind of that father during the brief interval we cannot tell, but he still stood with the empty wine-glass in his hand and a fierce expression on his face.

To Billy’s surprise, however, instead of seizing the keg and filling out a bumper, he said sternly—“See here,” and tossed the wine-glass into the sea. “Now lad,” he added, in a quiet voice, “throw that keg after it.”

The poor boy looked at his sire with wondering eyes, and hesitated.

“Overboard with it!” said David Bright in a voice of decision.

With a mingling of wild amazement, glee, and good-will, Billy, exerting all his strength, hurled the rum-keg into the air, and it fell with a heavy splash upon the sea.

“There, Billy,” said David, placing his hand gently on the boy’s head, “you go below and say your prayers, an’ if ye don’t know how to pray, get Luke Trevor to teach you, an’ don’t forget to thank God that your old father’s bin an’ done it at last.”

We are not informed how far Billy complied with these remarkable orders, but certain we are that David Bright did not taste a drop of strong drink during the remainder of that voyage. Whether he tasted it afterwards at all must be left for this chronicle to tell at the proper time and place.

At present it is necessary that we should return to Yarmouth, where Captain Bream, in pursuance of his deep-laid schemes, entered a bookseller’s shop and made a sweeping demand for theological literature.

“What particular work do you require, sir?” asked the surprised and somewhat amused bookseller.

“I don’t know that I want any one in particular,” said the captain, “I want pretty well all that have bin published up to this date. You know the names of ’em all, I suppose?”

“Indeed no, sir,” answered the man with a look of uncertainty. “Theological works are very numerous, and some of them very expensive. Perhaps if—”

“Now, look here. I’ve got neither time nor inclination to get upon the subject just now,” said the captain. “You just set your clerk to work to make out a list o’ the principal works o’ the kind you’ve got on hand, an’ I’ll come back in the evenin’ to see about it. Never mind the price. I won’t stick at that—nor yet the quality. Anything that throws light on religion will do.”

“But, sir,” said the shopman, “some of the theological works of the present day are supposed—at least by the orthodox—to throw darkness instead of light on religion.”

“All right,” returned the captain, “throw ’em all in. I don’t expect divines to agree any more than doctors. Besides, I’ve got a chart to steer by, called the Bible, that’ll keep me clear o’ rocks an’ shoals. You make your mind easy, an’ do as I bid you. Get the books together by six o’clock this evening, an’ the account made out, for I always pay cash down. Good-day.”

Leaving the bookseller to employ himself with this astounding “order,” Captain Bream next went to that part of the town which faces the sea-beach, and knocked at the door of a house in the window of which was a ticket with “lodgings” inscribed on it.

“Let me see your rooms, my good girl,” said the captain to the little maid who opened the door.

The little maid looked up at the captain with some surprise and no little hesitancy. She evidently feared either that the rooms would not be suitable for the applicant or that the applicant would not be suitable for the rooms. She admitted him, however, and, leading him up-stairs, ushered him into the parlour of the establishment.

“Splendid!” exclaimed the captain on beholding the large window, from which there was seen a glorious view of the sea, so near that the ships passing through the deep water close to the beach seemed as if they were trying which of them could sail nearest to land without grounding.

“Splendid!” he repeated with immense satisfaction as he turned from the view to the room itself; “now this is what I call fortunate. The very thing—sofa for Miss Jessie—easy-chair for Miss Kate—rocking chair for both of ’em. Nothin’ quite suitable for me, (looking round), but that’s not difficult to remedy. Glass over the chimney to see their pretty faces in, and what have we here—a press?”

“No, sir,” said the little maid, pushing open the door, “a small room off this one, sir.”

“Glorious!” shouted the captain, entering and striking the top of the door-way with his head in doing so. “Nothing could be better. This is the theological library! Just the thing—good-sized window, same view, small table, and—well, I declare! if there ain’t empty bookshelves!”

“Very sorry, sir,” said the little maid, hastening to apologise; “we have no books, but they’ll be handy for any books you may bring to the sea-side with you, sir, or for any little knick-knacks and odds and ends.”

“Yes, yes, my good girl. I’ll fetch a few theological odds and ends to-night that’ll p’r’aps fill ’em up. By the way, you’ve a bedroom, I hope?”

He looked anxious, and the maid, who seemed inclined to laugh, said that of course they had, a nice airy bedroom on the same floor on the other side of the passage—also commanding the sea.

The captain’s face beamed again.

“And now, my girl—but, by the way, I shall want another bedroom. Have you—”

“I’m sorry to say that we have not. The rest of the house is quite full.”

Captain Bream’s face again became anxious. “That’s bad,” he said; “of course I can get one out o’ the house, but it would be inconvenient.”

“There is a hattic, sir,” said the maid, “but it is ’igh up, and so very small, that I fear—”

“Let me see the attic,” said the captain, promptly.

The maid conducted him up another flight of steps to a room, or rather closet, which did not appear to be more than five feet broad and barely six feet long; including the storm-window, it might have been perhaps seven feet long. It was situated in a sort of angle, so that from the window you could have a view of a piece of slate roof, and two crooked chimney pots with a slice of the sea between them. As there was much traffic on the sea off that coast, the slice referred to frequently exhibited a ship or a boat for a few seconds.

“My study!” murmured the captain, looking round on the bare walls, and the wooden chair, and a low bedstead which constituted the furniture. “Not much room for the intellect to expand here. However, I’ve seen worse.”

“We consider it a very good hattic, sir,” said the little maid, somewhat hurt by the last remark.

“I meant no offence, my dear,” said the captain, with one of his blandest smiles, “only the berth is rather small, d’ee see, for a man of my size. It is first-rate as far as it goes, but if it went a little further—in the direction of the sea, you know—it might give me a little more room to kick about my legs. But it’ll do. It’ll do. I’ll take all the rooms, so you’ll consider them engaged.”

“But you haven’t asked the price of ’em yet sir,” said the little maid.

“I don’t care tuppence about the price, my dear. Are you the landlady?”

“La! no, sir,” replied the girl, laughing outright as they returned to the parlour.

“Well then, you send the landlady to me, and I’ll soon settle matters.”

When the landlady appeared, the captain was as good as his word. He at once agreed to her terms, as well as her stipulations, and paid the first week’s rent in advance on the spot.

“Now,” said he, on leaving, “I’ll come back this evening with a lot of books. To-morrow forenoon, the ladies for whom the rooms are taken will arrive, please God, and you will have everything ready and in apple-pie order for ’em. I’ll see about grub afterwards, but in the meantime you may give orders to have sent in to-morrow a lot o’ fresh eggs and milk and cream—lots of cream—and fresh butter and tea and coffee an’ suchlike. But I needn’t do more than give a wink to a lady of your experience.”

With this last gallant remark Captain Bream left the lodging and strolled down to the sea-beach.

Chapter Fourteen.

Ruth’s Hopes as to her Plot brighten a little.

“Mother,” said Ruth one day to her dignified parent, “shall you be soon free of engagements?”

“Yes, probably by the end of next week. Why do you ask?”

“Because I am longing to get away to Yarmouth. I had a letter from dear Kate Seaward to-day. They have been a week in their lodging now, and are enjoying it immensely. Here is the letter. Let me read a bit of it to you. She says: ‘You have no idea how much we are charmed with this place. It is a perfect paradise! Perhaps part of our feeling of delight is due to the great change from our smoky little residence in London, but you would not wonder at my enthusiasm if you saw the sweet little window beside which I am writing, and the splendid sea—like a great field of clear glass, which spreads away on all sides to the horizon. Oh! I do love the sea—to look at, I mean. You must not suppose, dear, that I have any love left when I am on it. Oh no! The memory of my last crossing of the Channel—that dreadful British Channel—is as fresh as if it had happened yesterday—the heaving of the steamer and the howling of the wind, the staggering of the passengers, and the expression of their faces, to say nothing of their colour. And then the sensations! Appalling is a mild word. It is not appropriate. If I might coin a word, horrific seems more suitable. But words utterly fail when deep and powerful sensations are concerned. I do assure you, Ruth, that I was absolutely indifferent as to what should become of me that dreadful day as I lay extended flat on my back on one of the saloon sofas. And when that nurse with the baby was forced by a lurch of the ship to sit down on me, I do believe that I could have thanked her if she had crushed me out of existence. Yes, I hate the sea as a place of residence, but I love it as an object to be looked at, especially when it is calm and glittering, as it now is, in the early morning sun.

“Talking of the early morning reminds me of good Captain Bream, who is one of the most singular and incomprehensible creatures I ever met with. He is an early riser—not that that makes him singular—but instead of going out to walk he remains up in his pigeon-hole of a room studying theology! And such a miscellaneous collection of books he has got on all sorts of religious controversy! He say he wants to be able to meet the objections of unbelievers whom he sometimes encounters when preaching to sailors. Jessie and I have heard him preach to a number of sailors and fishermen assembled in an old boat-shed, and you have no idea, Ruth, how delightful it is to hear him. So different from what one expected, and so very unlike the preaching of many men. I have often wondered why it is that some men—sensible men, too, in other matters—should think it necessary to talk in a sing-song, or whiny voice, with a pathetic drawl, or through their noses, when they have to speak on religious subjects! I once heard an indignant clergyman say that he thought it was a device of the devil to turn sacred things into ridicule, but I cannot agree with that. It seems to me that men are often too ready to saddle Satan with evil devices which they ought to fix on their own stupid shoulders. Captain Bream simply talks when he preaches; just as if he were talking on any business matter of great importance, and he does it so nicely, too, and so earnestly, like a father talking to his children. Many of the rough-looking fishermen were quite melted, and after the meeting a good many of them remained behind to talk with him privately. Jessie and I are convinced that he is doing a great and good work here. But he is a most eccentric man, and seems a good deal perplexed by his theological studies. The other day Jessie ventured to question him about these, and he became quite energetic as he said:—

“‘I tell ’ee what it is, ladies, when I go cruisin’ out and in among these theological volumes until I lose my reckoning altogether an’ git among shoals an’ quicksands that I never so much as heard of before, I just lay hold o’ the cable that’s made fast to my sheet-anchor, and I haul in on that. Here is the sheet-anchor, he said, pulling his little Bible from his pocket, the Word of God. That’s it. When I feel how ignorant an’ stoopid an’ unlearned I am, I just keep haulin’ on the cable till I come to some such word as this, “Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord,” an’ so I’m comforted, an’ my mind’s made easy, for, after all we may think and say and read, it must come to this—“Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind.” Every man must work out his own theology for himself, accordin’ to that Word, and I’ve worked it out so far by God’s blessin’, that Jesus Christ—the God—man—is my foundation, the Holy Spirit is my guide, and salvation from sin is my aim and end—not only for myself but for my fellow-sinners.

“‘But I must not go on quoting the Captain’s sayings and eccentric doings, else I shall never stop.

“‘When are you and your mother coming down? I cannot tell how much we long to have you with us to share in our enjoyment of this charming place. And the fisher-people are so interesting too. I don’t wonder you took such a fancy to them. Of course we have not had time to make acquaintance with many of them yet. And Jessie has become so engrossed with the Captain’s theological books that I can’t tear her away from them. At first she began to inspect their contents with a view to tabulate them and help the captain, but she gets so deep in them that she forgets time altogether, and I have often found her, after having been several hours in the library, sitting there poring over a huge volume without having made a single note or jotting! The captain is quite facetious about it, and said yesterday that if she didn’t work a little harder he’d have to dismiss her from the service an’ ship a new hand. Then he dragged us both out for a long walk on the beach. We cannot resist him. Nobody can. And such cream as we have!—more like thin butter than cream. And such quantities of it too, for he declares he is very fond of it, and must always have plenty on hand. But I cannot help thinking it is for our sakes he has it, for although he talks much about it and makes great demonstration and noise when he drinks it, he does not really consume much—and you know it must be drunk by somebody, else it would spoil. Oh! we are having, as the captain himself says, a remarkably jolly time of it here, and only want you to make our happiness complete. But with all his fun and energy and cheerfulness, I cannot avoid noticing that dear Captain Bream is frequently very pensive and absent. I cannot help thinking sometimes that he is the victim of some secret sorrow.’”

At this point Ruth looked up in her mother’s face and burst into a fit of hilarious laughter.

“Only think, mother,” she said, “of great big, stout, jolly old Captain Bream having a secret sorrow!”

“My dear,” said Mrs Dotropy in a reproachful tone, “you are too flippant in your references to stout old people. You should remember that even the stoutest of them may once have been thin. And it is not impossible that Captain Bream may still be suffering from unrequited affection, or—”

Again Ruth burst into silvery laughter, but checked it and apologised.

“I can’t help it mother. It does seem so funny to think of Captain Bream having ever been thin, or with hair on his head, or suffering from disappointed love. I wonder that it does not occur to Kate that the good man is perhaps suffering because of the sorrows of others. It would be much more like his generous and unselfish nature. But now, mother, may I write to Kate and tell her to expect us next week?”

“Yes, I think you may. But why are you in such haste, child?”

“Because I’m burning to clear up that little mystery that I told you of—if indeed it is a mystery, and not a mere fancy.”

Ruth sighed as if her spirit were slightly troubled. “Really, child, you have quite raised my curiosity about that mystery as you call it. Why will you not confide in me?”

“Because I may be all wrong, and when I find out that I’m right—if I find out that I’m right—then you shall know all about it.”

“And there’s that chest, too, that the captain sent here for us to take care of when he left town,” continued Mrs Dotropy, “you make quite a mystery about that too, for I see that you know something about it. If I had not perfect confidence in your heart, child, I should feel quite anxious, for it is the first time in your life that you have concealed anything from me.”

“Thank you, mother, for trusting my heart,” said Ruth, putting an arm round the dignified lady’s neck and kissing her.

“That’s all very well, Ruth, but I do not put so much trust in your head.”

“I’m sorry for that, Mother, but meantime my head says that while it would be wrong in me to keep any secret about myself from you, I have no right to reveal the secrets of others. But about this chest—has the banker sent for it yet?”

“No, not yet but I expect some one from the bank every minute, (she consulted a small jewelled watch), and it is probable that our young friend Mr Dalton himself may come.”

“Mr Dalton!” exclaimed Ruth, with a sudden flush that might have indicated pleasure or annoyance. Mrs Dotropy, however, did not observe the flush, but continued—

“The chest seems miraculously heavy. I told James to put it into the store-room, but he could not lift it, although he is a strong man, and had to get the butler’s assistance.”

At that moment the conversation was interrupted by the door being thrown open, and Mr Dalton was announced.

He was a young man of handsome face and figure, with dark eyes, short curly hair, and a pleasing address.

Apologising for not being more punctual in calling for the chest, he explained that pressing-business had detained him.

“Of course, of course,” said Mrs Dotropy, with the familiarity of an old friend—for such she was to the youth—“you men of business always carry about that cloak of pressing-business to cover your sins and shortcomings with.”

“Nay, you are unjust,” said the young man, “I appeal to Miss Ruth. Did I not say to Captain Bream that I might perhaps have difficulty in getting away at the hour named, as it was a business hour, and, the transaction being of a friendly and private nature—”

“My dear sir,” interrupted Mrs Dotropy, “if it is private, pray do not make it public.”

“Has not Miss Ruth, then, told you—”

He stopped and looked from one lady to the other.

“Miss Ruth,” said that young lady, flushing deeply, “is supposed to know nothing whatever about your transactions with Captain Bream. Shall I go and tell James to carry the box down-stairs, mother?”

Mrs Dotropy gave permission, and Ruth retired. A few minutes later, young Dalton drove away with the captain’s chest of gold.

A week after that the mother and daughter drove away from the same door to the railway station, and in process of time found themselves one pleasant afternoon at Yarmouth, in the little parlour with the window that commanded the gorgeous view of the sea, taking tea with the captain himself and his friends Jessie and Kate Seaward.

A lodging had been secured quite close to their own by the Dotropys.

“Now,” said Ruth to Jessie that evening in private, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes, “I shall be able to carry out my little plot, and see whether I am right, now that I have at last got Captain Bream down to Yarmouth.”

“What little plot?” asked Jessie.

“I may not tell you yet,” said Ruth with a laugh. “I shall let you know all about it soon.”

But Ruth was wrong. There was destined to be a slip ’twixt the cup and her sweet lip just then, for that same evening Captain Bream received a telegram from London, which induced him to leave Yarmouth hastily to see a friend, he said, and keep an old-standing engagement. He promised, however, to be back in two or three days at furthest.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Cloud comes over Ruth’s Hopes, and dims their Brightness.

To prevent the reader supposing that there is any deep-laid scheme or profound mystery with which we mean to torment him during the course of our tale, we may as well say at once that the little plot, which Ruth had in view, and which began to grow quite into a romance the longer she pondered it, was neither more nor less than to bring Captain Bream and Mrs David Bright face to face.

Ruth had what we may style a constructive mind. Give her a few rough materials, and straight-way she would build a castle with them. If she had not enough of material, she immediately invented more, and thus continued her castle-building. Being highly imaginative and romantic, her structures were sometimes amazing edifices, at which orthodox architects might have turned up their noses—and with some reason, too, for poor little Ruth’s castles were built frequently on bad foundations, and sometimes even in the air, so that they too often fell in splendid ruins at her feet!

It would not be just however, to say that none of Ruth’s buildings stood firm. Occasionally she built upon a good foundation. Now and then she made a straight shot and hit the mark. For instance, the little edifice of cuffs and comforters to the North Sea trawlers survived, and remains to the present day a monument of usefulness, (which few monuments are), and of well-placed philanthropy. It may not, perhaps, be just to say that Ruth actually laid the foundation—conceived the first idea—of that good work, but she was at all events among the first builders, became an active overseer, and did much of the work with her own hands. Still, as we have said, too many of Ruth’s castles came to the ground, and the poor thing was so well used to the sight of falling material that she had at last begun to be quite expert in detecting the first symptoms of dissolution, and often regarded them with despairing anxiety. It was so with her when Captain Bream was summoned so suddenly away from Yarmouth.

Eagerly, anxiously, had she planned to get him down to that town for the purpose of confronting him with Mrs David Bright—the reason being that, from various things the captain had said to her at different times, and from various remarks that Mrs Bright had made on sundry occasions, she felt convinced that the North Sea fisherman’s wife was none other than Captain Bream’s long-lost sister!

It would be well-nigh impossible, as well as useless, to investigate the process of reasoning and the chain of investigation by which she came to this conclusion, but having once laid the foundation, she began to build on it with her wonted enthusiasm, and with a hopefulness that partial failure could not destroy.

The captain’s departure, just when she hoped to put the copestone on her little edifice was a severe blow, for it compelled her to shut up her hopes and fears in her own breast, and, being of a sympathetic nature, that was difficult. But Ruth was a wise little woman as well as sympathetic. She had sense enough to know that it might be a tremendous disappointment to Captain Bream, if, after having had his hopes raised, it were discovered that Mrs Bright was not his sister. Ruth had therefore made up her mind not to give the slightest hint to him, or to any one else, about her hopes, until the matter could be settled by bringing the two together, when, of course, they would at once recognise each other.

Although damped somewhat by this unlooked-for interruption to her little schemes, she did not allow her efforts to flag.

“I see,” she said one day, on entering the theological library, where Jessie, having laid down a worsted cuff which she had been knitting, was deep in Leslie’s Short and Easy method with the Deists, and Kate, having dropped a worsted comforter, had lost herself in Chalmers’s Astronomical Discourses. “I see you are both busy, so I won’t disturb you. I only looked in to say that I’m going out for an hour or two.”

“We are never too busy, darling,” said Jessie, “to count your visits an interruption. Would you like us to walk with you?”

“N–no. Not just now. The fact is, I am going out on a little private expedition,” said Ruth, pursing her mouth till it resembled a cherry.

“Oh! about that little plot?” asked Jessie, laughing. Ruth nodded and joined in the laugh, but would not commit herself in words.

“Now, don’t work too hard, Kate,” she cried with an arch look as she turned to leave.

“It is harder work than you suppose, Miss Impudence,” said Kate; “what with cuffs and contradictions, comforters and confusion, worsted helmets and worse theology, my brain seems to be getting into what the captain calls a sort of semi-theological lop-scowse that quite unfits me for anything. Go away, you naughty girl, and carry out your dark plots, whatever they are.”

Ruth ran off laughing, and soon found herself at the door of Mrs Bright’s humble dwelling.

Now, Mrs Bright, although very fond of her fair young visitor, had begun, as we have seen, to grow rather puzzled and suspicious as to her frequent inquiries into her past history.

“You told me, I think, that your maiden name was Bream,” said Ruth, after a few remarks about the weather and the prospects of the Short Blue fleet, etcetera.

“Yes, Miss Ruth,” answered Mrs Bright; but the answer was so short and her tone so peculiar that poor scheming little Ruth was quelled at once. She did not even dare to say another word on the subject nearest her heart at the time, and hastily, if not awkwardly, changed the subject to little Billy.

Here indeed she had touched a theme in regard to which Mrs Bright was always ready to respond.

“Ah! he is a good boy, is Billy,” she said, “an uncommonly good boy—though he is not perfect by any means. And he’s a little too fond of fighting. But, after all, it’s not for its own sake he likes it, dear boy! It’s only when there’s a good reason for it that he takes to it. Did I ever tell you about his kicking a boy bigger than himself into the sea off the end of the pier?”

“No, you never told me that.”

“Well, this is how it was. There’s a small girl named Lilly Brass—a sweet little tot of four years old or thereabouts, and Billy’s very fond of her. Lilly has a brother named Tommy, who’s as full of mischief as an egg is full of meat, and he has a trick of getting on the edge of the pier near where they live, and tryin’ to walk on it and encouraging Lilly to follow him. The boy had been often warned not to do it, but he didn’t mind, and my Billy grew very angry about it.

“‘I don’t care about little Brass himself mother,’ said Billy to me one day; ‘he may tumble in an’ be drownded if he likes, but I’m afeared for little Lilly, for she likes to do what he does.’

“So, one day Billy saw Tommy Brass at his old tricks, with Lilly looking on, quite delighted, and what did my boy do, think ye? He went up to Brass, who was bigger and older than himself, and gave him such a hearty kick that it sent him right off into the sea. The poor boy could not swim a stroke, and the water was deep, so my Billy, who can swim like a fish, jumped in after him and helped to get him safe ashore. Tommy Brass was none the worse; so, after wringing the water out of his clothes, he went up to Billy and gave him a slap in the face. Billy is not a boastful boy. He does not speak much when he’s roused; but he pulled off his coat and gave Brass such a thump on the nose that he knocked him flat on the sand. Up he jumped, however, in a moment and went at Billy furiously, but he had no chance. My boy was too active for him. He jumped a’ one side, struck out his leg, and let him tumble over it, giving him a punch on the head as he went past that helped to send his nose deeper into the sand. At last he beat him entirely, and then, as he was puttin’ on his jacket again, he said—‘Tommy Brass, it ain’t so much on account o’ that slap you gave me, that I’ve licked you, but because you ’ticed Lilly into danger. And, you mark what I say: every time I catch you walkin’ on that there pier-edge, or hear of you doin’ of it, I’ll give you a lickin’.’

“Tommy Brass has never walked on that pier-edge since,” concluded Mrs Bright, “but I’m sorry to say that ever since that day Lilly Brass has refused to have a word to say to Billy, and when asked why, she says, ‘’cause he sowsed an’ whacked my brudder Tommy!’”

Thus did Mrs Bright entertain her visitor with comment and anecdote about Billy until she felt at last constrained to leave without having recovered courage to broach again the subject which had brought her to the fisherman’s home.

That same afternoon Mrs Bright paid a friendly visit to the wife of her husband’s mate.

“I can’t think whatever Miss Ruth Dotropy is so curious about me for, she’s bin at me again,” said Mrs Bright to Mrs Davidson, who was busy with her needle on some part of the costume of her “blessed babby,” which lay, like an angel, in its little crib behind the door.

“P’r’aps it’s all along of her bein’ so interested in you,” replied pretty Mrs Davidson. “She asks me many odd questions at times about myself, and my dear Joe, and the babby—though I admit she don’t inquire much about my past life.”

“Well, that’s not surprising,” said Mrs Bright with a laugh, as she sat down on a stool to have a chat. “You see, Maggie, you haven’t got much of a past life to inquire about, and Joe is such a good man that you’ve no call to be suspecting anything; but it wasn’t always so with my dear David. I wouldn’t say it even to you, Maggie, if it wasn’t that everybody in Yarmouth knows it—my David drinks hard sometimes, and although I know he’s as true as gold to me, an’ never broke the laws of the land, everybody won’t believe that, you know, and the dear man might fall under suspicion.”

“But you don’t suppose, if he did,” said Mrs Davidson, with a look of surprise, “that Miss Ruth would go about actin’ the part of a detective, do you?”

“Well, no, I don’t,” replied her friend, looking somewhat puzzled. “All the same it is mysterious why she should go on as she’s bin doin’, asking me what my maiden name was, and who my relations were, and if I ever had any brothers, and when and where I first met wi’ David. But whatever her reasons may be I’m resolved that she’ll get nothing more out of me.”

“Of course,” returned Maggie, “you must do as you think right in that matter. All I can say is, I would tell Miss Ruth all that was in my mind without any fear that she’d abuse my confidence.”

“Ah! Maggie, I might say that too if my mind and conscience were as clear as yours. But they’re not. It is true I have long ago brought my sins to Jesus and had them washed away in His precious blood. And I never cease to pray for my dear David, but—but—”

“Don’t you fear, Nell,” said Mrs Davidson, earnestly, and in a tone of encouragement. “Your prayer is sure to be answered.”

“Oh! Maggie, I try to believe it—indeed I do. But when I see David go down to that—that public-house, and come up the worse o’ liquor, an’ sometimes little Billy with him with a cigar in his sweet little mouth an’ the smell o’ drink on him, my heart fails me, for you know what an awful snare that drink is, once it gets the upper hand—and—”

Poor Mrs Bright fairly broke down at this point for a few seconds; and no wonder, for, not even to her most confidential and sympathetic friend could she tell of the terrible change for the worse that came over her husband when the accursed fire-water burned in his veins.

“Nell,” said Maggie, laying her work in her lap and taking her friend’s hand. “Don’t give way like that. God would never ask us to pray for one another, if He didn’t mean to answer us. Would He, now?”

“That’s true, Maggie, that’s true,” said Mrs Bright, much comforted. “I never thought of that before. You’re young, but you’re wise, dear. Of course, the good Lord will never mock us, and if there’s anything I have asked for of late, it has been the salvation of David and Billy. What was it, Maggie, that made your Joe first turn his thoughts to the Lord?”

“It was one of his mates. You remember when he sailed wi’ that good man, Singin’ Peter? Well, Peter used often to speak to him about his soul to no purpose; but that fine man, Luke Trevor, who also sailed wi’ Singin’ Peter at the time, had a long talk with Joe one night, an’ the Holy Spirit made use of his words, for Joe broke down an’ gave in. They’re both wi’ your David and Billy now, so you may be sure they won’t throw away the chance they have of speakin’ to ’em.”

“God grant them success!” murmured Mrs Bright, earnestly.

“Amen!” responded the younger woman. “But, Nell, you haven’t told me yet what you think o’ the Miss Seawards.”

“Think? I think that next to Miss Ruth they are the sweetest ladies I ever met,” returned Mrs Bright with enthusiasm. “They are so modest and humble, that when they are putting themselves about to serve you, they almost make you feel that you’re doing them a favour. Don’t you remember only last week when they came to see poor Jake’s boy that was nearly drowned, and insisted on sitting up with him all night—first one and then the other taking her turn till daylight, because Mrs Jake was dead-drunk and not able for anything.”

“Remember it?” exclaimed Maggie, “I should think I does, and the awful way Mrs Jake swore at them afore she rightly understood what was wrong.”

“Well, did you hear what Mrs Jake said in the afternoon of that same day?”

“No—except that she was more civil to ’em, so I was told.”

“Civil! yes, she was more civil indeed. She’d got quite sober by the afternoon, and the neighbours told her how near the boy was to death, and that the doctor said if it hadn’t been for the wise and prompt measures taken by the Miss Seawards before he arrived, he didn’t believe the boy would have lived—when they told her that, she said nothing. When the Miss Seawards came back in the afternoon, they tapped so gently at the door that you would have thought they were beggars who expected a scolding, an’ when Mrs Jake cried out gruffly in her man-like voice, ‘Who’s that?’ they replied as softly as if they had been doing some mischief, ‘May we come in?’ ‘May you come in?’ shouted Mrs Jake, so that you might have heard her half way down the street, as she flung the door wide open, ‘may angels from heaven come in? yes, you may come in!’ an’ with that she seized the younger one round the neck an’ fairly hugged her, for you see Mrs Jake has strong feelin’s, an’ is very fond of her boy, an’ then she went flop down on a chair, threw her apron over her head, and howled. I can call it by no other name.”

“The poor ladies were almost scared, and didn’t seem rightly to know how to take it, and Miss Kate—the younger one you know—had her pretty new summer dress awfully crushed by the squeeze, as well as dirtied, for Mrs Jake had been washin’, besides cleaning up a bit just before they arrived.”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Maggie in great admiration. “I always thought there was a soft spot in Mrs Jake’s heart, if only a body could find it out.”

“My dear,” said Mrs Bright, impressively, “there’s a soft spot I believe in everybody’s heart, though in some hearts it’s pretty well choked up an’ overlaid—”

At that moment a bursting yell from the crib behind the door went straight to the soft spot in Mrs Davidson’s heart, and sank deeply into it.

“That blessed babby!” she cried, leaping up in such haste that her work went into the grate, in which, however, there was happily no fire.

“Oh! my darling! you’re Joe to the back-bone—though you are a girl—all bounce, an’ bang, an’ tenderness!”

Seizing the infant in her strong arms she gave it a hug which ought to have produced another yell, but the little one was tough, besides which, she was used to it, and said nothing. The calm did not last long, however. Little Mag, as she was called, felt that her interior somewhere was somehow in want of something, and took the usual way to publish the fact.

After that, conversation became impossible. A storm had burst upon the friends which increased rapidly, so Mrs Bright rose to say good-bye in the midst of a squall which ought to have blown her through the door-way or out at the window into the street. She was not irritated, however. As she left the house followed by the squall, which was soon moderated to a stiffish breeze by distance, the sound called up reminiscences of little Billy, and she smiled as she thought of the unvarying continuity of human affairs—the gush of infant memories, and the squalls of other days.

Chapter Sixteen.

Temptation on the Deep.

Let us return once more to the North Sea.

It was drawing towards the close of another fishing period, and the crew of the Evening Star were beginning to think of the pleasures of their week on shore when, one afternoon, their vessel found herself becalmed near to the Dutch man-trap—the vessel laden with that greatest of the world’s curses—strong drink.

It is usual, we believe, in ordinary warfare, that, on the eve of a great battle, there should be preparations and indications, more or less obvious, of the coming fight; but it is not always so in spiritual warfare. Sometimes the hardest and most important battles of the Great War are fought on unselected ground, the assault having been delivered unexpectedly and when the soul was off its guard, or, perchance, when it was presuming on fancied security, and relying on its own might instead of the strength of the Lord. So it was at this time with David Bright, skipper of the Evening Star.

Who would have thought, as he sat that day on the rail of his little vessel, calmly looking out to the horizon in anticipation of a good fishing-breeze, that the mighty forces of Good and Evil were mustering unseen for a tremendous conflict, on which, perchance, the angels were permitted to look down with interest, and that the battle-field was to be the soul of that rugged fisherman of the North Sea! He knew not, little dreamed of, what was pending; but the Captain of his salvation knew it all.

There was but one entrance to that battle-field—the gate of man’s Free-will. Through that portal the powers of darkness must enter if they gained admittance at all. Elsewhere the walls were high as heaven, deeper than hell, for, except at this point, the fortress was impregnable.

Yet, although David Bright knew not the power nor the number of the mighty forces that were marshalling, he was not entirely ignorant of the war that was going on. There had been some skirmishing already, in front of the gate, in which he had come off victorious. The demon Habit had assaulted him more than once, and had pressed him sore; for a terrible thirst—such, it is said, as only confirmed drunkards understand—had more than once tormented him. When the first attack was made, the sturdy fisherman stood quietly on his deck with hands in pockets and eyes on the horizon, looking as if nothing were going on, and he smiled grimly as he muttered to himself rather than to the demon: “Lucky for me that I made Billy heave it overboard!”

“Oh! but,” said the demon, “you were a weak fool when you did that. There’s the Coper alongside now; go, get another keg. It is cheap, and you can just take a little drop to relieve that desperate craving. Come, now, be a man, and show that you have powers of self-restraint. You have always boasted of the strength of your will, haven’t you? Show it now.”

“Ay, an’ prove the strength of my will,” replied David, with another grim smile, “by givin’ in to your will. No, devil! I am a fool, but not quite such a fool as that comes to.”

The demon fell back at that and left him.

On the next attack the skipper was worn-out with fatigue and watching. They had had a long spell of dirty weather. Work of the hardest kind—even for a hardy frame—had been done, and there was still work to do, and David’s great physical powers were well-nigh used up. The gear was down, and a stiff nor’-west breeze not only drove the smack over the surging waves, but caused her to plunge into them like a wild horse bridled and held back.

“You can’t hold out much longer at this rate,” whispered the demon. “Take a drop just by way of a medicine to keep you awake and tide you over this bout; and, by good luck, your man Gunter has some grog left in that bottle he got yesterday from the Coper.”

“Billy,” said David, in a quiet voice, without deigning a reply to his foe, “Billy, my lad, you fetch me a pot o’ coffee or tea—whatever’s ready, an’ let it be hot.”

“Yes, father,” said Billy, hastening smartly to obey, for he had a very slight suspicion of the conflict that was raging, though his conceptions were far, far short of the reality.

The demon received a staggering blow that time, and he slunk away scowling when he noted the gleam of satisfaction on the victor’s face as he handed back the empty pot to his son.

Warfare! yes, little do those who are “dead in trespasses and sins,” and those who swim gaily with the current of self-indulgence, know of the ferocious fights, the raging storms, that are going on all round them on battle-grounds which, to all outward appearance, are calm and undisturbed.

But we have said that this was merely skirmishing outside the gate.

It was not till the afternoon referred to at the beginning of this chapter that the grand assault was made.

On that day the skipper of the Evening Star had been subjected to more than ordinary troubles. In the first place, he had brought up a dead man in his net along with the fish—a by no means unknown incident in trawl-fishing experience, for bodies of men who have been washed out of vessels in gales, or drowned in other ways, are sometimes entangled in the gear and brought to the surface. At other times bales and boxes—goods that have been cast away or wrecked—are fished up in this way.

Being in a depressed state of mind, the sight of the dead man made David uncomfortable for a time, but, having thrown the corpse overboard again, he soon forgot it. The next thing that happened was the fishing up of an enormous mass of wreckage, which tore the net almost to pieces, and compelled him to bend on a new one. This was not only a heavy loss of itself, but entailed the loss of the fish that would otherwise have been in the net and poor David Bright, already at zero in his spirits, sank considerably below that point.

But the final disaster was reserved for a later hour. The new net had been shot, and one of the best banks of the fishing-ground had been gone over. The breeze which had carried the fleet along was just beginning to die down when the Admiral made the signal to haul up.

To work they went, therefore—all through the fleet—to hoist in the harvest of the deep.

It was slow and weary work, as well as hard, that hauling in of the great cable with its gear. Between two or three hours they laboured and toiled at it, while the thick veins stood out like cords on the men’s necks, and beads of perspiration trickled down their brows.

“It’s goin’ to be a big haul, father,” said Billy, as the crew stopped for a few moments to rest.

“P’r’aps another lump of wreck,” replied the skipper, somewhat bitterly.

“I hope not,” returned Billy, in a cheery voice, resuming his work of passing the warp down below as it came off the capstan.

At last the end of the bridle came inboard, and the fishermen knew that their toil, for that time at least, was drawing to a close. Excitement of a mild type began to arise in the enthusiastic and hopeful among them.

“Now, boys, heave away,” said Joe Davidson, setting the example.

“It seems unwillin’ to come, don’t it,” growled Gunter.

“Dat’s ’cause him full ob fishes,” said Zulu; “heave away, boys—altogidder!”

He strained with all his might. So did the rest of the crew. Round went the capstan, and in a few minutes the great forty-eight feet beam appeared. This was soon hoisted up by means of tackle, and made fast to the side, and then began the hauling in—we might almost say clawing in—of the net, hand over hand, until the cod-end was visible near the surface. It now became evident that a grand haul had indeed been made, and that it had been the mere weight of the fish that had delayed them so long.

Great was the anxiety of course to secure the prize, and energetic the action displayed. Zulu, being the most active and cat-like, was ordered to pass a rope round the net to which a powerful double block was applied.

“Haul away now, boys,” said the skipper, whose spirits were somewhat revived by the sight.

Soon the great balloon-shaped cod-end with its solid mass of fish rose slowly into the air, and some of the men laid hold to be ready to swing it inboard and deposit it on the deck, when, suddenly, the stout rope that bound the lower end of the bag gave way. The entire mass of fish dropped back into the sea, and sank to the bottom!

For a few seconds dead silence ensued, while the men glanced at the empty cod-end, and at each other. Then a terrible oath burst from John Gunter, and a sort of sigh broke from some of the others, as if words were incapable of expressing their feelings—as, indeed, they were! The skipper was standing by the companion-hatch at the moment with a handspike in his grasp. A deep-toned curse issued from his lips when the fish went down, and he dashed the handspike to the deck with fearful violence.

Once again, at this critical moment, the demon ventured to raise his head.

“The Coper’s close on the port bow!” he whispered; “go, drown it all in grog, man, and be jolly!”

Jolly! How many men have cast away their souls for the sake of what is implied in that little word!

And now, alas! the gate of man’s Free-will was creaking on its hinges. No created power above or below could have moved that gate save the power of David Bright himself.

“Shove out the boat!” shouted the miserable man, with a fierceness of expression and tone that there was no misunderstanding. Poor Billy understood it well enough.

“Oh! no, father! Don’t do it father!” he cried in an entreating voice; but already the little boat was dancing on the waves alongside, with John Gunter in her.

“Jump in, Luke,” said Joe Davidson, hastily, for he was anxious that at least one trusty man should be of the party.

Luke jumped in at once, and was instantly followed by Billy. The painter was cast off, and they pulled towards the floating grog-shop.

The tempter received them with a hearty salute.

“Cheap spirits an’ cheap baccy!” said John Gunter, as he sat on the rail of the Coper drinking the one and smoking the other, “that’s what I likes, an’ plenty of both.”

“That’s so, John,” returned David Bright, who sat beside him, and, having already drained several bumpers of the fiery fluid, had quite got over his troubles. “You an’ I are of the same mind, John; nevertheless you’re a great sulky-faced humbug for all that!”

“What d’ee mean by that?” demanded Gunter, who was becoming rapidly drunk and quarrelsome.

“What do I mean? why, I mean that you’re the best man in the smack, out o’ sight, an’ it’s a rare pity that your mother hasn’t got half-a-dozen more like you. If she had I’d man the Evening Star with your whole family. Here, give us a hold o’ your grapplin’-iron, old man.”

He seized Gunter’s fist as he spoke, and gave it a shake so hearty and powerful, that he almost hurled that lover of cheap grog and baccy overboard.

“Hold on, skipper!” growled the fisherman, who was for a moment uncertain whether to return the friendly grasp or fight; but the fierce, wild, contemptuous laugh with which David Bright concluded the speech decided him.

“Y’you—you’re a jolly good fellow,” he stammered; “here, fill up again.”

The poor skipper filled up again, and again, until his speech began to grow thick and unsteady.

“Yesh,” continued Gunter, doubling his fist and smiting his knee, “I do like sheap grog an’ sheap baccy, an’ the Coper’s the place to get ’em both. Ain’t it?”

He looked up sharply at the owner of the Coper, who stood in front of him, and who of course assented cheerfully to the question.

“Ain’t it?” he repeated still more sharply, turning to Luke Trevor, who sat close to him with a grave, anxious look. “Why don’t you drink?” he added.

“Because I don’t want to,” returned Luke, quietly.

“D–do–don’t want to,” returned Gunter, angrily—for it takes little to make some drunk men angry—“You don’t want to spend your money, you young miser—that’s what you m–mean. An’ yet it’s sheap enough, I’m sure. You’ll not git anything in the fleet so sheap as you will in the Coper.”

“There you are wrong,” returned Luke, decidedly. “You’ll get things cheaper aboard the mission-ship, for they’ll give you physic, an’ books, an good advice, and help as far as they can, all for nothing—which is cheaper than the Coper’s wares.”

“Right you are, Luke. Pitch into him,” cried David Bright who was fast drinking himself into a state of madness.

“Father,” whispered Billy, with an anxious look, “don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

The reply to this was a tremendous cuff on the ear which sent the poor boy staggering backwards, so that he nearly fell. Recovering himself he retired behind the Coper’s boat and tried to crush down the sobs that rose in his throat. He was to some extent successful, but a few tears that could not be restrained hopped over his sunburnt cheeks.

It was not pain, nor even the indignity, that drew forth those tears and choking sobs, but the thought that the father he was so fond of had dealt the blow.

Meanwhile Luke Trevor, who felt that matters had reached a dangerous point, rose and went to the place where the boat’s painter had been tied. David Bright was sitting close to the spot.

“Don’t you think it is time we were going, skipper?” he said, respectfully, as he laid his hand on the rope.

“No, I don’t,” replied the skipper, sharply. “Leave go that rope.”

Luke hesitated. Instantly the enraged skipper leaped up and struck him a blow on the chest which knocked him down. At the same moment, observing that Gunter looked on with a leer of drunken amusement, he transferred his wrath to him, flung the remains of the spirits he had been drinking in the man’s face, and made a rush at him. Fortunately Gunter, who had risen, staggered and fell, so that the skipper missed his aim and tumbled over him. In a moment Gunter had regained his feet and prepared for combat, but his adversary’s head had struck on the side of the vessel, and he lay stunned and helpless on the deck.

Luke, who had recovered almost immediately, now assisted Gunter and Billy to raise the prostrate man. It was not an easy matter to handle one whose frame was so heavy, but with the assistance of the owner of the Coper they managed it.

“It’s only a slight cut,” said Billy, looking anxiously round at Trevor.

“Ay, lad, it ain’t the cut or the blow as keeps him down, but the grog. Come, we must git him aboard sharp. Haul up the boat Gunter, while I stop the leak in his skull.”

With a kerchief, Luke soon bound up the slight wound that the wretched man had received, and then they tried to rouse him, but the effort was in vain. David did indeed recover sufficient intelligence to be able to bellow once or twice for more grog, but he could not be brought to the condition of helping himself in any way.

“What’ll we do, Luke?” asked Billy, in a tone and with a look of deep distress, as the huge form of his father lay, a scarcely animate mass, on the deck at his feet. “We must get him aboard somehow.”

“Never fear, Billy, my boy,” said Luke, cheerfully, “we’ll get him aboard somehow. It’s not the first time I’ve had to do it. Come along, Gunter, lend a hand.”

“Not I!” said Gunter, with a drunken swagger. “I’m not goin’ for an hour or more.”

“Oh yes, you are,” returned Luke, dipping one of the Coper’s buckets over the side and pulling it up full of water.

“No, I ain’t. Who’ll make me?”

“I will,” said Luke, and he sent the contents of the bucket straight into his comrade’s face.

“Hooray!” shouted Billy, convulsed at once with delight and surprise at the suddenness of the act to say nothing of its violence. “Give it ’im, Luke—polish ’im off!”

Luke did not however, take the pugnacious boy’s advice; instead of awaiting the attack of the enraged Gunter, he ran laughing round the capstan and defied him to catch him. Gunter soon found, after bruising his shins and elbows, and stumbling over ropes, etcetera, that the effort was hopeless, and gave it up.

“But I’ll pay you off w’en I gits a hold of ’ee, Luke. You make sure o’ that,” he growled as he gave up the chase.

“All right, Gunter; I’ll give you a chance to-morrow, lad, if you’ll only bear a hand wi’ the skipper just now.”

Without another word Gunter, who was somewhat sobered by the cold bath, went to where the skipper lay, and attempted to raise him. Being joined by the others the skipper was rolled to the side of the vessel, and then lifted in a half-sitting position on to the rail, where he was held in the grasp of Gunter and the Coper’s skipper, while Luke and Billy, jumping into the boat, hauled it close under the spot.

There was what Billy called a “nasty jobble of a sea on,” so that many difficulties met in the job they had in hand. These may be best stated by the actors themselves.

“Now then, boy, haul up a bit—ever so little, there; too much; ease off a bit. Hold on!”

“All right Luke, but she pitches about so, that a feller can’t hit the exact spot.”

“Look out now, Gunter,” said Luke; “let ’im go so as he’ll come plump into my arms. Not too soon, else you’ll stand a chance o’ sendin’ us both through the bottom of the boat.”

“No, nor yet too late,” cried the anxious Billy, “else he’ll go flop into the sea!”

It was nervous work, for if he should go flop into the sea he would have been certain to go down like a stone.

One or two attempts were made. The boat, rising up from a hollow in the sea to a height of several feet, surged close to where the men with their drunken burden stood.

“Look out!” cried Luke, with arms extended and ten fingers in a claw-like position.

“Now then,” growled Gunter.

But the treacherous wave fell short, and David Bright was on the point of being dropt into the sea when his friends’ fingers clawed him back to safety.

“Better make fast a rope to him,” suggested Billy, in breathless anxiety.

The skipper of the Coper acted on the advice at once, and made the end of a rope fast round Bright’s waist.

Again the boat rose, surged seaward, then swooped towards the Coper, against which it would have been dashed but for the strong arms of Luke. It rose so high that the drunk man was for a moment on a level with the gunwale. It was too good a chance to be missed.

“Shove!” roared Gunter.

Over went the skipper into the arms of Luke, who lost his balance, and both rolled into the bottom of the boat as it sank into the succeeding hollow.

The danger being past, poor Billy signalised the event, and at the same time relieved his feelings, with a lusty cheer.

In a very short time Joe Davidson steered the Evening Star close to their tossing boat. Billy stood ready with the painter, and the instant the sides touched, he was over the rail like a monkey and made fast.

The taking of the drunk man out of the boat was by no means so difficult as getting him into it had been. Joe, Luke, Spivin, and Zulu, as well as Billy, leaned over the side of the smack, with their ten arms extended and their fifty fingers curled like crabs’ claws or grappling-irons, ready to hook on and hold on. David Bright’s extended and helpless form was held in position by Gunter. When it came within reach the fifty fingers closed; the boat surged away, and David was safe, though still held in suspense over the deep.

But that was only for a moment. A good heave placed him on the vessel’s rail, and another laid him on the deck.

“Brought on board his own smack like a dead pig!” muttered Gunter, whose anger at the skipper rekindled when he saw him once more in safety.

“He’s fifty times better than you, even as he lies, you surly old grampus,” cried Billy, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.

“Come, Billy,” said Joe Davidson, kindly, “lend a hand, boy, to carry him below. It’s a sad break-down, but remember—he’s not past redemption. Come.”

Four of the fishermen raised the skipper in their strong arms, and conveyed him to his own bunk, where they left him to sleep off the effects of his debauch.

Chapter Seventeen.

Converse in the Cabin—The Tempter again—An Accident.

One night, some days after the incident just recorded, the Evening Star shot her gear, in obedience to orders, on the port hand, and proceeded, with the rest of the fleet, to give a pressing invitation to those fish which inhabited that particular shoal in the North Sea known to fishermen by the name of Skimlico. The name, when properly spelt, runs thus: Schiermonik-oog. But our fishermen, with a happy disregard of orthography, and, perhaps, with an eye to that brevity which is said to be the soul of wit, prefer to call it Skimlico.

When the gear was down the men retired to their little cabin to refresh themselves with a meal and a pipe.

The skipper, who had recovered neither his spirits nor his self-respect since his recent fall, preferred to remain on deck. Billy, who had never lost either, joined the revellers below—with all the more satisfaction that Evan, the rescued mate of the Sparrow, was with them.

“Out o’ the road, Zulu,” cried Ned Spivin, pushing the cook aside, and sitting down close to the fire, “I’ll have a bit o’ fish.”

He stuck on the end of his knife a piece of sole, out of which the life had barely departed, and held it up before the fire to roast.

“Hand me a mug o’ tea, an’ a biscuit, Zulu,” said Joe Davidson; “fill it up, boy. I like good measure.”

“Are them taters ready?” asked Luke Trevor. “An’ the plum-duff? You haven’t got any for us to-day, have ’ee?”

“Shut up!” cried Zulu. “How many hands you tink I’ve got?”

“Eight at the very least,” said Spivin, “an’ I can prove it.”

“How you do dat?” asked Zulu, opening up his great eyes.

“Easy. Hold out your paws. Isn’t that one hand?” (pointing to his left.)

“Yes.”

“An’ doesn’t that make two hands?” (pointing to his right.)

“Yes.”

“Well, ain’t one hand and two hands equal to three hands, you booby? an’ don’t you know that monkeys have hands instead o’ feet? So as you’re a monkey, that’s six hands. And haven’t you a handsome face, an’ a handsome figgur, which is eight, you grampus! Come, use one o’ your many hands an’ pass the biscuits.”

“Sartinly!” said Zulu, at once kicking a small bit of biscuit which Spivin still held in his hand to the other end of the cabin, where it fell into the lap of Trevor, who thanked Zulu kindly, and ate it up.

“Oh! forgib me, massa,” cried Zulu, in mock repentance. “I’s nebber nebber do it again! But you know you ax me to use one o’ my hands to pass de biskit. Well, I ’bey orders. I use ’im, an’ pass de biskit on to Luke.”

“Come, Ned, Zulu’s more than a match for you there. Let him alone,” cried Joe Davidson, “and don’t be so stingy with your sugar, Zulu. Here, fill up again.”

The conversation at this point became what is sometimes styled general, but was interrupted now and then, as one and another of the men dropped into the anecdotal tone, and thus secured undivided attention for a longer or shorter space according to his powers in story-telling.

“What a appetite you’ve got, Luke,” said Joe, as he helped his comrade to a second large plateful of salt beef, potatoes, and duff.

“Hold on, Joe! I’ve a pretty fair appetite, but am not quite up to that.”

“Nonsense, Luke, you’ve only got to try. A man has no notion what ’e can do till ’e tries.”

“Ah, that’s true,” said Ned Spivin, checking a lump of salt beef on the end of his clasp-knife half way to his mouth; “did I ever tell ’ee, lads, that little hanecdote about a man we called Glutton, he was such an awful eater?”

“No, never heard on it,” said several voices.

“Well, then, this is ’ow it was,” said Spivin, clearing his voice. “You must know, I was once in Callyforny, where all the goold comes from. Me an’ most o’ my mates had runned away from our ship to the diggin’s, you see, which of course none on us would have thought of doin’—oh dear no—if it hadn’t bin that the skipper runned away too; so it was no use for us to stop behind, d’ee see? Well, we was diggin’ one day, in a place where there was a lot o’ red Injins—not steam engines, you know, but the sort o’ niggers what lives out there. One o’ them Injins was named Glutton—he was such an awful eater—and one o’ my mates, whose name was Samson, bet a bag o’ goold-dust, that he’d make the glutton eat till he bu’sted. I’m afeard that Samson was groggy at the time. Howiver, we took him up, an’ invited Glutton to a feast next day. He was a great thin savage, over six futt high, with plenty breadth of beam about the shoulders, and a mouth that seemed made a’ purpus for shovellin’ wittles into. We laid in lots of grub because we was all more or less given to feedin’—an’ some of us not bad hands at it. Before we began the feast Samson, who seemed to be repentin’ of his bet, took us a-one side an’ says, ‘Now mind,’ says he, ‘I can’t say exactly how he’ll bu’st, or when he’ll bu’st, or what sort of a bu’st he’ll make of it.’ ‘Oh, never mind that,’ says we, laughin’. ‘We won’t be par-tickler how he does it. If he bu’sts at all, in any fashion, we’ll be satisfied, and admit that you’ve won.’

“Well, we went to work, an’ the way that Injin went in for grub was quite awful. You wouldn’t have believed it if you’d seen it.”

“P’r’aps not,” said Zulu, with a grin.

“An’ when we’d all finished we sat glarin’ at him, some of us half believin’ that he’d really go off, but he took no notice. On he went until he’d finished a small leg o’ pork, two wild-ducks, six plover, eight mugs o’ tea, an’ fifteen hard-boiled eggs. But there was no sign o’ bu’stin’. Glutton was as slim to look at as before he began. At this pint Samson got up an’ went out o’ the hut. In a minute or so he came back with a bark basket quite shallow, but about fourteen inches square, an’ full of all kinds of eggs—for the wild-birds was breedin’ at the time. ‘What’s that for?’ says we. ‘For Glutton, when he’s ready for ’em,’ says he. ‘There’s six dozen here, an’ if that don’t do it, I’ve got another basket ready outside.’ With that he sets the basket down in front o’ the Injin, who just gave a glance at it over a goose drumstick he was tearin’ away at. Well, Samson turned round to sit down in his place again, when somethin’ or other caught hold of his foot tripped him up, an’ down he sat squash! into the basket of eggs. You niver did see sich a mess! There was sich a lot, an’ Samson was so heavy, that the yolks squirted up all round him, an’ a lot of it went slap into some of our faces. For one moment we sat glarin’, we was so took by surprise, and Glutton was so tickled that he gave a great roar of laughter, an’ swayed himself from side to side, an’ fore an’ aft like a Dutchman in a cross sea. Of course we joined him. We couldn’t help it, but we was brought up in the middle by Samson sayin’, while he scraped himself, ‘Well, boys, I’ve won.’ ‘Won!’ says I, ‘how so? He ain’t bu’sted yet.’ ‘Hasn’t he?’ cried Samson. ‘Hasn’t he gone on eatin’ till he bu’sted out larfin?’ We was real mad at ’im, for a’ course that wasn’t the kind o’ bu’stin we meant; and the end of it was, that we spent the most o’ that night disputin’ the pint whether Samson had lost or won. We continued the dispute every night for a month, an’ sometimes had a free fight over it by way of a change, but I don’t think it was ever settled. Leastways it wasn’t up to the time when I left the country.”

“Here, Zulu, hand me a mug o’ tea,” said Billy Bright; “the biggest one you’ve got.”

“What’s make you turn so greedy?” asked Zulu.

“It’s not greed,” returned Billy, “but Ned’s little story is so hard an’ tough, that I can’t get it down dry.”

“I should think not. It would take the Glutton himself to swallow it with a bucket of tea to wash it down,” said Luke Trevor.

At this point the conversation was interrupted by an order from the skipper to go on deck and “jibe” the smack, an operation which it would be difficult, as well as unprofitable, to explain to landsmen. When it was completed the men returned to the little cabin, where conversation was resumed.

“Who’ll spin us a yarn now, something more believable than the last?” asked Billy, as they began to refill pipes.

“Do it yourself, boy,” said Joe.

“Not I. Never was a good hand at it,” returned Billy, “but I know that the mate o’ the Sparrow there can spin a good yarn. Come, Evan, tell us about that dead man what came up to point out his own murderer.”

“I’m not sure,” said Evan, “that the story is a true one, though there’s truth at the bottom of it, for we all know well enough that we sometimes pick up a corpse in our nets.”

“Know it!” exclaimed Joe, “I should think we do. Why, it’s not so long ago that I picked one up myself. But what were ye goin’ to say, mate?”

“I was goin’ to say that this yarn tells of what happened long before you an’ me was born; so we can’t be wery sure on it you know.”

“Why not?” interrupted Ned Spivin. “The battle o’ Trafalgar happened long before you an’ me was born; so did the battle o’ Waterloo, yet we’re sure enough about them, ain’t we?”

“Right you are, Ned,” returned Evan; “it would be a bad look-out for the world if we couldn’t believe or prove the truth of things that happened before we was born!”

“Come, shut up your argiments,” growled Gunter, “an’ let Evan go on wi’ his yarn.”

“Well, as I was a-goin’ to say,” resumed Evan, “the story may or may not be true, but it’s possible, an’ it was told to me when I was a boy by the old fisherman as said he saw the dead man his-self. One stormy night the fleet was out—for you must know the fishin’ was carried on in the old days in the same way pretty much, though they hadn’t steamers to help ’em like we has now. They was goin’ along close-hauled, with a heavy sea on, not far, it must have been, from the Silver Pits—though they wasn’t discovered at that time.”

We may interrupt Evan here, to explain that the Silver Pits is a name given to a particular part of the North Sea which is frequented by immense numbers of soles. The man who by chance discovered the spot kept his secret, it is said, long enough to enable him to make a considerable amount of money. It was observed, however, that he was in the habit of falling behind the fleet frequently, and turning up with splendid hauls of “prime” fish. This led to the discovery of his haunt, and the spot named the Silver Pits, is still a prolific fishing-ground.

“Well,” continued Evan, “there was a sort of half furriner aboard. He wasn’t a reg’lar fisherman—never served his apprenticeship to it, you know,—an’ was named Zola. The skipper, whose name was John Dewks, couldn’t abide him, an’ they often used to quarrel, specially when they was in liquor. There was nobody on deck that night except the skipper and Zola, but my old friend—Dawson was his name—was in his bunk lyin’ wide awake. He heard that Zola an’ the skipper was disputin’ about somethin’, but couldn’t make out what was said—only he know’d they was both very angry. At last he heard the skipper say sharply—‘Ha! would you dare?’

“‘Yes, I vill dare,’ cries Zola, in his broken English, ‘I vill cut your throat.’ With that there seemed to be a kind of scuffle. Then there was a loud cry, and Dawson with the other men rushed on deck.

“‘Oh!’ cried Zola, lookin’ wild, ‘de skipper! him fall into de sea! Quick, out wid de boat!’

“Some ran to the boat but the mate stopped ’em. ‘It’s no use, boys. She couldn’t live in such a sea, an’ our poor skipper is fathoms down by this time. It would only sacrifice more lives to try.’ ‘This was true,’ Dawson said, ‘for the night was as dark as pitch, an’ a heavy sea on.’

“Dawson went to the man an’ whispered in his ear. ‘You know you are lying, Zola; you cut the skipper’s throat.’

“‘No, I didn’t; he felled overboard,’ answered the man in such an earnest tone that Dawson’s opinion was shook. But next day when they was at breakfast, he noticed that the point of Zola’s clasp-knife was broken off.

“‘Hallo! Zola,’ says he, ‘what’s broke the point of your knife?’

“The man was much confused, but replied quickly enough that he broke it when cleaning fish—it had dropped on the deck an’ broke.

“This brought back all Dawson’s suspicion, but as he could prove nothing he thought it best to hold his tongue. That afternoon, however, it fell calm, an’ they found themselves close aboard of one of the smacks which had sailed astern of them on the port quarter durin’ the night. She appeared to be signallin’, so the mate hove-to till he came up.

“‘We’ve got the body o’ your skipper aboard,’ they said, when near enough to hail.

“Dawson looked at Zola. His lips were compressed, and he was very stern, but said nothin’. Nobody spoke except the mate, who told them to shove out the boat and fetch the body. This was done, and it was found that the poor man had been wounded in the breast. ‘Murdered!’ the men whispered, as they looked at Zola.

“‘Why you looks at me so?’ he says, fiercely; ‘skipper falls over an’ sink; git among wrecks at de bottom, an’ a nail scratch him.’

“Nobody answered, but when the corpse was put down in the hold the mate examined it and found the broken point of Zola’s knife stickin’ in the breast-bone.

“That night at supper, while they were all eatin’ an’ talkin’ in low tones, the mate said in an easy off-hand tone, ‘Hand me your knife, Zola, for a moment.’ Now, his askin’ that was so natural-like that the man at once did what he was asked, though next moment he saw the mistake. His greatest mistake, however, was that he did not fling the knife away when he found it was broken; but they do say that ‘murder will out.’ The mate at once fitted the point to the broken knife. Zola leaped up and tried to snatch another knife from one o’ the men, but they was too quick for him. He was seized, and his hands tied, and they were leadin’ him along the deck to put him in the hold when he burst from them and jumped overboard. They hove-to at once, an’ out with the boat, but never saw Zola again; he must have gone down like a stone.”

“That was a terrible end,” said Joe, “and him all unprepared to die.”

“True, Joe, but are we all prepared to die?” rejoined Evan, looking around, earnestly. “It is said that there’s a day comin’ when the sea shall give up all its dead, and the secrets of men, whatever they are, shall be revealed.”

From this point Evan, whose earnest spirit was always hungering after the souls of men, led the conversation to religious subjects, and got his audience into a serious, attentive state of mind.

We have said that David Bright had remained that light on deck, but he did not on that account lose all that went on in the little cabin. He heard indeed the light conversation and chaff of the earlier part of the night but paid no heed to it. When, however, Evan began the foregoing anecdote, his attention was aroused, and as the speaker sat close to the foot of the companion every word he uttered was audible on deck.

At the time, our fallen skipper was giving way to despair. He had been so thoroughly determined to give up drink; had been so confident of the power of his really strong will, and had begun the struggle so well and also continued for a time so successfully, that this fall had quite overwhelmed him. It was such a thorough fall, too, accompanied by such violence to his poor boy and to one of his best men, that he had no heart for another effort. And once again the demon tempter came to him, as he stood alone there, and helpless on the deserted deck. A faint gleam of light, shooting up the companion, illuminated his pale but stern features which had an unusual expression on them, but no eye was there to look upon those features, save the all-searching Eye of God.

“It was soon over with him!” he muttered, as he listened to Evan telling of Zola’s leap into the sea. “An’ a good riddance to myself as well as to the world it would be if I followed his example. I could drop quietly over, an’ they’d never find it out till—but—”

“Come, don’t hesitate,” whispered the demon. “I thought you were a man once, but now you seem to be a coward after all!”

It was at this critical point that Evan, the mate of the Sparrow, all ignorant of the eager listener overhead, began to urge repentance on his unbelieving comrades, and pointed to the Crucified One—showing that no sinner was beyond hope, that Peter had denied his Master with oaths and curses, and that even the thief on the cross had life enough left for a saving look.

“We have nothing to do, lads, only to submit,” he said, earnestly.

“Nothing to do!” thought David Bright in surprise, not unmingled with contempt as he thought of the terrible fight he had gone through before his fall.

“Nothing to do!” exclaimed John Gunter in the cabin, echoing, as it were, the skipper’s thought, with much of his surprise and much more of his contempt. “Why, mate, I thought that you religious folk felt bound to pray, an’ sing, an’ preach, an’ work!”

“No, lad—no—not for salvation,” returned Evan; “we have only to accept salvation—to cease from refusing it and scorning it. After we have got it from and in Jesus, we will pray, and sing, and work, ay, an’ preach too, if we can, for the love of the Master who ‘loved us and gave Himself for us.’”

Light began to break in on the dark mind of David Bright, as he listened to these words, and earnestly did he ponder them, long after the speaker and the rest of the crew had turned in.

Daylight began to flow softly over the sea, like a mellow influence from the better land, when the net was hauled.

Soon the light intensified and showed the rest of the fleet floating around in all directions, and busily engaged in the same work—two of the nearest vessels being the mission smack and that of Singing Peter. Ere long the fish were cleaned, packed, put on board the steamer and off to market. By that time a dead calm prevailed, compelling the fishermen to “take things easy.”

“Billy,” said David Bright, “fetch me that bit of wood and a hatchet.”

Billy obeyed.

“Now then, let’s see how well you’ll cut that down to the size o’ this trunk—to fit on where that bit has bin tore off.”

The skipper was seated on a pile of boxes; he flung his left hand with a careless swing on the fish-box on which Billy was about to cut the piece of wood, and pointed to the trunk which needed repair. Billy raised the axe and brought it down with the precision and vigour peculiar to him. Instead of slicing off a lamp of wood, however, the hatchet struck a hard knot, glanced off, and came down on his father’s open palm, into which it cut deeply.

“Oh! father,” exclaimed the poor boy, dropping the axe and standing as if petrified with horror as the blood spouted from the gaping wound, flowed over the fish-box, and bespattered the deck.

He could say no more.

“Shove out the boat, boys,” said the skipper promptly, as he shut up the wounded hand and bound it tightly in that position with his pocket-handkerchief to stop the bleeding.

Joe Davidson, who had seen the accident, and at once understood what was wanted, sprang to the boat at the same moment with Luke and Spivin. A good heave, at the tackle; a hearty shove with strong shoulders, and the stern was over the rail. Another shove and it was in the sea.

“Lucky we are so close to her,” said Joe, as he jumped into the boat followed by Luke and Gunter.

“Lucky indeed,” responded Luke.

Somehow David Bright managed to roll or jump or scramble into his boat as smartly with one hand as with two. It is a rare school out there on the North Sea for the practice of free-hand gymnastics!

“Bear away for the mission smack, Joe.”

No need to give Joe that order. Ere the words had well passed the skipper’s lips he and Luke Trevor were bending their powerful backs, and, with little Billy at the steering oar, the boat of the Evening Star went bounding over the waves towards the fisherman’s floating refuge for wounded bodies and souls.

Chapter Eighteen.

A Day of Calm followed by a Night of Storm.

A fine-toned manly voice was heard, as the boat approached the mission smack, singing one of the popular hymns which are now pretty well-known throughout the fishing fleets.

“No mistaking that voice,” said David Bright turning an amused look on Billy; “Singin’ Peter won’t knock off till he’s under the sod or under the sea.”

“Then he’ll never knock off at all,” returned Billy, “for Luke there has bin tellin’ me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that will never end when we git into the next world.”

“That depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down.”

“Well, I s’pose it does. But tell me, daddy, ain’t the hand very bad? I’m so awful sorry, you know.”

“It might ha’ bin worse, Billy, but don’t you take on so, my boy. We’ll be all right an’ ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow, on board the mission-ship.”

The hand was not however, so easily fixed up as David Bright seemed to expect.

“Come down an’ let’s have a look at it, David,” said the skipper, when the vessel’s deck was gained.

By that time Singing Peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of the Evening Star.

“It’s a bad cut,” said Peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man’s palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. “We’ll have to try a little o’ the surgeon’s business here. You can take a stitch in human flesh I daresay, skipper? If you can’t, I’ll try.”

The mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. He sponged the wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness—whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell—drew the edges of the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper’s fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around him.

“A regular boxin’-glove,” exclaimed David, hitting the operator a gentle tap on the nose with it.

“Thank ’ee, friend,” said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; “you know that the Fishermen’s Mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does it expect to receive a rap without asking. Come, David, you mustn’t flourish it about like that. We all know you’re a plucky fellow, but it’ll never splice properly if you go on so.”

“Hold on, Mr Missionary!” cried Gunter, as the lid of the chest was being closed, “don’t shut up yet. I wants some o’ your doctor’s stuff.”

“All right my hearty! What do you want?”

“He wants a pair o’ eye-glasses,” cried Billy, whose heart was comforted, and whose spirits were raised by the success of the operation on his father’s hand; “you see he’s so short-sighted that he can’t see no good in nobody but his-self.”

“Shut up, you young catfish! See here,” said Gunter, stretching out his wrists, which were red and much swollen.

“Oh! I can give you something for that;” so saying the skipper supplied the fisherman with a little ointment, and then, going to a cupboard, produced a pair of worsted cuffs. “You rub ’em well with that first,” he said, “an’ then wear the cuffs.”

“He’ll want more cuffs than that,” said Billy.

“I think not my boy,” said the skipper, with a benignant look, as he stooped to lock the chest. “When these are worn-out he can have more.”

“Well, if you’d take my advice,” returned Billy, “you’d give him another pair. A cuff on each side of his head would do him a world of good.”

Gunter turned sharply to make a grasp at his young tormentor, but the lad had taken care to have the cabin table between them, and at once sprang laughing up the companion.

“He’s a smart boy, that,” remarked the mission skipper.

“Rather too smart,” growled Gunter, as he pocketed his salve and cuffs, and went on deck.

“Smart enough!” remarked David Bright with a low chuckle of satisfaction.

“Come now,” said the Missionary, “you’ll stop and have some coffee or cocoa with us. You can’t work wi’ that hand, you know. Besides, there’ll be no fishin’ till this calm’s over. So we mean to have a little meetin’ in the afternoon. We’re in luck too, just now,” he added in a lower voice, “for we’ve got a real parson aboard. That’s him talkin’ to my mate. He’s here on a visit—partly for his health, I believe—a regular clergyman of the Church of England and a splendid preacher, let me tell you. You’ll stop, now, won’t you?”

David Bright’s countenance grew sad. The memory of his recent failure and fall came over him.

“What’s the use o’ me attendin’ your meetin’s?” he said, almost angrily; “my soul’s past recovery, for I don’t believe in your prayin’ an’ psalm-singin’.”

“You trusted me freely wi’ your hand, David, though I’m no surgeon. Why won’t you trust me a little wi’ your soul, though I’m no parson—especially as it seems to be in a very bad way by your own account? Have a talk wi’ the parson. He’s got such a way with him that he’s sure to do you good.”

It was not so much the words thus spoken as the grave, kind, sensible tones and looks which accompanied them, that won the despairing fisherman.

“Well, I’ll stop,” he said, with a short laugh; “the cocoa may do me good, even though the meetin’ don’t.”

“Now you’re becoming soft and unmanly—a regular old wife,” whispered the demon, who had watched him anxiously throughout the whole morning.

“The boat’s alongside, father,” Billy called out, at that moment down the open skylight.

“That’s right,” replied the father in a strong hearty voice. “You go aboard wi’ the rest, my boy, an’ come back in the arternoon when you see ’em hoist the mission-flag. I’m goin’ to stop aboard, an we’ll all attend the meetin’ together. An’ look you, Billy, fetch my Noo Testament with ’ee—the one your mother gave me.”

“Praise the Lord for these words!” said the mission skipper.

He did not say it very loud, for he was not by nature a demonstrative man; neither did he whisper it, for he was not ashamed to thank his God for mercies received.

At the same moment the demon fled away for that time—according to the true word, “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.”

David Bright did not talk much that afternoon. His injured hand gave him considerable pain, but it was not that which silenced him. Thoughts too deep for utterance were passing through his brain. It was the turning-point of his life; and, while his mind was busy with the great issues that must be faced sooner or later by all mankind, he listened with mingled surprise, hope, fear, and pleasure, to the free and hearty converse of the godly crew of the gospel-ship, as they discoursed pleasantly, now of the homes in Yarmouth or Gorleston, now of the home above; or sang, with stentorian voices, some of the lively hymns that are happily current in the present day, or prayed in the ungrammatical language, and with the intense fervour, of untutored but thoroughly earnest men.

They thought that David was suffering from his injury, and wisely let him alone, though they occasionally gave him a cheering word, and frequently plied him with hot cocoa, which he preferred much, he said, to coffee.

This may seem to some a rather incongruous way of presenting religious and secular things. It may be so, but we are not careful to preserve congruity, or to dilute our dish to please the palate of the fastidious. This world is full of incongruities, and we are endeavouring to present that portion of it now under consideration as it actually is at the present time.

The heartiest, the most genial, and perhaps the noisiest fisherman there that day was the man whom we have referred to more than once as Singing Peter. It seemed as if he were intoxicated with joy, and could not refrain from bursting into song in praise of Redeeming Love. But Peter was by no means exclusive in his ideas. He could descend to the simple matters of this life when needful. Like David Bright he was a temporary visitor to the mission-ship, and waited for the afternoon meeting. Peter possessed:

“A heart at leisure from itself,

To soothe and sympathise,”

and found time to have a private talk with David, whom he drew out so tenderly, yet powerfully, that he wormed from him the whole story of his spiritual as well as spirituous warfare. He even got him down into the cabin alone, and, when there, proposed that they should pray together. To this David at once agreed, and the good man prayed with such simple fervour that David found himself ere long weeping like a child. That the prayer of Singing Peter was in harmony with his spirit was evident from the deep “Amen!” which he uttered at its conclusion.

“Many a time, Peter,” he said, grasping his friend’s hand, as they rose from their knees, “many a time has my face bin washed wi’ salt water from the sea, but it’s not often bin dabbled wi’ salt water from my eyes!”

In the afternoon the weather became unusually sultry, and as the calm continued, many of the fishing-smacks closed by imperceptible degrees around the mission-ship, whose flag flying at the mizzen told that the worship of God was soon to begin. Several of the other smacks also flew Bethel-flags. These belonged to the whole-hearted ones who had fairly and boldly come out on the Lord’s side. Others drew near, although they did not fly the flag. Some of these belonged to the half-hearted, who wanted medicines or books, and were rather indifferent about the meeting, though willing enough, perhaps, to remain to it.

One way or another there was soon a long tail of boats floating astern of the gospel-ship, and a goodly congregation on her deck. Her skipper was very busy. Books were being actively exchanged. One or two men wanted to sign the pledge. Salves, and plasters, and pills, were slightly in demand, for even North Sea fishermen, tough though they be, are subject to physical disturbance.

At last the hour arrived, and the heavy-booted, rough-jacketed, sou’-westered, burly congregation adjourned to the hold, where, appropriately seated on fish-trunks, they opened their hymn-books and began to sing.

They had a harmonium—provided, of course, by the Mission—and it chanced that the mission skipper had music enough in him to play a simple accompaniment on it, but the strong-lunged congregation drowned it out in the first five minutes.

Then the invalid clergyman stood up and prayed, and read a chapter of God’s Word, after which he preached—ay, preached in a way that drew tears from some, and hearty exclamations of thankfulness from others. It was not the power of rhetoric or of eloquence though he possessed both, so much as that mighty power which consists in being thoroughly and intensely earnest in what one says, and in using a natural, conversational tone.

There were more signings of the temperance pledge after the service, and one or two whose minds had been wavering before, now came forward and offered to purchase Bethel-flags. Others wanted to purchase Testaments, prayer-books, and gospel compasses—the latter being the invention of an ingenious Christian. It consisted of a mariner’s compass drawn on card-board, with appropriate texts of God’s Word printed on the various “points.” The same ingenious gentleman has more recently constructed a spiritual chart so to speak, on which are presented to the eye the various shoals, and quicksands, and rocks of sin, and danger, and temptation, that beset the Christian pilgrim, as well as the streams, rivers, and channels, that conduct him from the regions of Darkness into the realms of Light.

All this took up so much time that it was getting dark when our fishermen began to go over the side, and proceed to their several vessels.

Soon after that the aspect of nature entirely changed. The sultry calm gave place to a fast increasing breeze, which raised white crests on the darkening waves.

“A dirty night we’re going to have of it,” remarked David Bright to Singing Peter, as he got into his tossing boat with some difficulty.

“It’s all in the Master’s hands,” replied Peter, looking up with a glad expression on his weatherworn face. With these words he left the mission smack and returned to his own vessel.

The fishermen of the North Sea had cause to remember that night, for one of the worst gales of the season burst upon them. Fishing was impossible. It was all that they could do to weather the gale. Sails were split and torn, rigging was damaged, and spars were sprung or carried away. The wind howled as if millions of wicked spirits were yelling in the blast. The sea rose in wild commotion, tossing the little smacks as if they had been corks, and causing the straining timbers to groan and creak. Many a deck was washed that night from stem to stern, and when grey morning broke cold and dreary over the foaming sea, not a few flags, half-mast high, told that some souls had gone to their account. Disaster had also befallen many of the smacks. While some were greatly damaged, a few were lost entirely with all their crews.

Singing Peter’s vessel was among the lost. The brightening day revealed the fact that the well-known craft had disappeared. It had sunk with all hands, and the genial fisherman’s strong and tuneful voice had ceased for ever to reverberate over the North Sea in order that it might for ever raise a louder and still more tuneful strain of deep-toned happiness among the harmonies of heaven.

Chapter Nineteen.

Ruth finds that everything seems to go against her.

Anxiously did Ruth Dotropy await the return of Captain Bream to Yarmouth, and patiently did she refrain, in the meantime, from questioning Mrs Bright as to her history before marriage, for that good woman’s objection to be so questioned was quite sufficient to check her sensitive spirit. But poor Ruth’s enthusiastic hopes were doomed to disappointment at that time, for, only a few days after the captain’s departure, she received a letter from him, part of which ran as follows:—

“DEAR MISS RUTH,—I am exceedingly sorry and almost ashamed, to be obliged to say that I am unable to return to Yarmouth for some weeks at least. The fact is that I have for a long time been engaged in a piece of business—a sort of search—which has caused me much anxiety and frequent disappointment. My lawyer, however, now thinks he has hit on the right clue, so that I have good hope of being successful. In the meantime will you do your best to comfort the Miss Seawards in my absence, and explain to them that nothing but necessity could make me leave them in the lurch in this fashion,” etcetera.

“How very provoking!” exclaimed Ruth, with a pretty little frown on her innocent face after reading the letter to her stately mother.

“Why provoking, dear?” asked Mrs Dotropy. “Surely we can enjoy the fine air of Yarmouth without Captain Bream, and although the dear Miss Seawards are very fond of him, they will not pine or lose their health because of his absence for a short time. Besides, have they not that wonderful theological library to divert them?”

“Yes, mother—it’s not that, but I was so anxious to find out—”

She stopped short.

“Find out what, child?”

“Well now, mother, I can not keep it from you any longer. I will tell you my little secret if you promise not to reveal it to any living soul.”

“How absurd you are, Ruth! Do you suppose that I shall go about the streets proclaiming your secret, whatever it is, to Tom, Dick, and Harry, even if it were worth telling, much less when it is probably not worth remembering? Of course I might let it slip, you know, by accident and when a thing slips there is no possibility of recovery, as I said once to your dear father that time when he slipped off the end of the pier into the water and had to be fished up by the waist-band of his trousers with grappling-irons, I think they called them—at all events they were very dangerous-looking things, and I’ve often argued with him—though I hate argument—that they might have gone into his body and killed him, yet he would insist that, being blunt, the thing was out of the question, though, as I carefully explained to him, the question had nothing to do with it—but it is useless arguing with you, Ruth—I mean, it was useless arguing with your father, dear man, for although he was as good as gold, he had a very confused mind, you know. What was it we were talking about?—oh yes!—your secret. Well, what is it?”

With a flushed face and eager look, Ruth said, “Mother, I cannot help being convinced that Mrs Bright the fisherman’s wife, is no other than Captain Bream’s lost sister!”

“If you cannot help being convinced, child, it is of no use my attempting to reason with you. But why think of such nonsense? If she is what you suppose, she must have been a Miss Bream before marriage.”

“So she was!” exclaimed Ruth, with a look of triumph. I have found that out—only I fear that is not proof positive, because, you know, although not a common name, Bream is by no means singular.

“Well, but she would have been a lady—or—or would have had different manners if she had been Captain Bream’s sister,” objected Mrs Dotropy.

“That does not follow,” said Ruth, quickly. “The captain may have risen from the ranks; we cannot tell; besides, Mrs Bright is very refined, both in manner and speech, compared with those around her. I was on the point one day of asking if she had a brother, when she seemed to draw up and cut the matter short; so I have had to fall back on my original plan of trying to bring the two face to face, which would at once settle the question, for of course they’d know each other.”

“Dear child, why make such a mystery about it?” said Mrs Dotropy; “why not tell the captain of your suspicion, and ask him to go and see the woman?”

“Because it would be so cruel to raise his expectations, mother, and then perhaps find that I was wrong. It would disappoint him so terribly. But this reference to a ‘search’ in his letter makes me feel almost sure he is searching for this lost sister.”

“Foolish child! It is a wild fancy of your romantic brain. Who ever heard,” said the mother, “of a lawyer being employed to search for a sister? Depend upon it, this captain is in search of some deed,—a lost will, or a—an old parchment or a document of some sort, perhaps referring to a mismanaged property, or estate, or fortune, for things of that kind are often seen in the newspapers; though how the newspapers come to find out about them all is more than I can understand. I’ve often wondered at it. Ah! your dear father used to say in his facetious way that he was “lost in the Times,” when he wanted to be let alone. I don’t mean advertised for as lost, of course, though he might have been, for I have seen him lose his head frequently; indeed I have been almost forced to the conclusion more than once that the Times had a good deal to do with your father’s mental confusion; it told such awful lies sometimes, and then a month or two afterwards would flatly contradict them all by telling the truth—at least it was probably the truth since it was the opposite of the lies; but it’s of no use talking, I always find that. What were you saying, child?”

“Well, mother, I was going to say,” answered Ruth, with a sigh, “that I must just have patience and be content to wait.”

“Now you talk like the dear, good, sensible little thing that you are,” said Mrs Dotropy, rising; “run, put on your hat and I’ll walk with you by the sea, or go visit the fisher-folk if you like—or the Miss Seawards.”

In this amiable frame of mind the mother and daughter set off to the shore.

Ruth’s patience was indeed tried more severely than she had anticipated, for, whatever the search was in which Captain Bream had engaged, it compelled him to remain in town much longer than he had intended.

Meanwhile the Evening Star returned to port, and David Bright, with Billy, Joe, and the rest of the crew, went to enjoy themselves in their various ways during their brief holiday.

Mrs Bright chanced to be spending the afternoon with Mrs Joe Davidson and her wonderful “babby” when the skipper and mate walked in upon them. There were two little shrieks of joy; then the two wives were enfolded, and for a few seconds lost to view, in the stupendous embrace of the two fishermen, while the babby was, for the moment, absolutely forgotten! But she took care not to be forgotten long. On recovering from her first surprise she gave utterance to a howl worthy of a seaman’s daughter. Joe immediately seized her in his arms, and half smothered her in a fond embrace, to which, apparently, she did not object.

Meanwhile little Billy stood looking on approvingly, with his hands in his pockets and his booted legs wide apart.

“I wonder when somebody’s a-goin’ to pay some sort of attention to me,” he said after a minute or two.

“Why, Billy, I didn’t see ye,” cried Mrs Joe, holding out her hand; “how are ye, puss in boots?”

“If it was any other female but yourself, Maggie, as said that, I’d scorn to notice you,” returned Billy, half indignant.

“My darling boy!” cried Mrs Bright, turning to her son and enfolding him in her arms.

“Ah! that’s the way to do it,” responded Billy, submitting to the embrace. “You’re the old ooman as knows how to give a feller a good hearty squeeze. But don’t come it too strong, mother, else you’ll put me all out o’ shape. See, daddy’s a-goin’ to show his-self off.”

This last remark had reference to a small bundle which David Bright was hastily untying.

“See here, Nell,” he said, with a strange mixture of eagerness and modesty, “I’ve joined ’em at last old girl. Look at that.”

He unrolled a M.D.S.F. flag, which he had purchased from the skipper of the mission smack.

“An’ I’ve signed the pledge too, lass.”

“Oh! David,” she exclaimed, grasping her husband’s right hand in both of hers. But her heart was too full for more.

“Yes, Nell, I’ve had grace given me to hoist the Lord’s colours in the Short Blue, an’ it was your little book as done it. I’d ha’ bin lost by now, if it hadn’t bin for the blessed Word of God.”

Again Nell essayed to speak, but the words refused to come. She laid her head on her husband’s shoulder and wept for joy.

We have said that David Bright was not by nature given to the melting mood, but his eyes grew dim and his voice faltered at this point and it is not improbable that there would have been a regular break-down, if Joe’s blessed babby had not suddenly come to the rescue in the nick of time with one of her unexpected howls. As temporary neglect was the cause of her complaint it was of course easily cured. When quiet had been restored Mrs Bright turned to her son—“Now, Billy, my boy, I must send you off immediately.”

“But what if I won’t go off—like a bad sky-rocket?” said the boy with a doubtful expression on his face.

“But you’ll have to go—and you’ll be willing enough, too, when I tell you that it’s to see Miss Ruth Dotropy you are going.”

“What!—the angel?”

“Yes, she’s here just now, and wants to see you very much, and made me promise to send you to her the moment you came home. So, off you go! She lives with her mother in the old place, you know.”

“All right, I know. Farewell, mother.”

In a few minutes Billy was out of sight and hearing—which last implies a considerable distance, for Billy’s whistle was peculiarly loud and shrill. He fortunately had not to undergo the operation of being “cleaned” for this visit, having already subjected himself to that process just before getting into port. The only portions of costume which he might have changed with propriety on reaching shore were his long boots, but he was so fond of these that he meant to stick to them, he said, through thick and thin, and had cleaned them up for the occasion.

At the moment he turned into the street where his friends and admirers dwelt, Ruth chanced to be at the window, while the Miss Seawards, then on a visit to her mother, were seated in the room.

“Oh! the darling!” exclaimed Ruth, with something almost like a little shriek of delight.

“Which darling—you’ve got so many?” asked her mother.

“Oh! Billy Bright, the sweet innocent—look at him; quick!”

Thus adjured the sisters ran laughing to the window, but the stately mother sat still.

“D’you mean the boy with the boots on?” asked Jessie, who was short-sighted.

“Yes, yes, that’s him!”

“If you had said the boots with the boy in them, Jessie,” observed Kate, “you would have been nearer the mark!”

In a few minutes, Billy, fully alive to his importance in the ladies’ eyes, sat gravely in the midst of them answering rapid questions.

“You’ve not had tea, Billy, I hope,” said Ruth, rising and ringing the bell.

“No, miss, I haven’t, an’ if I had, I’m always game for two teas.”

Soon Billy was engaged with bread, butter, cakes, and jam, besides other luxuries, some of which he had never even dreamed of before.

“What an excellent appetite you have!” said Jessie Seaward, scarcely able to restrain her admiration.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Billy, accepting another bun with much satisfaction, “we usually does pretty well in the Short Blue in that way, though we don’t have sich grub as this to tickle our gums with. You see, we has a lot o’ fresh air out on the North Sea, an’ it’s pretty strong air too—specially when it blows ’ard. W’y, I’ve seed it blow that ’ard that it was fit to tear the masts out of us; an’ once it throw’d us right over on our beam-ends.”

“On what ends, boy?” asked Mrs Dotropy, who was beginning to feel interested in the self-sufficient little fisherman.

“Our beam-ends, ma’am. The beams as lie across under the deck, so that w’en we gits upon their ends, you know, we’re pretty well flat on the water.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Jessie; “but when that happens how can you walk the deck?”

“We can’t walk the deck, ma’am. We has to scramble along the best way we can, holdin’ on by hands and teeth and eyelids. Thank ’ee, miss, but I really do think I’d better not try to eat any more. I feels chock-full already, an’ it might be dangerous. There’s severe laws now against overloadin’, you know.”

“No such laws in this house, Billy,” said Ruth, with a laugh. “But now, if you have quite done, I should like to put a few questions to you.”

“Fire away, then, Miss,” said the boy, looking exceedingly grave and wise.

“Well, Billy,” began Ruth, with an eager look, “I want to know something about your dear mother.”

She hesitated at this point as if uncertain how to begin, and the boy sought to encourage her with—“Wery good, Miss, I knows all about her. What d’ee want to ax me?”

“I want to ask,” said Ruth, slowly, “if you know what your mother’s name was before she was married?”

Ruth did not as the reader knows, require to ask this question, but she put it as a sort of feeler to ascertain how far Billy might be inclined to assist her.

“Well, now, that is a stumper!” exclaimed the boy, smiting his little thigh. “I didn’t know as she had a name afore she was married. Leastwise I never thought of it or heerd on it, not havin’ bin acquainted with her at that time.”

With a short laugh Ruth said, “Well, never mind; but perhaps you can tell me, Billy, if your mother ever had a brother connected with the sea—a sailor, I mean.”

“Stumped again!” exclaimed the boy; “who’d have thought I was so ignorant about my own mother? If she ever had sich a brother, he must have bin drownded, for I never heerd tell of ’im.”

“Then you never heard either your father or mother mention any other name than Bright—I mean in connection with yourselves?” said Ruth in a disappointed tone.

“Never, Miss, as I can reck’lect on. I would willin’ly say yes, to please you, but I’d raither not tell no lies.”

“That’s right my good boy,” said Mrs Dotropy, with a stately but approving nod, “for you know where all liars go to.”

“Yes, ma’am, an’ I knows where liars don’t go to,” returned Billy, looking up with pious resignation, whereat the Miss Seawards and Ruth burst into a laugh.

It must not be supposed that Billy meant to be profane, but he had taken a dislike to Mrs Dotropy, and did not choose to be patronised by her.

As poor Ruth found that it was useless to pursue her investigations in this direction further, she changed the subject to the North Sea fishery, with the details of which her little friend was of course quite conversant. Then she proposed to accompany Billy home.

“I want to make the acquaintance of your father,” she said.

“Ah! he’s a true blue now, he is,” said Billy.

“Was your father not always a true blue?” asked Ruth, as they went along the street together.

“Well, it ain’t right for me to say ought agin my father—but—he’s true blue now, anyhow.”

And Ruth found that the reformed drunkard was indeed “true blue,” and very glad to see her; nevertheless she obtained no information from him on the subject she was so anxious about—not because he was uncommunicative, but because Ruth, being very timid, had not courage to open her lips upon it.

The shades of evening were beginning to descend when she rose to leave. Both father and son offered to escort her home, but she declined the offer with many thanks, and went off alone.

Chapter Twenty.

Details Two Robberies and an Awful Situation.

The attainment of Felicity is said to be the aim of all mankind. In order to this end, men in all ages have voluntarily submitted themselves to prolonged infelicity. They have toiled in daily pain and sorrow throughout a long life to attain at last, if possible, to the coveted condition. Some have pursued it in eager intensity, dancing and singing as they went. Others have rushed after it in mad determination, cursing and grumbling as they ran. Many have sought it in rapt contemplation of the Sublime and Beautiful. Thousands have grubbed and grovelled for it in the gratification or the drowning of the senses, while not a few have sought and found it in simple, loving submission to their Maker’s will, as made known by Conscience and Revelation.

Of all the varied methods, John Gunter, the fisherman, preferred the grub-and-grovelling method, and the favourite scene of his grovelling was a low grog-shop in one of the lower parts of Yarmouth.

It must be said, at this point, that Gunter was not considered by his mates as a regular out-and-out fisherman. He had never served his apprenticeship, but, being a powerful and sufficiently active seaman, was tolerated among them.

It is said that adversity makes strange bed-fellows. It is not less true that strong drink makes strange companions. Gunter’s shipmates having had more than enough of him on the sea were only too glad to get clear of him when on land. He therefore found himself obliged to look out for new companionships, for it is certain that man yearns after sympathy of some sort, and is not, under ordinary circumstances, content to be alone.

The new friends he sought were not difficult to find. In one of the darkest corners of the public-house referred to he found them—an accidental, group—consisting of an ex-clerk, an ex-parson, and a burglar, not “ex” as yet! They had met for the first time, yet, though widely separated as regards their training in life, they had found the sympathetic level of drink in that dingy corner. Of course, it need hardly be said that the first two had swung far out of their proper orbits before coming into harmonious contact with the last. Of course, also, no one of the three desired that his antecedents should be known. There was not much chance, indeed, that the former occupations of the clerk or the parson would be guessed at, for every scrap of respectability had long ago been washed out of them by drink, and their greasy coats, battered hats, dirty and ragged linen, were, if possible, lower in the scale of disreputability than the rough garments of the burglar.

The subject of their conversation was suitable to all ages and countries, to all kinds and conditions of men, for it was politics! A fine, healthy, flexible subject, so utterly incomprehensible to fuddled brains that it could be distended, contracted, inflated, elongated, and twisted to suit any circumstances or states of mind. And such grand scope too, for difference, or agreement of opinion.

Oh! it was pitiful to see the idiotic expressions of these fallen men as they sat bound together by a mutual thirst which each abhorred, yet loved, and which none could shake off. And there was something outrageously absurd too—yes, it is of no use attempting to shirk the fact—something intolerably funny in some of the gestures and tones with which they discussed the affairs of the nation.

“Hail fellow well met,” was the generous tendency of Gunter’s soul when ashore. Accosting the three in gruff off-hand tones with some such sentiment, he sat down beside them.

“Same to you, pal,” said the burglar, with a sinister glance at the new-comer from under his heavy brows.

“How do? ol’ salt!” exclaimed the clerk, who was by far the most tipsy of the three. “Come ’ere. We’ll make you r’free—umpire—to shettle zish d’shpute. Queshn is, whether it’s the dooty of the poor to help the rish—no, zhat’s not it. W–w’ether it’s dooty of rish to help the poor—what’s it—by sharin’ all they have with ’em or—”

“That’s not the question at all,” cried Gunter, gruffly—“the question is, what’ll you have to drink!”

“Bravo!” exclaimed the parson, “that is the question!”

“You’re a trump!” said the burglar.

“Well,” exclaimed the clerk, with a tremendous assumption of winking-dignity, “ishn’t zhat zactly what I was goin’ to shay, if you’d on’y listen. ‘What’ll you ’ave to drink!’ jus’ so. Now, if you want to argue it out properly, you’ll—”

He was checked and almost floored by a tremendous though facetious slap on the back from Gunter, who said that they wouldn’t argue it out; that they would drink it out first and argue it out afterwards.

In pursuance of this plan he called the landlord, and, ordering spirits and water, treated the assembled company all round—including a few bloated and wretched women, some of whom carried children in their arms.

Whatever of the ludicrous might have struck an observer of the scene, while listening to the above conversation, it would have been all put to flight by the sight of these poor women, and perchance by the thought that they had been brought up to that life; had never known better, and would never have a chance of knowing better, unless some exceptional rays of heavenly light should penetrate the dark region in which they lived. Praise be to God! such rays do visit such haunts at times, and brands are often plucked from the fire, but with these we have nothing to do at present. Our object just now is to trace the course of John Gunter.

You may be sure that one who spent his money so freely, and at the same time drank heavily, was not likely to escape the special attention of his new friend, the burglar. That worthy, besides being an expert in the heavier branches of his art, was not unacquainted with its lighter work. He watched the fisherman narrowly, observed in which pocket he kept his money, waited until he was sufficiently drunk for his purpose, and then picked his pockets at an engrossing moment, when the clerk was unfolding a perfect scheme of national reform to the parson, who, with eyes shut, and supposed to be listening intently, was in reality fast asleep.

His object accomplished, the burglar said he would go out, and have a look at the weather, which he did, and having quietly hidden his spoils he returned to report the weather “all right,” and to make quite sure that he had left nothing whatever in any of Gunter’s pockets. Having satisfied himself on this point he was about to retire to take a final look at the weather when Gunter said—“Hold on, mate; ’ave another glass.”

He felt in his pocket for the wherewith to pay for the drink, and missed his money. He was by no means as drunk as he appeared to be, and at once suspected his comrade.

“You’ve stole my blunt!” he shouted, without a moment’s hesitation.

“You’re a liar,” returned the burglar, promptly. Gunter was fierce by nature. He made no rejoinder, but struck a blow at the other which would have felled him had it taken effect. The burglar, however, was a pugilist. He evaded the blow, and returned it with such force that the fisherman staggered, but recovered himself, and grappled with his adversary.

In a moment all was uproar and confusion; benches were upset, spittoons kicked about, and pipes smashed, as the two powerful men swayed about, and tried fiercely to strangle each other. The women rushed screaming from the place; the landlord and his assistants interfered, but it was not until the police were called in that the combatants were separated. Then there occurred a violent scene of explanation, allegation, recrimination, and retort, during which the guardians of the peace attempted to throw oil on the troubled waters, for it is always their aim, we believe, to quiet down drunken uproars when possible rather than to take up the rioters.

As the burglar, with an injured, innocent look, denied the charge made against him, and turned all his pockets inside out in proof of his veracity, Gunter was fain to content himself with the supposition that he had lost his money in some incomprehensible manner.

In a very sulky mood he flung out of the public-house and sauntered away. He knew not where to go, for he had no friends in Yarmouth—at least none who would have welcomed him—and he had not wherewith to pay for a bed, even in the poorest lodging.

As he walked along, conscience began to smite him, but he was in no mood to listen to conscience. He silenced it, and at the same time called himself, with an oath, a big fool. There is no question that he was right, yet he would have denied the fact and fought any one else who should have ventured so to address him.

The evening was beginning to grow dark as he turned down one of the narrow and lonely rows.

Now, it so happened that this was one of the rows through which Ruth Dotropy had to pass on her way home.

Ruth was not naturally timid, but when she suddenly beheld a half-drunken man coming towards her, and observed that no one else was near, something like a flutter of anxiety agitated her breast. At the same moment something like a sledge-hammer blow smote the concave side of John Gunter’s bosom.

“She’s got more than she needs,” he growled between his teeth, “an’ I’ve got nothin’!”

As his conscience had been silenced this was a sufficient argument for John.

“I’ll thank you for a shillin’, Miss,” he said, confronting the now frightened girl after a hasty glance round.

“Oh! yes, yes—willingly,” gasped poor Ruth, fumbling in her pocket for her purse. The purse, however, chanced to have been left at home. “Oh, how provoking! I have not my purse with me, but if these few pence will—”

“Never mind the pence, Miss,” said Gunter,—accepting the pence; however, as he spoke—“that nice little watch will do jist as well.”

He snatched the watch which hung at Ruth’s waist-belt, snapped the slender guard that held it, and made off.

When sufficiently out of danger of pursuit, he paused under a lamp to examine his prize. To his intense disgust he found that the little watch, instead of being a gold one, as he had expected, was only a silver one, of comparatively little value.

“Well, your first haul in this line ain’t worth much,” he grumbled. “Hows’ever, I’ve got coppers enough for a night’s lodgin’ an’ grub.”

Saying which he pocketed the watch, and went on his way.

Meanwhile Ruth, having given vent to a sob of relief when the man left her, ran towards home as fast as she could, never pausing till she reached the Miss Seawards’ door, which chanced to be a little nearer than her own. Against this she plunged with wonderful violence for one so gentle and tender, and then hammered it with her knuckles in a way that would have done credit to a lightweight prize-fighter.

The door was opened hastily by Liffie Lee, who, being a much lighter weight than her assailant, went down before her rush.

“Lawk! Miss Ruth,” she exclaimed, on recovering her feet, “w’at’s a-’appened?”

But she asked the question of the empty air, for Ruth was already half sobbing, half laughing on the sofa, with a highly agitated sister on either side trying to calm her.

“Oh! what a little donkey I am,” she exclaimed, flinging off her bonnet and attempting to laugh.

“What has happened?” gasped Jessie.

“Do tell us, dear,” cried Kate.

“I—I’ve been robbed, by a—dreadful man—so awfully gruff, a sailor I think, and—oh!” Ruth became suddenly much calmer. “It did not occur to me till this moment—it is the watch—papa’s little silver watch that Captain Bream brought him as a sort of curiosity from abroad long ago. Oh! I am so sorry! It was such a favourite with dear papa, and he told me to take such care of it when he gave it to me, for there was a romantic little history connected with it.”

“What was it, dear?” asked Jessie, glad to find that the sudden diversion of her thoughts to the lost watch had done more to calm Ruth than all their demonstrative comfort.

Ruth at once proceeded to relate the story of the watch, but we will not inflict it on the reader, as it has no particular bearing on our tale. It had something to do, however, with detaining Ruth far later than she had intended to remain, so that she jumped up hastily at last, saying she must really go home.

“Are you sure the robber was a sailor?” asked Kate; “sailors are such dear nice men that I can hardly believe it.”

“I’m almost quite sure,” returned Ruth; “at all events he was dressed like one—and, oh! he was so gruff!”

From this point Ruth diverged into further and more minute details of the robbery, over which the three gloated with a species of fascination which is more frequently associated with ghost stories than true tales. Indeed we may say that four gloated over it, for Liffie Lee, unable to restrain her curiosity, put her head in at the door—at first with the more or less honest intention of asking if “hany think was wanted,” and afterwards let her head remain from sheer inability to withdraw it.

At one point in the thrilling narrative she became intensely excited, and when Ruth tried in sepulchral tones to imitate John Gunter’s gruff voice, she exclaimed, “Oh! lawks!” in such a gasp that the three ladies leaped up with three shrieks like three conscience-smitten kittens caught in a guilty act! Liffie was rebuked, but from pity, or perhaps sympathy, was allowed to remain to hear the end.

When that point was reached, it was found to be so late that the streets were almost deserted, and the particular part in which their lodging stood was dreadfully silent.

“How am I ever to get home?” asked Ruth.

“It is not more than twenty doors off,” said Kate, “and Liffie will go with you.”

“Lawks, ma’am,” said Liffie, “what could the likes o’ me do if we was attacked? An’ then—I should ’ave to return alone!”

“That is true,” said the tender-hearted Jessie; “what is to be done? Our landlady goes to bed early. It would never do to rouse her—and then, she may perhaps be as great a coward as we are. Oh! if there was only a man in the house. Even a boy would do.”

“Ah! I jist think ’e would,” said Liffie. “If little Billy was ’ere, I wouldn’t ax for no man.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Kate with a bright look of decision, “we’ll all go together. Get on your bonnet, Jessie.”

There was no resisting Kate when once she had made up her mind. She put on her own bonnet, and her sister quickly returned ready, “with a heart,” as Byron says, “for any fate?”

“Now don’t speak, any of you,” whispered Kate. “If we are attacked, let us give a united shriek. That will raise some one to our aid.”

“I should think it would, ma’am. It would a’most raise the dead,” said Liffie, who also prepared herself for the ordeal.

Dark and deserted streets at late hours, with dangerous characters known to be abroad, have terrors to some small extent, even for the averagely brave; what must they have, then, for those tender ones of the weaker sex whose spirits are gentle, perhaps timid, and whose nerves have been highly strung by much converse on subjects relating to violence?

The first shock experienced by our quartette was caused by the door. From some inscrutable impulse Liffie Lee had locked it after Ruth had rushed in.

“Open it gently,” whispered Jessie, for the party had now got to the condition of feeling very much as if they were themselves burglars, engaged in some unholy enterprise, and feared to arouse sleepers. But they need not have feared, for their landlady was one of the “seven sleepers” of Yarmouth.

Liffie exerted her little strength with caution, but the lock was stiff; it would not move. She screwed up her mouth, and put-to more strength; still it would not move. Screwing up her eyebrows as well as her mouth, she tried again. It would not budge. She even screwed up her nose in a stupendous effort, but all in vain. If there had been no need for caution, the thing would have been easy, but Jessie kept whispering, “Softly, Liffie, softly!” and Ruth echoed “Softly!” At last Liffie screwed herself up entirely, body and soul, in one supreme effort; she agonised with the key. It yielded, and the bolt flew back with a crack like a pistol-shot.

“Oh!” burst in four different keys—not door-keys—from the party—under their breath however.

“Open,” whispered Jessie.

Liffie obeyed, and when the half-opened door revealed intense darkness outside, a feeling of horror caused their very flesh to creep.

“How I wish I hadn’t stayed! I’ll never do it again!” whispered poor Ruth in the tones of a child about to be punished.

“What’s that!” exclaimed Jessie, with a start that caused Ruth almost to shriek.

“Cats!” said Liffie Lee.

“Impossible!” said Kate.

But it was not impossible, for there, in a corner not far off, were dimly seen two intensely black objects, with backs and tails arranged on the moorish-arch principle, and a species of low thunder issuing from them, suggestive of dynamite in the stomach.

Relieved to find it was nothing worse, the party emerged into the street. The cats were too much enraged and engaged with each other to observe them. They, like the ladies, were evidently cowards, for they continued to threaten without attacking.

Liffie was left on guard with strict injunctions to stand inside, hold tight to the door-handle, let in the returning sisters, and then slam the door in the face of all the world beside.

A run was now made for the Dotropy residence. We could not call it a rush, for the three ladies were too light and elegant in form to proceed in such a manner. They tripped it—if we may say so—on light fantastic toe, though with something of unseemly haste. Ruth being young and active reached the door first, and, as before, went with a rebounding bang against it. The anxious Mrs Dotropy had been for some time on the watch. She opened the door.

“Ruth!”

“Mamma!”

“Your daughter!” exclaimed the Miss Seawards in needless explanation, as they pushed her in, and then, turning round, fled homeward with so much noise that the attention of a night watchman was naturally attracted. The sisters heard his approaching foot-falls. They put on, in sporting language, a spurt. Just as the door was reached the two cats, becoming suddenly brave, filled the night-air with yells as of infants in agony. An irrepressible shriek burst from the sisters as they tripped over each other into the passage, and the faithful Liffie slammed the door in the face of the discomfited policeman.

It was a crucial test of friendship, and the Miss Seawards came to the conclusion that night, before retiring to rest, that nothing on earth would ever induce them to do it again.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Hopeful Club Discovered.

When Captain Bream, as before mentioned, was obliged to hurry off to London, and forsake the Miss Seawards, as well as his theological studies, he hastened to that portion of the city where merchants and brokers, and money-lenders, and men of the law do love to congregate.

Turning down Cheapside the captain sought for one of the many labyrinths of narrow streets and lanes that blush unseen in that busy part of the Great Hive.

“Only a penny, sir, only a penny.”

The speaker was an ill-conditioned man, and the object offered for sale was a climbing monkey of easily deranged mechanism.

“Do you suppose,” said the captain, who, being full of anxious thought was for the moment irascible, “do you suppose that I am a baby?”

“Oh! dear no, sir. From appearances I should say you’ve bin weaned some little time—only a penny, sir. A nice little gift for the missus, sir, if you ain’t got no child’n.”

“Can you direct me,” said the captain with a bland look—for his tempers were short-lived—“to Brockley Court?”

“First to the left, sir, second to the right, straight on an’ ask again—only a penny, sir, climbs like all alive, sir.”

Dropping a penny into the man’s hand with a hope that it might help the monkeys to climb, Captain Bream turned into the labyrinth, and soon after found himself in a dark little room which was surrounded by piles of japanned tin boxes, and littered with bundles of documents, betokening the daily haunt of a man-of-law.

The lawyer himself—a bland man with a rugged head, a Roman nose and a sharp eye—sat on a hard-bottomed chair in front of a square desk. Why should business men, by the way, subject themselves to voluntary martyrdom by using polished seats of hard-wood? Is it with a view to doing penance for the sins of the class to which they belong?

“Have you found her, Mr Saker?” asked Captain Bream, eagerly, on entering.

“No, not got quite so far as that yet—pray sit down; but we have reason to believe that we have got a clue—a slight one, indeed, but then, the information we have to go upon in our profession is frequently very slight—very slight indeed.”

“True, too true,” assented the captain. “I sometimes wonder how, with so little to work on at times, you ever begin to go about an investigation.”

The lawyer smiled modestly in acknowledgment of the implied compliment.

“We do, indeed, proceed on our investigations occasionally with exceeding little information to go upon, but then, my dear sir, investigation may be said to be a branch of our profession for which we are in a manner specially trained. Let me see, now.”

He took up a paper, and, opening it, began to read with a running commentary:—

“Fair hair, slightly grey; delicate features, complexion rather pale, brown eyes, gentle manners.”

“That’s her—that’s her!” from the captain.

“Age apparently a little over thirty. You said, I think, that your sister was—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the captain in some excitement, “she was considerably younger than me, poor girl!”

“Let me, however, caution you, my dear sir, not to be too sanguine,” said the man-of-law, looking over his spectacles at his client; “you have no idea how deceptive descriptions are. People are so prone to receive them according to their desires rather than according to fact.”

“Well, but,” returned the captain, with some asperity, “you tell me that this woman has fair hair slightly grey, delicate features, pale complexion, brown eyes, and gentle manners, all of which are facts!”

“True, my dear sir, but they are facts applicable to many women,” replied the solicitor. “Still, I confess I have some hope that we have hit upon the right scent at last. If you could only have given us the name of her husband, our difficulty would have been comparatively slight. I suppose you have no means of hunting that up now. No distant relative or—”

“No, none whatever. All my relations are dead. She lived with an old aunt at the time, who died soon after the poor girl’s foolish elopement, leaving no reference to the matter behind her. It is now fifteen years since then. I was away on a long voyage at the time. On my return, the old lady, as I have said, was dead, and her neighbours knew nothing except that my sister was reported to have run away with a seafaring man. Some who had seen him about the place said he seemed to be beneath her in station but none knew his name.”

“Is it not strange,” asked the solicitor, “that she has never in all these years made inquiries about you at the mercantile house which employed you?”

“Well, not so strange as it would seem, for my sister’s memory for names was a bad one. She used constantly to forget the name of the ship I commanded, and, as far as I can remember, did not trouble herself about the owners. I have no doubt she must have made many efforts to discover me—unless she was ashamed of having made a low match. At all events,” added the captain, with a weary sigh, “I have never ceased to make inquiries about her, although I have not until now made the attempt through a lawyer. But where is this person you have heard of to be found?”

“On board of an emigrant ship,” said the solicitor.

“Where bound for?” demanded the captain in peat surprise.

“For Australia, and she sails the day after to-morrow, I am told.”

“Her name!” cried the captain, starting up.

“Calm yourself, my dear sir. I have made all needful arrangements for your going off to-morrow. It is too late to-day. Sit down and let me explain; and, above all, bear in mind that this may turn out to be a wrong scent after all. Of course you may surmise that we lawyers obtain our information from many and various sources. The source whence the information concerning your matter has come is peculiar, namely, a lay-missionary who is going to visit the ship to-morrow—having some friends on board. Happening to meet the man the other day, I mentioned your matter to him. He is a very sharp-witted man, and one whose accuracy of observation I should trust implicitly, even if his own interests were involved. Well, he said that on board of the steam-ship Talisman, now lying off Gravesend, he saw that very day a woman among the steerage emigrants who answered to my description exactly, and added that he had heard her spoken of as the wife of a somewhat dissipated man, who had all the appearance of a seafaring person, named Richards. Of course I attach no importance to the name, as you say you never knew it, but his being a sailor-like man, and the fact that he was probably beneath his wife in station, coupled with the correct description of the wife, while it does not justify our being too sanguine, raises our hopes, you see—”

“I see, I see—yes. I beg that you will give me the agent’s name and address,” cried the captain, whose hopes, despite the guarded and cautious statements of the solicitor, had been raised to the highest point.

“Here is his name, with the part of the river where you are to meet him,” said the calm man of law, handing his client a slip of paper; “but let me, my dear sir, impress on you the advisability of not allowing yourself to become too sanguine. Disappointments are invariably more severe in cases where expectations have been too high; and I fear that you may be already building too trustfully upon the very slender foundation supplied by this information.”

Admitting the force of this truism, and putting the slip of paper in his purse, Captain Bream bade his solicitor good-bye, with many protestations of undying gratitude, and left the room with the highest possible hopes of success.

Chapter Twenty Two.

In the Mission Boat on the Thames—The Damping of the Body cannot damp the Ardent Spirit.

Next morning Captain Bream accompanied the lay-missionary to Gravesend, where they took a boat and put off to the emigrant ship.

Great was the captain’s satisfaction to find that his companion had been a sailor, and could talk to him—in nautical language too—about seafaring matters and distant climes.

“It is a good work in which you are engaged,” he said; “are you going to preach to ’em?”

“No, only to distribute Testaments, tracts, and good books—though I may preach if I get the chance. My work lies chiefly among emigrants and boat and barge men, but I also do a good deal among regular sailors.”

“Ah! That’s the work that I’m fond of,” said the captain, with enthusiasm. “Of course I don’t mean to say that the soul of a sailor is of more value than that of any other man, but I lean to sailors naturally, havin’ been among ’em the greater part of my life. I’ve done a little myself in the way of preachin’ to ’em.”

“Have you?” exclaimed the missionary, with a pleased look.

And from this point the two men went off into a confidential and animated talk about their varied experiences on the sea of spiritual work on which they had both been launched, while the boatman—an old and evidently sympathetic man—pulled them to the vessel which lay at some distance from the place of embarkation.

While the two friends—for such they had become by that time—were chatting thus with each other, a little accident was in store for Captain Bream, which not only disarranged his plans, but afterwards considerably affected his career.

Having reached the age of sixty years, our captain was not quite as active in body as he had once been. He was, however, quite as active in heart and mind, besides having much of the fire of youth still burning in him. Hence he was apt at times to forget his body in the impulsive buoyancy of his spirit. An instance of this forgetfulness occurred that day. The missionary paid a passing visit to a vessel on their way to the emigrant ship. Having run alongside, Captain Bream put his foot on the first step of the ladder, with intent to mount the vessel’s side.

“Have a care, sir,” said the old boatman, who was assisting him with some anxiety.

It may be that the captain’s too youthful spirit spurned assistance, or that he had miscalculated the powers of his too ancient body, for at the moment his foot slipped while as yet his hold of the man-ropes was not secure, and he fell with a lion-like roar that might have shamed the stoutest king of the African forests.

It was not a cry of fear, still less was it a shout for help. It seemed rather like an effervescing roar of indignant surprise.

The boatman held up his arms to catch the unfortunate man, but his strength availed nothing against such a weight. He was hurled into the bottom of the boat for his pains, and the captain went into the water feet first as deep as the waist. Here, however, the disaster was checked, for his strong arms caught the boat and held on.

The missionary, meanwhile, sprang forward and laid hold of him, while his man rose with wonderful agility and lent his aid.

“Heave—ahoy!” cried the missionary, grasping a waist-band.

“Yo, heave, ho!” shouted the boatman, seizing a leg. Another moment and the captain was safe in the bottom of the boat, which by that time was floating quietly down the Thames!

Great was the regret expressed by the missionary at this unfortunate event, and loud was the laughter with which it was treated by the captain himself, on being re-seated in the stern sheets.

“We must go ashore and get a change of dry clothes for you, sir.”

“Not a bit of it,” cried the captain. “Row back to the ship; I’ll mount that ladder yet. If I didn’t I’d keep dreaming of my discomfiture for a twelve-month to come.” They ran alongside the vessel a second time, and went up the side in safety.

But, arrived on deck, the skipper, who happened to be a hospitable man and friendly to the missionary, insisted on having Captain Bream down into his cabin.

“Now you’ll put on a suit of my clothes,” he said, “till your own are dry.”

The captain would not hear of it.

“Just let me wring my own out,” he said, “and I’ll be all right.”

“Have a glass of wine then, or brandy?”

“Impossible; thank’ee, I’m an abstainer.”

“But you need it to prevent catching cold, you know. Take it as physic.”

“Physic!” exclaimed the captain. “I never took physic in my life, and I won’t begin wi’ the nasty stuff now. Thank’ee all the same.”

“Some coffee, then? I’ve got it all ready.”

“Ay—that’s better—if you’re sure you’ve got it handy.”

While the captain and the skipper were discussing the coffee, the wet garments were sent to the galley and partially dried. Meanwhile the missionary made the most of his opportunity among the men. By the time he had finished his visit, the captain’s nether garments were partially dried, so they continued their voyage to the emigrant ship. When they reached her the poor captain’s interest in other people’s affairs had begun to fail, for his anxiety about his long-lost sister increased, as the probability of finding her at last became greater.

Chapter Twenty Three.

How Captain Bream fared in his Search, and what came of it.

The finding of an individual in a large emigrant ship may not inaptly be compared to the finding of a needle in a haystack. Foreseeing the difficulty, the missionary asked Captain Bream how he proposed to set about it.

“You say that you do not know the married name of your sister?” he said, as they drew near to the towering sides of the great vessel.

“No; I do not.”

“And you have not seen her for many years?”

“Not for many years.”

“Nevertheless, you are quite sure that you will recognise her when you do see her?”

“Ay, as sure as I am that I’d know my own face in a lookin’-glass, for she had points about her that I’m quite sure time could never alter.”

“You are involved in a great difficulty, I fear,” continued his friend, “for, in the first place, the time at your disposal is not long; you cannot ask for the number of her berth, not having her name, and there is little probability of your being able to see every individual in a vessel like this while they keep moving about on deck and below.”

The captain admitted that the difficulties were great and his countenance grew longer, for, being as we have said a remarkably sympathetic man, the emotions of his heart were quickly telegraphed to his features.

“It strikes me,” continued the missionary, in a comforting tone, “that your best chance of success will be to enter my service for the occasion, and go about with me distributing New Testaments and tracts. You will thus, as it were, have a reason for going actively about looking into people’s faces, and even into their berths. Excuse me for asking—what do you think of doing if you find your sister, for the vessel starts in a few hours?”

“Oh, I’ll get her—and—and her husband to give up the voyage and return ashore with me. I’m well enough off to make it worth their while.”

The missionary did not appear to think the plan very hopeful, but as they ran alongside at the moment them was no time for reply.

It was indeed a bewildering scene to which they were introduced on reaching the deck. The confusion of parting friends; of pushing porters with trunks and boxes; perplexed individuals searching for lost luggage; distracted creatures looking for lost relatives; calm yet energetic officers in merchant-service uniform moving about giving directions; active seamen pushing through the crowds in obedience to orders; children of all sizes playing and getting in people’s way; infants of many kinds yelling hideously or uttering squalls of final despair. There was pathos and comicality too, intermingled. Behold, on one side, an urchin sitting astonished—up to his armpits in a bandbox through which he has just crashed—and an irate parent trying to drag him out; while, on your other side, stands a grief-stricken mother trying to say farewell to a son whose hollow cheeks, glittering eyes, and short cough give little hope of a meeting again on this side the grave. Above all the din, as if to render things more maddening, the tug alongside keeps up intermittent shrieks of its steam-whistle, for the first bell has rung to warn those who are not passengers to prepare for quitting the steamer. Soon the second bell rings, and the bustle increases while in the excitement of partings the last farewells culminate.

“We don’t need to mind that bell, having our boat alongside,” said the missionary to Captain Bream, as they stood a little to one side silently contemplating the scene. “You see that smart young officer in uniform, close to the cabin skylight?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the captain.”

“Indeed. He seems to me very young to have charge of such a vessel.”

“Not so young as he looks,” returned the other. “I shall have to get his permission before attempting anything on board, so we must wait here for a few minutes. You see, he has gone into his cabin with the owners to have a few parting words. While we are standing you’ll have one of the best opportunities of seeing the passengers, for most of them will come on deck to bid relatives and friends farewell, and wave handkerchiefs as the tug steams away, so keep your eyes open. Meanwhile, I will amuse you with a little chit-chat about emigrants. This vessel is one of the largest that runs to Australia.”

“Indeed,” responded the captain, with an absent look and tone that would probably have been the same if his friend had said that it ran to the moon. The missionary did not observe that his companion was hopelessly sunk in the sea of abstraction.

“Yes,” he continued, “and, do you know, it is absolutely amazing what an amount of emigration goes on from this port continually, now-a-days. You would scarcely believe it unless brought as I am into close contact with it almost daily. Why, there were no fewer than 26,000 emigrants who sailed from the Thames in the course of last year.”

“How many hogsheads, did you say?” asked the captain, still deeply sunk in abstraction.

A laugh from his friend brought him to the surface, however, in some confusion.

“Excuse me,” he said, with a deprecatory look; “the truth is, my mind is apt to wander a bit in such a scene, and my eyes chanced to light at the moment you spoke on that hogshead over there. How many emigrants, did you say?”

“No fewer than 26,000,” repeated the missionary good-naturedly, and went on to relate some interesting incidents, but the captain was soon again lost in the contemplation of a poor young girl who had wept to such an extent at parting from a female friend, then in the tug, that her attempts to smile through the weeping had descended from the sublime to the ridiculous. She and her friend continued to wave their kerchiefs and smile and cry at each other notwithstanding, quite regardless of public opinion, until the tug left. Then the poor young thing hid her sodden face in her moist handkerchief and descended with a moan of woe to her berth. Despite the comical element in this incident, a tear was forced out of Captain Bream’s eye, and we rather think that the missionary was similarly affected. But, to say truth, the public at large cared little for such matters. Each was too much taken up with the pressing urgency of his or her own sorrows to give much heed to the woes of strangers.

“People in such frames of mind are easily touched by kind words and influences,” said the missionary in a low voice.

“True, the ground is well prepared for you,” returned the captain softly, for another group had absorbed his attention.

“And I distribute among them Testaments, gospels, and tracts, besides bags filled with books and magazines.”

“Was there much powder in ’em?” asked the captain, struggling to the surface at the last word.

“I don’t know about that,” replied his friend with a laugh, “but I may venture to say that there was a good deal of fire in some of them.”

“Fire!” exclaimed the captain in surprise. Explanation was prevented by the commander of the vessel issuing at that moment from the cabin with the owners. Hearty shakings of hands and wishes for a good voyage followed. The officers stood at the gangway; the last of the weeping laggards was kindly but firmly led away; the tug steamed off, and the emigrant vessel was left to make her final preparations for an immediate start on her long voyage to the antipodes, with none but her own inhabitants on board, save a few who had private means of quitting.

“Now is our time,” said the missionary, hastening towards the captain of the vessel.

For one moment the latter gave him a stern look, as if he suspected him of being a man forgotten by the tug, but a bland smile of good-will overspread his features when the former explained his wishes.

“Certainly, my good sir, go where you like, and do what you please.”

Armed with this permission, he and Captain Bream went to work to distribute their gifts.

Most of the people received these gladly, some politely, a few with suspicion, as if they feared that payment was expected, and one or two refused them flatly. The distributers, meanwhile, had many an opportunity afforded, when asked questions, of dropping here and there “a word in season.”

As this was the first time Captain Bream had ever been asked to act as an amateur distributer of Testaments and tracts, he waited a few minutes, with one of his arms well-filled, to observe how his companion proceeded, and then himself went to work.

Of course, during all this time, he had not for an instant forgotten the main object of his journey. On the contrary, much of the absence of mind to which we have referred was caused by the intense manner in which he scanned the innumerable faces that passed to and fro before him. He now went round eagerly distributing his gifts, though not so much impressed with the importance of the work as he would certainly have been had his mind been less pre-occupied. It was observed, however, that the captain offered his parcels and Testaments only to women, a circumstance which caused a wag from Erin to exclaim—

“Hallo! old gentleman, don’t ye think the boys has got sowls as well as the faimales?”

This was of course taken in good part by the captain, who at once corrected the mistake. But after going twice round the deck, and drawing forth many humorous as well as caustic remarks as to his size and general appearance, he was forced to the conclusion that his sister was not there. The lower regions still remained, however.

Descending to these with some hope and a dozen Testaments, he found that the place was so littered with luggage, passengers, and children, that it was extremely difficult to move. To make the confusion worse, nearly the whole space between decks had been fitted up with extra berths—here for the married, there for the unmarried—so that very little room indeed was left for passage, and exceedingly little light entered.

But Captain Bream was not affected by such matters. He was accustomed to them, and his eyesight was good. He was bent on one object, which he pursued with quiet, unflagging perseverance—namely, that of gazing earnestly into the face of every woman in the ship.

So eager was the poor man about it that he forgot to offer the last armful of Testaments which he had undertaken to distribute, and simply went from berth to berth staring at the females. He would undoubtedly have been considered mad if it had not been that the women were too much taken up with their own affairs to think much about any one with whom they had nothing to do.

One distracting, and also disheartening, part of the process was, that, owing to the general activity on board, he came again and again to the same faces in different parts of the vessel, but he so frequently missed seeing others that hope was kept alive by the constant turning up of new faces. Alas! none of them bore any resemblance to that for which he sought so earnestly!

At last he returned to the place where his friend was preaching. By that time, however, the crowd was so great that he could not enter. Turning aside, therefore, into an open berth, with a feeling of weariness and depression creeping over his mind and body, he was about to sit down on a box, when a female voice at the other end of the berth demanded to know what he wanted.

Hope was a powerful element in Captain Bream’s nature. He rose quickly and stopped to gaze attentively into a female face, but it was so dark where she sat on a low box that he could hardly see her, and took a step forward.

“Well, Mr Imprence, I hope as you’ll know me again,” said the woman, whose face was fiery red, and whose nature was furious. “What do you want here?”

The captain sighed profoundly. That was obviously not his sister! Then a confused feeling of incapacity to give a good reason for being there came over him. Suddenly he recollected the Testaments.

“Have one?” he said eagerly, as he offered one of the little black books.

“Have what?”

“A Testament.”

“No, I won’t have a Testament, I’m a Catholic,” said the woman as she looked sternly up.

Captain Bream was considering how he might best suggest that the Word of God was addressed to all mankind, when a thought seemed to strike the woman.

“Are you the cap’n?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied absently, and with some degree of truth.

“Then it’s my opinion, cap’n, an’ I tell it you to your face, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself to put honest men an’ wimen in places like this—neither light, nor hair, nor nothink in the way of hornament to—”

“Captain Bream! are you there, sir?” cried the voice of his friend the missionary at that moment down the companion-hatch.

“Ay, ay, I’m here.”

“I’ve found her at last, sir.”

The captain incontinently dropped the dozen Testaments into the woman’s lap and went up the companion-ladder like a tree-squirrel.

“This way, sir. She’s sittin’ abaft the funnel.”

In a few seconds Captain Bream and his companion stood before a pretty-faced, fair-haired woman with soft gentle eyes, which suddenly opened with surprise as the two men hurried forward and came to a halt in front of her. The captain looked anxiously at his friend.

“Is this the—” he stopped.

“Yes, that’s her,” said the missionary with a nod. The captain turned slowly on his heel, and an irrepressible groan burst from him as he walked away.

There was no need for the disappointed missionary to ask if he had been mistaken. One look had sufficed for the captain.

Sadly they returned to the shore, and there the missionary, being near his house, invited Captain Bream to go home with him and have a cup of tea.

“It will revive you, my dear sir,” he said, as the captain stood in silence at his side with his head bowed down. “The disappointment must indeed be great. Don’t give up hope, however. But your clothes are wet still. No wonder you shiver, having gone about so long in damp garments. Come away.”

Captain Bream yielded in silence. He not only went and had a cup of his hospitable friends’s tea, but he afterwards accepted the offer of one of his beds, where he went into a high fever, from which he did not recover for many weary weeks.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Wreck of the Evening Star.

About the time that Captain Bream was slowly recovering from the fever by which he had been stricken down, a disaster occurred out on the North Sea, in connection with the Short Blue, which told powerfully on some of the men of that fleet. This was nothing less than the wreck of the Evening Star.

The weather looked very unsettled the morning on which David Bright’s turn came about to quit the fleet and sail for port. He had flown the usual flag to intimate his readiness to convey letters, etcetera, on shore, and had also, with a new feeling of pride, run up his Bethel-Flag to show his true colours, as he said, and to intimate his willingness to join with Christian friends in a parting hymn and prayer.

Some had availed themselves of the opportunity, and, just before starting, the Evening Star ran close to the mission smack.

“Lower the boat, Billy,” said the skipper to his son as they sat in the cabin.

“Ay, ay, daddy.”

There was a kindliness now in the tone of David Bright’s voice when he spoke to Billy that drew out the heart of that urchin as it had never been drawn out before, save by his mother’s soft voice, and which produced a corresponding sweetness in the tones of the boy—for “love begets love.”

The mission skipper received his visitor with unwonted heartiness.

“I pray the Lord to give you a good time on shore, David,” he said, as they went down to the cabin, where some of the other skippers were having a chat and a cup of coffee.

“He’ll do that,” said David. “He did it last time. My dear missis could scarce believe her ears when I told her I was converted, or her eyes when she saw the Bethel-flag and the temperance pledge.”

“Praise the Lord!” exclaimed two or three of those present, with deep sincerity, as David thus referred to his changed condition.

“I can’t bide with ’ee, lads,” said David, “for time’s up, but before startin’ I would like to have a little prayer with ’ee, an’ a hymn to the Master’s praise.”

We need not say that they were all ready to comply. After concluding, they saw him into his boat, and bade him God-speed in many a homely but hearty phrase.

“Good-bye, skipper; fare ye well, Billy; the Lord be with ’ee, Joe.”

John Gunter was not omitted in the salutations, and his surly spirit was a little, though not much, softened as he replied.

“Fare ye well, mates,” shouted David, as he once more stood on his own deck, and let his vessel fall away. A toss of the hand followed the salutation. Little Billy echoed the sentiment and the toss, and in a few minutes the Evening Star was making her way out of the fleet and heading westward.

The night which followed was wild, and the wind variable. Next day the sun did not show itself at all till evening, and the wind blew dead against them. At sunset, red and lurid gleams in the west, and leaden darkness in the east, betokened at the best unsteady weather.

Little did these bold mariners, however, regard such signs—not that they were reckless, but years of experience had accustomed them to think lightly of danger—to face and overcome it with equanimity. In addition to his native coolness, David Bright had now the mighty power of humble trust in God to sustain him.

It still blew hard when they drew near to land, but the wind had changed its direction, blowing more on the shore, and increasing at last to a gale which lined the whole coast with breakers. Before the Evening Star could find refuge in port, night had again descended. Unfortunately it was one of the darkest nights of the season, accompanied with such blinding sleet that it became a difficult matter to distinguish the guiding lights.

“A dirty night, Billy,” said David Bright, who himself held the tiller.

“Ay, father, it’ll be all the pleasanter when we get home.”

“True, lad; the same may be said of the heavenly home when the gales of life are over. D’ee see the light, boy?”

“No, father, not quite sure. Either it’s not very clear, or the sleet an’ spray blinds me.”

“‘Let the lower lights be burning,’” murmured the skipper, as a tremendous wave, which seemed about to burst over them, rushed beneath the stern, raising it high in the air. “You see the meanin’ o’ that line o’ the hymn now, Billy, though you didn’t when your dear mother taught it you. Bless her heart, her patience and prayers ha’ done it all.”

For some minutes after this there was silence. The men of the Evening Star were holding on to shroud or belaying-pin, finding shelter as best they could, and looking out anxiously for the “lower lights.”

“There’ll be some hands missin’, I doubt, in the Short Blue fleet to-morrow, father,” remarked Billy, with a solemn look.

“Likely enough; God have mercy on ’em,” returned Bright. “It wasn’t a much stiffer gale than this, not many years gone by, when twenty-seven smacks foundered, and a hundred and eighty souls were called to stand before their Maker.”

As David spoke a sullen roar of breaking water was heard on the port bow. They had been slightly misled, either by their uncertainty as to the position of the true lights, or by some false lights on shore. At all events, whatever the cause, they were at that moment driving towards one of the dangerous sand-banks in the neighbourhood of Yarmouth. The course of the smack was instantly changed, but it was too late. Almost before an order could be given she struck heavily, her main-mast went over the side, carrying part of the mizzen along with it. At the same time a wave broke just astern, and rushed over the deck, though happily not with its full force.

Even in that moment of disaster the bold fishermen did not quail. With their utmost energy indeed, but without confusion, they sprang to the boat which, although lifted, had not been washed away. Accustomed to launch it in all weathers, they got it into the water, and, almost mechanically, Ned Spivin and Gunter tumbled into it, while Joe Davidson held on to the painter. Billy Bright was about to follow, but looking back shouted, “Come along, father!” David, however, paid no attention to him. He still stood firmly at the tiller guiding the wreck, which having been lifted off, or over the part of the sand on which she had struck, was again plunging madly onward.

A few moments and one of those overwhelming seas which even the inexperienced perceive to be irresistible, roared after the disabled vessel. As it reached her she struck again. The billow made a clean sweep over her. Everything was carried away. The boat was overturned, the stout painter snapped, and the crew left struggling in the water.

But what of the people on shore when this terrible scene was being enacted? They were not entirely ignorant of it. Through driving sleet and spray they had seen in the thick darkness something that looked like a vessel in distress. Soon the spectral object was seen to advance more distinctly out of the gloom. Well did the fishermen know what that meant, and, procuring ropes, they hastened to the rescue, while spray, foam, sand, and even small pebbles, were swept up by the wild hurricane and dashed in their faces.

Among the fishermen was a young man whose long ulster and cap told that he was a landsman, yet his strength, and his energy, were apparently equal to that of the men with whom he ran. He carried a coil of thin rope in his left hand. With the right he partly shielded his eyes.

“They’ll be certain to strike here,” cried one of the fishermen, whose voice was drowned in the gale, but whose action caused the others to halt.

He was right. The vessel was seen to strike quite close, for the water was comparatively deep.

“She’s gone,” exclaimed the young man already referred to, as the vessel was seen to be overwhelmed.

He flung off his top-coat as he spoke, and, making one end of the small line fast round his waist, ran knee-deep into the water. Some of the fishermen acted in a somewhat similar fashion, for they knew well that struggling men would soon be on the shore.

They had not to wait long, for the crew of the Evening Star were young and strong, and struggled powerfully for their lives. In a few minutes the glaring eyes of Zulu appeared, and the young man of the ulster made a dash, caught him by the hair, and held on. It seemed as if the angry sea would drag both men back into its maw, but the men on the beach held on to the rope, and they were dragged safely to land.

A cheer on right and left told that others were being rescued. Then it became known who the wrecked ones were.

“It’s the Evening Star!” exclaimed one.

“Poor David!” said another.

Then the cry was raised, “Have ’ee got little Billy?”

“Ay, here he comes!” shouted a strange voice.

It was that of the youth of the ulster, who now stood waist-deep eagerly stretching out his hands towards an object with which the wild waves seemed to sport lovingly. It was indeed little Billy, his eyes closed, his face white, and his curly yellow hair tossing in the foam, but he made no effort to save himself; evidently the force of the sea and perhaps the cold had been too much for his slight frame to bear.

Twice did the young man make a grasp and miss him. To go deeper in would have perhaps insured his own destruction. The third time he succeeded in catching the boy’s hair; the men on shore hauled them in, and soon little Billy lay on the beach surrounded by anxious fishermen.

“Come, mates,” said one, in a deep voice, “let’s carry him to his mother.”

“Not so,” said the young man who had rescued Billy, and who had only lain still for a moment where he had fallen to recover breath. “Let him lie. Undo his necktie, one of you.”

While he spoke he was busy making a tight roll of his own coat which he immediately placed under the shoulders of Billy, and proceeded at once to attempt to restore breathing by one of the methods of resuscitating the drowned.

The fishermen assisted him, some hopefully, some doubtfully, a few with looks of disbelief in the process. The youth persevered, however, with unflagging patience, well knowing that half-drowned people have been restored after nearly an hour of labour.

“Who is he?” inquired one fisherman of another, referring to the stranger.

“Don’t you know him, mate?” asked the other in surprise.

“No, I’ve just come ashore, you know.”

“That’s Mr Dalton, the young banker, as takes such a lift o’ the temp’rance coffee-taverns an’ Blue-Ribbon movement.”

“He’s comin’-to, sir!” exclaimed a voice eagerly.

This had reference to little Billy, whose eyelids had been seen to quiver, and who presently heaved a sigh.

“Fetch my coat,” said Dalton. “He will indeed be restored, thank God.”

The big ulster was brought. Billy was carefully wrapped up in it, and one of the stoutest among his fisher friends lifted him in his arms and bore him off to his mother.

“Have all the others been rescued?” inquired Dalton, eagerly, when Billy had been carried away.

No one could answer the question. All knew that some of the Evening Star’s crew had been saved, but they could not say how many.

“They’ve bin taken to the Sailor’s Home, sir,” said one man.

“Then run up like a good fellow and ask if all are safe,” said Dalton. “Meanwhile I will remain here and search the beach lest there should be more to rescue.”

Turning again to the foaming sea the young banker proceeded slowly along the shore some distance, when he observed the body of a man being rolled up on the sand and dragged back by each returning wave. Rushing forward he caught it, and, with the aid of the fishermen, carried it beyond the reach of the hungry waves. But these waves had already done their worst. Dalton applied the proper means for restoration, but without success, and again the fishermen began to look gravely at each other and shake their heads.

“Poor woman!” they murmured, but said no more. Their feelings were too deep for speech as they mourned for one who was by that time a widow, though she knew it not.

At that moment some of the men came running down from the town—one, a tall, strong figure, ahead of them. It was Joe Davidson. He had been more exhausted than some of the others on being rescued, and had been led to the Sailor’s Home in a scarcely conscious condition. When they began to reckon up the saved, and found that only one was missing, Joe’s life seemed to return with a bound. Breaking from those who sought to restrain him he ran down to the beach.

He knelt beside the drowned fisherman with a wild expression in his eyes as he laid hold of something that partly covered the drowned man. It was his own Bethel-flag which David Bright had twisted round his body! Joe sprang up and clasped his hands as if to restrain them from violent action.

“Oh, David!” he said, and stopped suddenly, while the wild look left his eyes and something like a smile crossed his features. “Can it be true that ye’ve gone so soon to the Better Land?”

The words gathered in force as they were uttered, and it was with a great cry of grief that he shouted, “Oh, David, David! my brother!” and fell back heavily on the sand.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Billy and his Father Return Home.

Who can describe the strange mingling of grateful joy with bitter anguish that almost burst the heart of David Bright’s widow on that terrible night!

She was singing one of the “Songs of Zion,” and busy with household cares, preparing for the expected return of her husband and her son, when they carried Billy in.

It might be supposed that she would be anxious on such a stormy night but if the wives of North Sea fishermen were to give way to fears with every gale that blew, they would be filled with overwhelming anxiety nearly all the year round.

When the knock at the door came at last the song ceased, and when the stout fisherman entered with his burden, and a fair curl, escaping from the folds of the ulster, told what that burden was, the colour fled from the poor woman’s cheeks, and a sinking of the heart under a great dread almost overcame her.

“He’s all right, missus,” said the man, quickly.

“Thank God?” gasped Mrs Bright. “Are—are the rest safe?”

“I b’lieve they are. Some of ’em are, I know.”

Obliged to be content, for the moment, with the amount of relief conveyed by these words, she had Billy laid on a bed, and bustled about actively rubbing him dry, wrapping him in blankets, applying hot bottles and otherwise restoring him; for as yet the poor boy showed only slight symptoms of returning vitality.

While thus engaged the door burst open, and Maggie Davidson rushed in.

“Oh, Nell!” she exclaimed, “what has happened—is it true—Billy!—dead? No; thank God for that, but—but—the Evening Star must be wrecked! Are the rest safe? Is Joe—”

The excited young wife stopped and gasped with anxiety.

“The Lord has been merciful in sending me my Billy,” returned Mrs Bright, with forced calmness, “but I know nothing more.”

Turning at once, Maggie rushed wildly from the house intending to make straight for the shore. But she had not gone far when a crowd of men appeared coming towards her. Foremost among these was her own husband!

With a sharp cry of joy she rushed forward and threw herself into his ready arms.

“Oh! praise the Lord,” she said; but as she spoke the appearance of her husband’s face alarmed her. Glancing hastily at the crowd behind, she cast a frightened look up at Joe’s face.

“Who is it?” she asked in a whisper, as four men advanced with slow measured tread bearing between them the form of a man.

“David,” he said, while an irrepressible sob convulsed him.

For one moment the comely face of Maggie wore an expression of horror; then she broke from Joe, ran quickly back, and, seizing Mrs Bright in her arms, attempted in vain to speak.

“What—what’s wrong, Maggie?”

The poor sympathetic young wife could not utter a word. She could only throw her arms round her friend’s neck, and burst into a passion of tears.

But there was no need for words. Mrs Bright knew full well what the tears meant, and her heart stood still while a horror of darkness seemed to sink down upon her. At that moment she heard the tread of those who approached.

Another minute, and all that remained of David Bright was laid on his bed, and his poor wife fell with a low wail upon his inanimate form, while Billy sat up on his couch and gazed in speechless despair.

In that moment of terrible agony God did not leave the widow utterly comfortless, for even in the first keen glance at her dead husband she had noted the Bethel-Flag, which he had shown to her with such pride on his last holiday. Afterwards she found in his pocket the Testament which she had given to him that year, and thus was reminded that the parting was not to be—for ever!

We will not dwell on the painful scene. In the midst of it, Ruth Dotropy glided in like an angel of light, and, kneeling quietly by the widow’s side, sobbed as if the loss had been her own. Poor Ruth! She did not know how to set about comforting one in such overwhelming grief. Perhaps it was as well that she did not “try,” for certainly, in time, she succeeded.

How Ruth came to hear of the wreck and its consequences was not very apparent, but she had a peculiar faculty for discovering the locality of human grief, a sort of instinctive tendency to gravitate towards it, and, like her namesake of old, to cling to the sufferer.

Returning to her own lodging, she found her mother, and told her all that had happened.

“And now, mother,” she said, “I must go at once to London, and tell Captain Bream of my suspicions about Mrs Bright, and get him to come down here, so as to bring them face to face without further delay.”

“My dear child, you will do nothing of the sort,” said Mrs Dotropy, with unwonted decision. “You know well enough that Captain Bream has had a long and severe illness, and could not stand anything in the nature of a shock in his present state.”

“Yes, mother, but they say that joy never kills, and if—”

“Who says?” interrupted Mrs Dotropy; “who are ‘they’ who say so many stupid things that every one seems bound to believe? Joy does kill, sometimes. Besides, what if you turned out to be wrong, and raised hopes that were only destined to be crushed? Don’t you think that the joy of anticipation might—might be neutralised by the expectation,—I mean the sorrow of—of—but it’s of no use arguing. I set my face firmly against anything of the sort.”

“Well, perhaps you are right, mother,” said Ruth, with a little sigh; “indeed, now I think of it I feel sure you are; for it might turn out to be a mistake, as you say, which would be an awful blow to poor Captain Bream in his present weak state. So I must just wait patiently till he is better.”

“Which he will very soon be, my love,” said Mrs Dotropy, “for he is sure to be splendidly nursed, now he has got back to his old quarters with these admirable Miss Seawards. But tell me more about this sad wreck. You say that the fisherman named Joe Davidson is safe?”

“Yes, I know he is, for I have just seen him.”

“I’m glad of that, for I have a great regard for him, and am quite taken with his good little wife. Indeed I feel almost envious of them, they do harmonise and agree so well together—not of course, that your excellent father and I did not agree—far from it. I don’t think that in all the course of our happy wedded life he ever once contradicted me; but somehow, he didn’t seem quite to understand things—even when things were so plain that they might have been seen with a magnifying-glass—I mean a micro—that is—no matter. I fear you would not understand much better, Ruth, darling, for you are not unlike your poor father. But who told you about the wreck?”

“A policeman, mother. He said it was the Evening Star, and the moment I heard that I hurried straight to Mrs Bright, getting the policeman to escort me there and back. He has quite as great an admiration of Joe as you have, mother, and gave me such an interesting account of the change for the better that has come over the fishermen generally since the Mission vessels carried the gospel among them. He said he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw some men whom he had known to be dreadful characters changed into absolute lambs. And you know, mother, that the opinion of policemen is of much weight, for they are by no means a soft or sentimental race of men.”

“True, Ruth,” returned her mother with a laugh. “After the scene enacted in front of our windows the other day, when one of them had so much trouble, and suffered such awful pommelling from the drunken ruffian he took up, I am quite prepared to admit that policemen are neither soft nor sentimental.”

“Now, mother, I cannot rest,” said Ruth, rising, “I will go and try to quiet my feelings by writing an account of the whole affair to the Miss Seawards.”

“But you have not told me, child, who is the young man who behaved so gallantly in rescuing little Billy and others?”

A deep blush overspread the girl’s face as she looked down, and in a low voice said, “It was our old friend Mr Dalton.”

“Ruth!” exclaimed Mrs Dotropy, sharply, with a keen gaze into her daughter’s countenance, “you are in love with Mr Dalton!”

“No, mother, I am not,” replied Ruth, with a decision of tone, and a sudden flash of the mild sweet eyes, that revealed a little of the old spirit of the De Tropys. “Surely I may be permitted to admire a brave man without the charge of being in love with him!”

“Quite true, quite true, my love,” replied the mother, sinking back into her easy-chair. “You had better go now, as you suggest, and calm yourself by writing to your friends.”

Ruth hurried from the room; sought the seclusion of her own chamber; flung herself into a chair, and put the question to herself, “Am I in love with Mr Dalton?”

It was a puzzling question; one that has been put full many a time in this world’s history without receiving a very definite or satisfactory answer. In this particular case it seemed to be not less puzzling than usual, for Ruth repeated it aloud more than once, “Am I in love with Mr Dalton?” without drawing from herself an audible reply.

She remained in the same attitude for a considerable time, with her sweet little head on one side, and her tiny hands clasped loosely on her lap—absorbed in meditation.

From this condition she at last roused herself to sit down before a table with pen, ink, and paper. Then she went to work on a graphic description of the wreck of the Evening Star—in which, of course, Mr Dalton unavoidably played a very prominent part.

Human nature is strangely and swiftly adaptable. Ruth’s heart fluttered with pleasure as she described the heroism of the young man, and next moment it throbbed with deepest sadness as she told of Mrs Bright’s woe, and the paper on which she wrote became blotted with her tears.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The House of Mourning.

We have it on the highest authority that it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting. This fallen world does not readily believe that, but then the world is notoriously slow to believe the truth, and also rather apt to believe what is false. It was long before even the learned world could be got to believe that the world itself moves round the sun. Indeed it is more than probable that more than half the world does not believe that yet. On the other hand, much of it very likely believes still that the world is flat. A savage of the prairie would almost certainly entertain that fallacy, while a savage of the mountains would perhaps laugh him to scorn, yet neither would admit that it was a globe.

So, mankind is very unwilling to accept the truth that it is better to give than to receive, though such is certainly the case if there be truth in holy writ.

John Gunter had been much impressed, and not a little softened, by the recent catastrophe of the shipwreck and of his skipper’s death, but he had not yet been subdued to the point of believing that it would be better to spend an hour with widow Bright than to spend it in the public-house, even though his shipmate Joe Davidson did his best to persuade him of that truth.

“Come,” said Joe, as a last appeal, “come, John, what’ll our shipmates think of ’ee if you never go near the poor thing to offer her a word o’ comfort?”

“I can’t comfort nobody,” replied Gunter with a surly heave of his shoulder.

“Yes, you can,” said Joe, earnestly; “why, the very sight o’ you bein’ there, out o’ respect to David, would do her poor heart good.”

The idea of anybody deriving comfort from a sight of him so tickled Gunter that he only replied with a sarcastic laugh, nevertheless he followed his mate sulkily and, as it were, under protest.

On entering the humble dwelling they found Spivin, Trevor, and Zulu already there. Mrs Bright arose with tearful eyes to welcome the new guests. Billy rose with her. He had scarcely left his mother’s side for more than a few minutes since the dark night of the wreck, though several days had elapsed.

It was a great era in the life of the fisher-boy—a new departure. It had brought him for the first time in his young life into personal contact as it were, with the dark side of life, and had made an indelible impression on his soul. It did not indeed abate the sprightly activity of his mind or body, but it sobered his spirit and, in one day, made him more of a man than several years of ordinary life could have accomplished. The most visible result was a manly consideration of, and a womanly tenderness towards, his mother, which went a long way to calm Mrs Bright’s first outbreak of sorrow.

These rough fishermen—rough only in outward appearance—had their own method of comforting the widow. They did not attempt anything like direct consolation, however, but they sat beside her and chatted in quiet undertones—through which there ran an unmistakable sound of sympathy. Their talk was about incidents and events of a pleasant or cheering kind in their several experiences. And occasionally, though not often, they referred to the absent David when anything particularly favourable to him could be said.

“We’ve got good news, Joe,” said Billy, when the former was seated.

“Ay, Billy, I’m glad o’ that. What may the good news be?”

“Another ‘Evening Star’ has been raised up to us by the Lord,” said Mrs Bright, “but oh! it will never shine like the first one to me!” The poor woman could go no further, so Billy again took up the story.

“You know,” he said, “that our kind friend Miss Ruth Dotropy has been greatly taken up about us since father went—went home, and it seems that she’s bin writin’ to Lun’on about us, tellin’ all about the wreck, an’ about our mistake in goin’ to sea, last trip, without bein’ inspected, which lost us the insurance-money. An’ there’s a rich friend o’ hers as has sent her a thousand pound to buy mother another smack!”

“You don’t say that’s true, Billy!” exclaimed Joe, with a look of surprise.

“That’s just what I do say, Joe. The smack is already bought, and is to be fitted out at once, an’ mother has made you her skipper, Joe, an’ the rest have all agreed to go—Zulu as cook—and Gunter too. Won’t you, John?”

The boy, who was somewhat excited by the news he had to tell, frankly held out his hand to Gunter, and that worthy, grasping it with an unwonted display of frankness on his part growled—“I’m with ’ee, lad.”

“Yes, it’s all arranged,” resumed Billy, “and we’ll not be long o’ being ready for sea, so you won’t be left to starve, mother—”

Up to this point the poor boy had held on with his wonted vivacity, but he stopped suddenly. The corners of his mouth began to twitch, and, laying his head on his mother’s bosom, he sobbed aloud.

It did the widow good to comfort him. The fishermen had an instinctive perception that their wisest course lay in taking no notice, and continuing their low-voiced intercourse.

“Well, now,” said Joe, “I have read in story-books of folk bein’ as lib’ral sometimes as to give a thousand pounds, but I never thought I’d live to see ’em do it.”

“Why, Joe, where have your eyes and ears bin?” said Luke Trevor. “Don’t you know it was a lib’ral gentleman, if not two, or p’raps three, as lent the Ensign, our first gospel-ship, to the Mission?”

“That’s true, Luke; I forgot that when I spoke, an’ there’s more gospel-smacks comin’, I’m told, presented in the same way by lib’ral folk.”

“It’s my belief,” said Luke, with emphasis, at the same time striking his right knee with his hand, “it’s my belief that afore long we’ll have a gospel-ship for every fleet on the North Sea.”

“Right you are, boy,” said Joe, “an’ the sooner the better. Moreover, I’ve heard say that there’s a talk about sellin’ baccy on board of the mission-ships cheaper than what they do aboard o’ the copers. Did any of ’ee hear o’ that?”

“I heard somethin’ about it,” answered Luke, “but it’s too good news to be true. If they do, it’ll drive the copers off the sea.”

“Of course it will. That’s just what they’re a-goin’ to do it for, I suppose.”

Reader, the mode of dealing with the abominable “coper” traffic referred to by these men has at last happily been adopted, and the final blow has been dealt by the simple expedient of underselling the floating grog-shops in the article of tobacco. Very considerable trouble and expense have to be incurred by the mission, however, for the tobacco has to be fetched from a foreign port; but the result amply repays the cost for the men naturally prefer paying only 1 shilling per pound on board the mission-ship, to paying 1 shilling 6 pence on board the “coper.” The smacksman’s advantages in this respect may be better understood when we say that on shore he has to pay 4 shillings per pound for tobacco. But his greatest advantage of all—that for which the plan has been adopted—is his being kept away from the vessel where, while purchasing tobacco, he is tempted to buy poisonous spirits. Of course the anti-smoker is entitled to say “it were better that the smacksman should be saved from tobacco as well as drink!” But of two evils it is wise to choose the less. Tobacco at 1 shilling 6 pence procured in the “coper,” with, to some, its irresistible temptation to get drunk on vile spirits, is a greater evil than the procuring of the same weed at 1 shilling in a vessel all whose surroundings and internal arrangements are conducive to the benefit of soul and body.

“D’ye mind the old Swan, boys?” asked an elderly man—a former friend of David Bright who had dropped in with his mite of genuine sympathy.

“What, the first gospel-ship as was sent afloat some thirty years ago? It would be hard to remember what existed before I was born!”

“Well, you’ve heard of her, anyhow. She was lent by the Admiralty for the work in the year eighteen hundred and something, not to go out like the Ensign to the North Sea fleets, but to cruise about an’ visit in the Thames. I was in the Swan myself for a few months when I was a young fellow, and we had grand times aboard of that wessel. It seemed to me like a sort o’ home to the sailors that they’d make for arter their woyages was over. Once, I reklect, we had a evenin’ service, an’ as several ships had come in from furrin parts that mornin’ we had the Swan chock-full o’ noo hands; but bless you, though they was noo to us they warn’t noo to each other. They had many of ’em met aboard the Swan years before. Some of ’em hadn’t met for seven and ten year, and sich a shakin’ o’ hands there was, an’ recognisin’ of each other!—I thought we’d never get the service begun. Many of ’em was Christian men, and felt like brothers, you see.”

“Did many of the masters an’ mates come to the services in those days?” asked Joe Davidson.

“Ay, a-many of ’em. W’y, I’ve seed lots o’ both masters an’ mates wolunteerin’ to indoose their men to come w’en some of ’em warn’t willin’—takin’ their own boats, too, to the neighbourin’ ships an’ bringin’ off the men as wanted to, w’en the Swan’s bell was a-ringin’ for service. I heard one man say he hadn’t bin to a place o’ worship for ten year, an’ if he’d know’d what the Swan was like he’d ha’ bin to her sooner.

“I mind meetin’ wery unexpected with a friend at that time,” continued the old fisherman, who saw that his audience was interested in his talk, and that the mind of poor Mrs Bright was being drawn from her great sorrow for a little. “I hadn’t met ’im for eight or ten years.

“‘Hallo! Abel,’ says I, ‘is that you?’

“‘That’s me,’ says he, ketchin’ hold o’ my grapnel, an’ givin’ it a shake that a’most unshipped the shoulder. ‘Leastwise it’s all that’s left o’ me.’

“‘What d’ee mean?’ says I.

“‘I mean,’ says he, ‘that I’ve just lost my wessel on the Gunfleet sands, but, thank God, I haven’t lost my life, nor none o’ my men, though it was a close shave.’

“‘How did it happen, Abel?’ says I.

“Says he, ‘It happened pretty much in the usual way. A gale, wi’ sleet that thick we could hardly see the end o’ the jib-boom. The moment we struck I know’d it was all over wi’ the old wessel, but I didn’t see my way to go under without a struggle, so we made a desp’rit attemp’ to git out the boats, but a sea saved us the trouble, for it swept ’em all away before we got at ’em, as if they’d bin on’y chips o’ wood. Then, as if to mock us, another sea pitched us higher on the sands, so as the decks wasn’t washed by every wave quite so bad, but we knew that wouldn’t last for the tide was makin’ fast, so I calls the crew together, an’ says I, “Now, lads, I’ve often prayed with you an’ for you. In a few minutes we’ll have to take to the riggin’, an’ you know what the end o’ that’s likely to be. Before doin’ so, I’ll pray again, for nothin’ is impossible to the Lord, an’ it may be His will to spare us yet a while.” Well, I prayed. Then we took to the riggin’ to wait for death—or rescue. An’ sure enough, after we had bin six hours there, an’ was all but frozen, a fishin’-smack came past and took us off.’”

“Now, mates,” said Joe Davidson, after they had chatted thus in subdued tones for some time, “it do seem to me that as most of us are of one mind here, and we are, so to speak, of one fisher-family, it might do Mrs Bright good if we was to have a bit of the Word together, and a prayer or two.”

As every one agreed to this either heartily or by silence, a Bible was produced, and Joe,—being mate of the late Evening Star, and therefore a sort of natural head of the family—read the portion where God promises to be a Husband to the widow, and a Father to the fatherless.

Then they all knelt while he prayed in simple language for comfort and a blessing to the mourning household. He was followed with a very few but intensely earnest words by Luke. Even John Gunter put up an unpremeditated prayer in the words, “God help us!” uttered in a choking voice, and the old fisherman followed them all with a deep “Amen.”

After that they shook hands tenderly with the widow and Billy, and went out silently from the house of mourning.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Captain’s Appetite Restored, and Ruth in a New Light.

Captain Bream reclined one day on a sofa in the sitting-room of the house where he had first made the acquaintance of the Miss Seawards. Both ladies were seated by his side, the one working worsted cuffs and the other comforters, and both found the utmost difficulty in repressing tears when they looked at their kind nautical friend, for a great change had come over him since we last saw him.

We will not venture to state what was the illness that had laid the captain, as he himself expressed it on his beam-ends, but whatever it might have been, it had reduced him to a mere shadow. His once round cheeks were hollow; his eyes were so sunken that they appeared to have retired into the interior of his head, out of which, as out of two deep caverns, they gleamed solemnly. His voice, having been originally pitched so low that it could not well get lower, had become reduced to the sound of a big drum muffled; it had also a faint resemblance to a bassoon with a bad cold. His beard and moustache, having been allowed to grow, bore a striking likeness to a worn-out clothes-brush, and his garments appeared to hang upon a living skeleton of large proportions.

It is right however, to add that this was the worst that could be said of him. The spirit within was as cheery and loving and tender as ever it had been—indeed more so—and the only wonder was that it did not break a hole in the once tough but now thin shell of its prison-house, and soar upwards to its native regions in the sky!

“You must not work so hard at these cuffs, Miss Jessie,” he said, with a pleasant though languid smile. “If you do I’ll reduce my board.”

“But that would only render it necessary that I should work harder,” returned Jessie, without checking the pace of the needles.

“It is hard,” resumed the captain, “that I should be disobeyed at every turn now that I’m on my beam-ends, with little more strength in me than a new-born kitten. But never mind, I’m beginnin’ to feel stronger, and I’ll pay you off, my dear, when I’m able to move about.”

“Do you really feel a little stronger?” asked Kate, who, although more lively—even mischievous in a small way—than her sister, had been more deeply affected by the captain’s long illness, and could not shake off the impression that he was going to die.

“Feel stronger!” exclaimed the wrecked giant. “Give me your hand. D’ee feel that?”

“That” which Kate was to feel was a squeeze as a test of strength.

“There. Doesn’t it hurt you? I believe I could make you cry if I was to try.”

And the captain did make her cry even without trying, for Kate was so deeply touched with the weakness of the trembling squeeze, coupled with the hearty kindness and little touches of fun in the prostrate man, that she could not keep it down. Rising hurriedly, therefore, she flung her unfinished comforter into Jessie’s lap, left the room, and, retiring to her chamber, wept quietly there. Those tears were not now, however, as they had often been, tears of anxious sorrow, but of thankful joy.

Having accomplished this little matter, and relieved her feelings, she returned to the parlour.

“I’ve been just trying to persuade him, Kate,” said Jessie, as the former entered, “that in a week or two a trip to Yarmouth will do him so much good, but he does not seem to think he will be equal to it.”

“Come, now, Miss Jessie, that’s not a fair way to put it. I have no doubt that I shall be able enough—thanks to the good Lord who has spared me—but what I think is that Yarmouth, pleasant though it be, is not exactly what I want just now.”

“What then, do you think would be better for you?” asked Kate.

“‘The sea! The sea! The open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free!’” answered the captain, with a gleam in the sunken eyes such as had not been seen there for many days.

“Horrible thought!” said Jessie, with a pretended shudder.

“You know the proverb, ‘What’s one man’s meat is another man’s poison,’” returned the captain. “Ah! ladies, only those who have been cradled on the deep for three quarters of a lifetime, and who love the whistling winds, and the surging waves, and the bounding bark, know what it is to long, as I do, for another rest upon my mother’s breast:—

“‘And a mother she was and is to me,

For I was born—was born on the open sea.’”

“I had no idea you were so poetical,” said Jessie, much surprised at the invalid’s enthusiasm.

“Sickness has a tendency to make people poetical. I suppose,” returned the captain.

“But how are you to manage it? You can scarcely walk yet. Then excuse me, you haven’t got a ship, and I fear that not many owners would intrust one to you till you are stronger. So, what will you do?”

“Go as a passenger, my dear. See here; it’s all arranged,” said the captain, holding up a letter.

“I got this by the post this morning, and want to consult with you about it. Knowing my condition and desires, that excellent man the chaplain, who took me out in his steam-launch the day I got the first shot of this illness, had made known my case to the Director of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and he has kindly agreed to let me go a trip to the North Sea in one of the mission-ships, on the understanding that I shall do as much of a missionary’s work as I am fit for when there.”

“But you’re not fit for work of any kind!” exclaimed Kate with a flush of indignation which was partly roused by the idea of her friend being taken away from her at a time when he required so much nursing, and partly by the impropriety of so sick a man being expected to work at all.

“True, my dear, but I shall be fit enough in a week or two. Why, I feel strength coming back like a torrent. Even now I’m so hungry that I could devour my—my—”

“Your dinner!” cried Kate, as, at that opportune moment the door opened and Liffie Lee appeared with a tray in her hand.

There could be no doubt as to the captain’s appetite. Not only did his eyes glare, in quite a wolfish manner, at the food while it was being set before him, but the enormous quantity he took of that food became quite a source of alarm to the sisters, who watched and helped him.

“Now, captain,” said Jessie, laying her hand at last on his thin arm, as it was stretched out to help himself to more, “you really must not. You know the doctor said that it would never do, at first, to—”

“My dear,” interrupted the invalid, “hang the doctor!”

“Well, I have no objection to his being hanged, if you don’t ask me to do it,” returned Jessie, “but really—”

“Oh! let him alone,” said Kate, who, being very healthy, shared the captain’s unreasonable contempt for medical men, and was more than pleased at the ravenous tendencies of her old friend.

“Now for the sponge-cakes,” said the captain, wiping his mouth and rubbing his hands on finishing the first course.

“You are to have none,” said Kate, firmly. The captain’s face elongated into a look of woe.

“Because you are to have rice-pudding and thick cream instead!” continued Kate.

The captain’s face shortened again into a beaming smile.

Liffie Lee appeared at the moment with the viands named.

“I never saw anything like it!” exclaimed Jessie with a short laugh, and a look of resignation.

“I enjoy it so much!” said Kate, pouring out the cream with liberal hand.

Liffie said nothing, but if the widest extension of her lips, and the exposing of her bright little teeth from ear to ear, meant anything, it meant that her sympathies were entirely with Kate.

The captain was helped to pudding in a soup plate, that being relatively a rather small dessert plate for him. He was about to plunge the dessert spoon into it, but stopped suddenly and gazed at it. Then he turned his awful gaze on the small servant who almost shrank before it.

“Liffie, my dear.”

“Y–yes, sir.”

“Bring me a table-spoon, the biggest one you have.”

“Yes, sir,” she said,—and vanished. Presently she returned with an enormous gravy spoon.

“Ha! ha!” shouted the captain, with much of his old fire; “that’s better than I had hoped for! Hand it here, Liffie; it’ll do.”

He seized the weapon, and Liffie uttered an involuntary squeal of delight as she saw him sweep up nearly the whole of his first helping, and make one bite of it! He then attempted to smile at Liffie’s expression of joy, but did it awkwardly in the circumstances.

Just as he had finished his little repast, and was tranquilly stirring a breakfast cup of coffee, the door bell rang.

A minute later Liffie appeared with her mouth and eyes like three round O’s.

“If you please, ma’am, here’s Mister and Missis Dalton, as wants to know if they may come in.”

“Mr and Mrs who?” exclaimed both sisters.

“Mister an’ Missis Dalton,” repeated Liffie.

“Show them in—at once, child. Some ridiculous mistake,” said Jessie, glancing at Kate. “But, stay, Liffie;—you have no objection, captain?”

“None in the least.”

Another moment and Ruth appeared blushing in the door-way, with a handsome young man looming in the background.

“Mr and Mrs Dalton!” said the two sisters with a dazed look as they sank into two chairs.

“Oh no! darling Jessie,” cried Ruth, rushing forward and throwing her arms round her friend; “not—not quite that yet, but—but—engaged. And we determined that the very first call we made should be to you, darling.”

“Well, now, this is capital! Quite a picture,” growled the captain; “does more good to my digestion than—”

“Come,” interrupted Jessie, taking Ruth by the hand. “Come to our room!”

Regardless of all propriety, the sisters hurried Ruth off to their bedroom to have it out with her there, leaving young Dalton to face the captain.

“I congratulate you, my lad,” said the captain, frankly extending his hand. “Sit down.”

Dalton as frankly shook the hand and thanked the captain, as he took a seat beside him.

“I’m deeply grieved, Captain Bream, to see you so much reduced, yet rejoiced to find that you are fairly convalescent.”

“Humph! I wouldn’t give much for the depth of either your grief or joy on my account seein’ that you’ve managed to get hooked on to an angel.”

“Well, I confess,” said the youth, with a laugh, “that the joy connected with that fact pretty much overwhelms all other feelings at present.”

“The admission does you credit boy, for she is an angel. I’m not usin’ figures o’ speech. She’s a real darlin’, A1 at Lloyd’s. True blue through and through. And let me tell you, young fellow, that I know her better than you do, for I saw her before you were bor—, no, that couldn’t well be, but I knew her father before you were born, and herself ever since she saw the light.”

“I’m delighted to have your good opinion of her, though, of course, it cannot increase my estimation of her character. Nothing can do that!”

“Which means that my opinion goes for nothing. Well, the conceit of the rising generation is only equalled by—by that o’ the one that went before it. But, now, isn’t it strange that you are the very man I want to see?”

“It is indeed,” replied Dalton with a slightly incredulous look.

“Yes, the very man. Look ye here. Have you got a note-book?”

“I have.”

“Pull it out, then. I want you to draw out my will.”

“Your will, Captain Bream!”

“My will,” repeated the captain. “Last will an’ testament.”

“But I’m not lawyer enough to—”

“I know that, man! I only want you to sketch it out. Listen. I’m going in a week or two to the North Sea in a fishing-smack. Well, there’s no sayin’ what may happen there. I’m not infallible—or invulnerable—or waterproof, though I am an old salt. Now, you are acquainted with all my money matters, so I want you to jot down who the cash is to be divided among if I should go to the bottom; then, take the sketch to my lawyer—you know where he lives—and tell him to draw it out all ship-shape, an’ bring it to me to sign. Now, are you ready?”

“But, my dear sir, this may take a long time, and the ladies will probably return before we—”

“You don’t bother your head about the ladies, my lad, but do as I tell ’ee. Miss Ruth has got hold of two pair of ears and two hearts that won’t be satisfied in five minutes. Besides, my will won’t be a long one. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Dalton, spreading his note-book on his knee.

“Well,” resumed the captain, “after makin’ all the usual arrangements for all expenses—funeral, etcetera, (of which there’ll be none if I go to the bottom), an’ some legacies of which I’ll tell the lawyer when I see him, I leave all that remains to Miss Jessie and Miss Kate Seaward, share an’ share alike, to do with it as they please, an’ to leave it after them to whomsoever they like. There!”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all,” returned the captain, sadly. “I once had a dear sister, but every effort I have made to find her out has failed. Of course if I do come across her before it pleases the Lord to take me home, I’ll alter the will. In the meantime let it be drawn out so.”

Soon after this important transaction was finished the ladies returned, much flushed and excited, and full of apologies for their rude behaviour to their male friends.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Out with the Short Blue again.

Pleasant and heart-stirring is the sensation of returning health to one who has sailed for many weeks in the “Doldrums” of Disease, weathered Point Danger, crossed the Line of Weakness, and begun to steer with favouring gales over the smooth sea of Convalescence.

So thought Captain Bream one lovely summer day, some time after the events just narrated, as he sat on the bridge of a swift steamer which cut like a fish through the glassy waves of the North Sea.

It was one of Hewett and Company’s carriers, bound for the Short Blue fleet. Over three hundred miles was the total run; she had already made the greater part of it. The exact position of the ever-moving fleet was uncertain. Nevertheless, her experienced captain was almost certain—as if by a sort of instinct—to hit the spot where the smacks lay ready with their trunks of fish to feed the insatiable maw of Billingsgate.

Captain Bream’s cheeks were not so hollow as they had been when we last saw him. Neither were they so pale. His eyes, too, had come a considerable way out of the caves into which they had retreated, and the wolfish glare in the presence of food was exchanged for a look of calm serenity. His coat, instead of hanging on him like a shirt on a handspike, had begun to show indications of muscle covering the bones, and his vest no longer flapped against him like the topsail of a Dutchman in a dead calm. Altogether, there was a healthy look about the old man which gave the impression that he had been into dock, and had a thorough overhaul.

Enough of weakness remained, however, to induce a feeling of blessed restfulness in his entire being. The once strong and energetic man had been brought to the novel condition of being quite willing to leave the responsibility of the world on other shoulders, and to enjoy the hitherto unknown luxury of doing nothing at all. So thoroughly had he abandoned himself in this respect, that he did not even care to speak, but was satisfied to listen to others, or to gaze at the horizon in happy contemplation, or to pour on all around looks of calm benignity.

“How do you feel to-day, sir?” asked the mate of the steamer, as he came on the bridge.

“My strongest feeling,” said Captain Bream, “is one of thankfulness to God that I am so well.”

“A good feelin’ that doesn’t always come as strong as it ought to, or as one would wish; does it, sir?” said the mate.

“That’s true,” answered the captain, “but when a man, after bein’ so low that he seems to be bound for the next world, finds the tide risin’ again, the feelin’ is apt to come stronger, d’ee see? D’you expect to make the fleet to-day?”

“Yes, sir, we should make it in the evenin’ if the admiral has stuck to his plans.”

The captain became silent again, but after a few minutes, fearing that the mate might think him unsociable, he said—

“I suppose the admiral is always chosen as being one of the best men of the fleet?”

“That’s the idea, sir, and the one chosen usually is one of the best, though of course mistakes are sometimes made. The present admiral is a first-rate man—a thorough-going fisherman, well acquainted with all the shoals, and a Christian into the bargain.”

“Ah, I suppose that is an advantage to the fleet in many respects,” said the captain, brightening up, on finding the mate sympathetic on that point.

“It is for the advantage of the fleet in all respects, sir. I have known an ungodly admiral, on a Sunday, when they couldn’t fish, an’ the weather was just right for heavin’-to an’ going aboard the mission smack for service—I’ve known him keep the fleet movin’ the whole day, for nothin’ at all but spite. Of course that didn’t put any one in a good humour, an’ you know, sir, men always work better when they’re in good spirits.”

“Ay, well do I know that,” said the captain, “for I’ve had a good deal to do wi’ men in my time, and I have always found that Christian sailors as a rule are worth more than unbelievers, just because they work with a will—as the Bible puts it, ‘unto the Lord and not unto men.’ You’ve heard of General Havelock, no doubt?”

“Oh yes, sir, you mean the Indian general who used to look after the souls of his men?”

“That’s the man,” returned the captain. “Well, I’ve been told that on one occasion when the commander-in-chief sent for some soldiers for special duty, and found that most of ’em were drunk, he turned an’ said, ‘Send me some of Havelock’s saints: they can be depended on!’ I’m not sure if I’ve got the story rightly, but, anyhow, that’s what he said.”

“Ay, sir, I sometimes think it wonderful,” said the mate, “that unbelievers don’t themselves see that the love of God in a man’s heart makes him a better and safer servant in all respects—according to the Word, ‘Godliness is profitable to the life that now is, as well as that which is to come.’ There’s the fleet at last, sir!”

While speaking, the mate had been scanning the horizon with his glass, which he immediately handed to the captain, who rose at once and saw the line of the Short Blue like little dots on the horizon. The dots soon grew larger; then they assumed the form of vessels, and in a short time the carrying-steamer was amongst them, making straight for the admiral, whose smack was distinguishable by his flag.

“What is the admiral’s name?” asked the captain as they advanced.

“Davidson—Joe Davidson; one of the brightest young fellows I ever knew,” answered the captain of the steamer, who came on the bridge at that moment, “and a true Christian. He is master of the Evening Star.”

“Why, I thought that was the name of a smack that was wrecked some time ago near Yarmouth—at least so my friends there wrote me,” said Captain Bream with sudden interest; and well might he feel interest in the new Evening Star, for it was himself who had given the thousand pounds to purchase her, at Ruth Dotropy’s request, but he had not been told that her skipper, Joe Davidson, had been made admiral of the fleet.

“So it was the Evening Star, sir, that was wrecked, but some open-handed gentleman in London bought a new smack for widow Bright and she called it by the same name, an’ the young man, who had been mate with her husband, she has made skipper till her son Billy is old enough to take charge of her. The strangest thing is, that all the old crew have stuck together, and the smack is now one of the best managed in the fleet. Joe wouldn’t have been made admiral if that wasn’t so.”

To this, and a great deal more, the captain listened with great joy and thankfulness, without, however, giving a hint as to his own part in the matter. Originally he had given the thousand pounds to please Ruth, and he had been at that time glad to think that the gift was to benefit a deserving and unfortunate widow. It was not a little satisfactory, therefore, to hear that his gift had been so well bestowed; that it had even become the admiral’s vessel, and that he was about to have the opportunity of boarding the new Evening Star and himself inspecting its crew.

“Tell me a little more about this Evening Star,” he said to the captain of the steamer. “I have sometimes heard of her from a lady friend of mine, who takes a great interest in her owner, but I was so ill at the time she wrote that I couldn’t pay much attention to anything.”

Thus invited the captain proceeded to tell all he knew about David Bright and his wife, and Billy, and Luke Trevor, Spivin, Gunter, Zulu, the wreck, the launch of the new smack, etcetera,—much of which was quite new to Captain Bream, and all of which was of course deeply interesting to him.

While these two were conversing the fleet gradually thickened around them, for a light breeze, which seemed to have sprung up for the very purpose, enabled them to close in. Some of the smacks were close at hand; others more distant. To those within hail, the captain and mate of the steamer gave the customary salute and toss of the fist in the air as they passed.

“There’s the admiral,” said the captain, “two points off the port bow.”

“An’ the gospel-ship close alongside,” said the mate. “Don’t you see the M.D.S.F. flag? Trust Joe for bein’ near to her when he can manage it. Here they come, fast an’ thick. There’s the Fern, I’d know her a mile off, an’ the Martin, an’ Rover, Coquette, Truant! What cheer, boys!”

“Is that the Cherub or the Andax abeam of us?” asked the captain.

“It’s neither. It’s the Guide, or the Boy Jim, or the Retriever—not quite sure which.”

“Now, Captain Bream, shall we put you on board the mission-ship at once, or will you wait to see us boarded for empty trunks?”

“I’ll wait,” returned Captain Bream.

Soon the steamer hove-to, not far from the admiral’s vessel. The smacks came crowding round like bees round a hive, each one lowering a boat when near enough.

And once again was enacted a scene similar in many respects to that which we have described in a previous chapter, with this difference, that the scramble now was partly for the purpose of obtaining empty boxes. Another steamer had taken off most of their fish early that day, and the one just arrived meant to wait for the fish of the next morning.

It chanced that a good many of the rougher men of the fleet came on board that evening, so that Captain Bream, whose recent experiences had led him half to expect that all the North Sea fishermen were amiable lions, had his mind sadly but effectively disabused of that false idea. The steamer’s deck soon swarmed with some four hundred of the roughest and most boisterous men he had ever seen, and the air was filled with coarse and profane language, while a tendency to fight was exhibited by several of them.

“They’re a rough lot, sir,” said the mate as he leant on the rail of the bridge, gazing down on the animated scene, “but they were a rougher lot before the gospel-ship came out to stay among them, and some of the brightest Christians now in the fleet were as bad as the worst you see down there.”

“Ay, Jesus came to save the lost, and the worst,” said the captain in a low tone—“praise to His name!”

As soon as the trunks had been received, the admiral bore away to windward, and the fleet began to follow and make preparation for the night’s fishing; for the fish which were destined so soon to smoke on London tables were at that moment gambolling at the bottom of the sea!

“We must run down to the mission smack, and put you aboard at once, sir,” said the mate, “for she follows the admiral—though she does not fish on Saturday nights, so that the hold may be clear of fish and ready for service on Sundays.”

Captain Bream was ready.

“They know you are coming, I suppose?”

“Yes, they expect me.”

In a few minutes the steamer was close to the mission-ship, and soon after, the powerful arms of its hospitable skipper and mate were extended to help the expected invalid out of the boat which had been sent for him.

“We’re makin’ things all snug for the night,” said the skipper, as he led his guest into the little cabin, “an’ when we’re done we shall have tea; but if you’d like it sooner—”

“No, no, skipper, I’ll wait. Though I’m just come from the shore, you don’t take me for an impatient land-lubber, do you? Go, finish your work, and I’ll rest a bit. I’ve been ill, you see, an’ can’t stand as much as I used to,” he added apologetically.

When left alone, Captain Bream’s mode of resting himself was to go down on his knees and thank God for having brought him to so congenial a resting-place on the world of waters, and to pray that he might be made use of to His glory while there.

How that prayer was answered we shall see.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Another Fight and—Victory!

It is interesting to observe the curious, and oftentimes unlikely, ways in which the guilt of man is brought to light, and the truth of that word demonstrated—“Be sure your sin shall find you out.”

Although John Gunter’s heart was softened at the time of his old skipper’s death, it was by no means changed, so that, after a brief space, it became harder than ever, and the man who had been melted—to some extent washed—returned, ere long, with increased devotion to his wallowing in the mire. This made him so disagreeable to his old comrades, that they became anxious to get rid of him, but Joe Davidson, whose disposition was very hopeful, hesitated; and the widow, having a kindly feeling towards the man because he had sailed with her husband, did not wish him to be dismissed.

Thus it came to pass that when Captain Bream joined the Short Blue fleet he was still a member of the crew of the new Evening Star.

The day following that on which the captain arrived was Sunday, and, as usual, the smacks whose skippers had become followers of the Lord Jesus began to draw towards the mission-ship with their Bethel-flags flying. Among them was the new admiral—Joe of the Evening Star. His vessel was pointed out, of course, to the captain as she approached. We need scarcely say that he looked at her with unusual interest, and was glad when her boat was lowered to row part of her crew to the service about to be held in the hold of the gospel-ship.

It was natural that Captain Bream should be much taken with the simple cheery manners of the admiral, as he stepped aboard and shook hands all round. It was equally natural that he should take some interest, also, in John Gunter, for was it not obvious that that worthy was a fine specimen of the gruff, half-savage, raw material which he had gone out there to work upon?

“Why did you not bring Billy, Joe?” asked the skipper of the mission vessel.

“Well, you know, we had to leave some one to look after the smack, an’ I left Luke Trevor, as he said he’d prefer to come to evenin’ service, an’ Billy said he’d like to stay with Luke.”

By this time a number of boats had put their rough-clad crews on the deck, and already a fair congregation was mustered. Shaking of hands, salutations, question and reply, were going briskly on all round, with here and there a little mild chaffing, and occasionally a hearty laugh, while now and then the fervent “thank God” and “praise the Lord” revealed the spirits of the speakers.

“You mentioned the name of Billy just now,” said Captain Bream, drawing Joe Davidson aside. “Is he a man or a boy?”

“He’s a boy, sir, though he don’t like to be reminded o’ the fact,” said Joe with a laugh. “He’s the son of our skipper who was drowned—an’ a good boy he is, though larky a bit. But that don’t do him no harm, bless ye.”

“I wonder,” returned the captain, “if he is the boy some lady friends of mine are so fond of, who was sent up to London some time ago to—”

“That’s him, sir,” interrupted Joe; “it was Billy as was sent to Lun’on; by the wish of a Miss Ruth Pont-rap-me, or some such name. I never can remember it rightly, but she’s awful fond o’ the fisher-folks.”

“Ah, I know Miss Ruth Dotropy also,” said the captain. “Strange that I should find this Billy that they’re all so fond of in the new Evening Star. I must pay your smack a visit soon, Davidson, for I have a particular interest in her.”

“I’ll be proud to see you aboard her, sir,” returned Joe. “Won’t you come after service? The calm will last a good while, I think.”

“Well, perhaps I may.”

The conversation was interrupted here by a general move to the vessel’s hold, where the usual arrangements had been made—a table for a pulpit and fish-boxes for seats.

“Do you feel well enough to speak to us to-day, Captain Bream?” asked the skipper of the mission-ship.

“Oh yes, I’ll be happy to do so. The trip out has begun to work wonders already,” said the captain.

Now, the truth of that proverb, “One man may take a horse to the water, but ten men can’t make him drink,” is very often illustrated in the course of human affairs. You may even treat a donkey in the same way, and the result will be similar.

Joe Davidson had brought John Gunter to the mission-ship in the earnest hope that he would drink at the gospel fountain, but, after having got him there, Joe found that, so far from drinking, Gunter would not even go down to the services at all. On this occasion he said that he preferred to remain on deck, and smoke his pipe.

Unknown to all the world, save himself, John Gunter was at that time in a peculiarly unhappy state of mind. His condition was outwardly manifested in the form of additional surliness.

“You’re like a bear with a sore head,” Spivin had said to him when in the boat on the way to the service.

“More like a black-face baboon wid de cholera,” said Zulu.

Invulnerable alike to chaff and to earnest advice, Gunter sat on the fore-hatch smoking, while psalms of praise were rising from the hold.

Now, it was the little silver watch which caused all this trouble to Gunter. Bad as the man was, he had never been an absolute thief until the night on which he had robbed Ruth Dotropy. The horror depicted in her pretty, innocent face when he stopped her had left an impression on his mind which neither recklessness nor drink could remove, and thankfully would he have returned the watch if he had known the young lady’s name or residence. Moreover, he was so inexperienced and timid in this new line of life, that he did not know how to turn the watch into cash with safety, and had no place in which to conceal it. On the very day about which we write, seeing the Coper not far off, the unhappy man had thrust the watch into his trousers pocket with the intention of bartering it with the Dutchman for rum, if he should get the chance. Small chance indeed, with Joe Davidson for his skipper! but there is no accounting for the freaks of the guilty.

The watch was now metaphorically burning a hole in Gunter’s pocket, and, that pocket being somewhat similar in many respects to the pockets of average schoolboys, Ruth’s pretty little watch lay in company with a few coppers, a bit of twine, a broken clasp-knife, two buttons, a short pipe, a crumpled tract of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and a half-finished quid of tobacco.

But although John Gunter would not drink of his own free-will, he could not easily avoid the water of life that came rushing to him up the hatchway and filled his ears. It came to him first, as we have said, in song; and the words of the hymn, “Sinner, list to the loving call,” passed not only his outer and inner ear, but dropped into his soul and disturbed him.

Then he got a surprise when Captain Bream’s voice resounded through the hold,—there was something so very deep and metallic about it, yet so tender and musical. But the greatest surprise of all came when the captain, without a word of preface or statement as to where his text was to be found, looked his expectant audience earnestly in the face, and said slowly, “Thou shalt not steal.”

Poor Captain Bream! nothing was further from his thoughts than the idea that any one listening to him was actually a thief! but he had made up his mind to press home, with the Spirit’s blessing, the great truth that the man who refuses to accept salvation in Jesus Christ robs God of the love and honour that are His due; robs his wife and children and fellow-men of the good example and Christian service which he was fitted and intended to exert, and robs himself, so to speak, of Eternal Life.

The captain’s arguments had much weight in the hold, but they had no weight on deck. Many of his shafts of reason were permitted to pierce the tough frames of the rugged men before him, and lodge with good influence in tender hearts, but they all fell pointless on the deck above. It was the pure unadulterated Word of God, “without note or comment,” that was destined that day to penetrate the iron heart of John Gunter, and sink down into his soul. “Thou shalt not steal!” That was all of the sermon that Gunter heard; the rest fell on deaf ears, for these words continued to burn into his very soul. Influenced by the new and deep feelings that had been aroused in him, he pulled the watch from his pocket with the intention of hurling it into the sea, but the thought that he would still deserve to be called a thief caused him to hesitate.

“Hallo! Gunter, what pretty little thing is that you’ve got?”

The words were uttered by Dick Herring of the White Cloud, who, being like-minded with John, had remained on deck like him to smoke and lounge.

“You’ve got no business wi’ that,” growled Gunter, as he closed his hand on the watch, and thrust it back into his pocket.

“I didn’t say I had, mate,” retorted Herring, with a puff of contempt, which at the same time emptied his mouth and his spirit.

Herring said no more; but when the service was over, and the men were chatting about the deck, he quietly mentioned what he had seen, and some of the waggish among the crew came up to Gunter and asked him, with significant looks and laughs, what time o’ day it was.

At first Gunter replied in his wonted surly manner; but at last, feeling that the best way would be to put a bold face on the matter, he said with an off-hand laugh—

“Herring thinks he’s made a wonderful discovery, but surely there’s nothing very strange in a man buyin’ a little watch for his sweetheart.”

“You don’t mean to say that you have a sweetheart do you?” said a youth of about seventeen, who had a tendency to be what is styled cheeky.

Gunter turned on him with contempt. “Well, now,” he replied, “if I had a smooth baby-face like yours I would not say as I had, but bein’ a man, you see, I may ventur’ to say that I have.”

“Come, Gunter, you’re too hard on ’im,” cried Spivin; “I don’t believe you’ve bought a watch for her at all; at least if you have, it must be a pewter one.”

Thus taunted, Gunter resolved to carry out the bold line of action. “What d’ee call that?” he cried, pulling out the watch and holding it up to view.

Captain Bream chanced to be an amused witness of this little scene, but his expression changed to one of amazement when he beheld the peculiar and unmistakable watch which, years before, he had given to Ruth Dotropy’s father. Recovering himself quickly he stepped forward.

“A very pretty little thing,” he said, “and looks uncommonly like silver. Let me see it.”

He held out his hand, and Gunter gave it to him without the slightest suspicion, of course, that he knew anything about it. “Yes, undoubtedly it is silver, and a very curious style of article too,” continued the captain in a low off-hand tone. “You’ve no objection to my taking it to the cabin to look at it more carefully?”

Of course Gunter had no objection, though a sensation of uneasiness arose within him, especially when Captain Bream asked him to go below with him, and whispered to Joe Davidson in a low tone, as he passed him, to shut the cabin skylight.

No sooner were they below, with the cabin-door shut, than the captain looked steadily in the man’s face, and said—

“Gunter, you stole this watch from a young lady in Yarmouth.”

An electric shock could not have more effectually stunned the convicted fisherman. He gazed at the captain in speechless surprise. Then his fists clenched, a rush of blood came to his face, and a fierce oath rose to his white lips as he prepared to deny the charge.

“Stop!” said the captain, impressively, and there was nothing of severity or indignation in his voice or look. “Don’t commit yourself, Gunter. See, I place the watch on this table. If you bought it to give to your sweetheart, take it up. If you stole it from a pretty young lady in one of the rows of Yarmouth some months ago, and would now wish me to restore it to her—for I know her and the watch well—let it lie.”

Gunter looked at the captain, then at the watch, and hesitated. Then his head drooped, and in a low voice he said—

“I am guilty, sir.”

Without a word more, Captain Bream laid his hand on the poor man’s shoulder and pressed it. Gunter knew well what was meant. He went down on his knees. The captain kneeled beside him, and in a deep, intensely earnest voice, claimed forgiveness of the sin that had been confessed, and prayed that the sinner’s soul might be there and then cleansed in the precious blood of Jesus.

John Gunter was completely broken down; tears rolled over his cheeks, and it required all his great physical strength to enable him to keep down the sobs that well-nigh choked him.

Fishermen of the North Sea are tough. Their eyes are not easily made to swell or look red by salt water, whether it come from the ocean without or the mightier ocean within. When Gunter had risen from his knees and wiped his eyes with the end of a comforter, which had probably been worked under the superintendence of Ruth herself; there were no signs of emotion left—only a subdued look in his weatherworn face.

“I give myself up, sir,” he said, “to suffer what punishment is due.”

“No punishment is due, my man. Jesus has borne all the punishment due to you and me. In regard to man, you have restored that which you took away, and well do I know that the young lady—like her Master—forgives freely. I will return the watch to her. You can go back to your comrades—nobody shall ever hear more about this. If they chaff you, or question you, just say nothing, and smile at them.”

“But—but, sir,” said Gunter, moving uneasily.

“I ain’t used to smilin’. I—I’ve bin so used to look gruff that—”

“Look gruff, then, my man,” interrupted the captain, himself unable to repress a smile. “If you’re not gruff in your heart, it won’t matter much what you look like. Just look gruff, an’ keep your mouth shut, and they’ll soon let you alone.”

Acting on this advice, John Gunter returned to his mates looking gruffer, if possible, and more taciturn than ever, but radically changed, from that hour, in soul and spirit.

Chapter Thirty.

The Climax Reached at last.

As the calm weather continued in the afternoon, Joe Davidson tried to persuade Captain Bream to pay the Evening Star a visit, but the latter felt that the excitement and exertion of preaching to such earnest and thirsting men had been more severe than he had expected. He therefore excused himself, saying that he would lie down in his bunk for a short time, so as to be ready for the evening service.

It was arranged that the skipper of the mission smack should conduct that service, and he was to call the captain when they were ready to begin. When the time came, however, it was found that the exhausted invalid was so sound asleep that they did not like to disturb him.

But although Captain Bream was a heavy sleeper and addicted to sonorous snoring, there were some things in nature through which even he could not slumber; and one of these things proved to be a hymn as sung by the fishermen of the North Sea!

When, therefore, the Lifeboat hymn burst forth in tones that no cathedral organ ever equalled, and shook the timbers of the mission-ship from stem to stern, the captain turned round, yawned, and opened his eyes wide, and when the singers came to—

“Leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore,”

he leaped out of his bunk with tremendous energy.

Pulling his garments into order, running his fingers through his hair, and trying to look as if he had not been asleep, he slipped quietly into the hold and sat down on a box behind the speaker, where he could see the earnest faces of the rugged congregation brought into strong relief by the light that streamed down the open hatchway.

What the preacher said, or what his subject was, Captain Bream never knew, for, before he could bring his mind to bear on it, his eyes fell on an object which seemed to stop the very pulsations of his heart, while his face grew pale. Fortunately he was himself in the deep shadow of the deck, and could not be easily observed.

Yet the object which created such a powerful sensation in the captain’s breast was not in itself calculated to cause amazement or alarm, for it was nothing more than a pretty-faced, curly-haired fisher-boy, who, with lips parted and his bright eyes gazing intently, was listening to the preacher with all his powers. Need we say that it was our friend Billy Bright, and that in his fair face Captain Bream thought, or rather felt, that he recognised the features of his long-lost sister?

With a strong effort the captain restrained his feelings and tried to listen, but in vain. Not only were his eyes riveted on the young face before him, but his whole being seemed to be absorbed by it. The necessity of keeping still, however, gave him time to make up his mind as to how he should act, so that when the service was brought to a close, he appeared on deck without a trace of his late excitement visible.

“What lad is this?” he asked, going up to Joe, who was standing close to Billy.

“This,” said Joe, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder, “is Billy Bright, son of the late owner of the old Evenin’ Star.”

“What!” exclaimed the captain, unable to repress his surprise, “son of the widow who owns the new Evening Star? then that proves that your mother must be alive?”

“In course she is!” returned Billy, with a look of astonishment.

“Come down to the cabin with me, Billy,” said the captain, with increasing excitement. “I want to have a chat with you about your mother.”

Our little hero, although surprised, at once complied with the invitation, taking the opportunity, however, to wink at Zulu in passing, and whisper his belief that the old gen’l’man was mad.

Setting Billy on a locker in front of him, Captain Bream began at once.

“Is your mother alive, Billy,—tut, of course she’s alive; I mean, is she well—in good health?”

Billy became still more convinced that Captain Bream was mad, but answered that his mother was well, and that she had never been ill in her life to the best of his knowledge.

While speaking, Billy glanced round the cabin in some anxiety as to how he should escape if the madman should proceed to violence. He made up his mind that if the worst should come to the worst, he would dive under the table, get between the old gentleman’s legs, trip him up, and bolt up the companion before he could regain his feet. Relieved by the feeling that his mind was made up, he waited for more.

“Billy,” resumed the captain, after a long gaze at the boy’s features, “is your mother like you?”

“I should think not,” replied Billy with some indignation. “She’s a woman, you know, an’ I’m a—a—man.”

“Yes—of course,” murmured the captain to himself, “there can be no doubt about it—none whatever—every gesture—every look!”

Then aloud: “What was her name, my boy?”

“Her name, sir? why, her name’s Bright, of course.”

“Yes, yes, but I mean her maiden name.”

Billy was puzzled. “If you mean the name my father used to call ’er,” he said, “it was Nell.”

“Ah! that’s it—nearly, at least. Nellie she used to be known by. Yes, yes, but that’s not what I want to know. Can you tell me what her name was before she was married?”

“Well now, that is odd,” answered Billy, “I’ve bin pumped somethink in this way before, though nuffin’ good came of it as I knows on. No, I don’t know what she was called afore she was married.”

“Did you ever hear of the name of Bream?” asked the captain anxiously.

“Oh yes, I’ve heerd o’ that name,” said the boy, promptly. “There’s a fish called bream, you know.”

It soon became evident to poor Captain Bream that nothing of importance was to be learned from Billy, he therefore made up his mind at once as to how he should act. Feeling that, with such a possibility unsettled, he would be utterly unfit for his duties with the fleet, he resolved to go straight to Yarmouth.

“What is your mother’s address?” he asked.

Billy gave it him.

“Now my boy, I happen to be much interested in your mother, so I’m goin’ to Yarmouth on purpose to see her.”

“It’s wery good o’ you, sir, an’ if you takes your turn ashore afore we do, just give mother my respec’s an’ say I’m all alive and kickin’.”

“I will, my boy,” said the Captain, patting Billy on the head and actually stooping to kiss his forehead affectionately, after which he gave him leave to return on deck.

“I don’ know how it is,” said Billy to Zulu afterwards, “but I’ve took a likin’ for that old man, an’ at the same time a queer sort o’ fear of ’im; I can’t git it out o’ my noddle that he’s goin’ to Yarmouth to inweigle my mother to marry him!”

Zulu showed all his teeth and gums, shut his eyes, gave way to a burst of laughter, and said, “Nonsense!”

“It may be nonsense,” retorted Billy, “but if I thought he really meant it, I would run my head butt into his breadbasket, an’ drive ’im overboard.”

Explaining to the surprised and rather disappointed skipper of the mission vessel that an unexpected turn of affairs required his immediate presence in Yarmouth, the captain asked what means there were of getting to land.

“One of our fleet, the Rainbow, starts to-morrow morning, sir,” was the reply; “so you can go without loss of time. But I hope we shall see you again.”

“Oh yes, please God, I shall come off again—you may depend on that, for I’ve taken a great fancy to the men of the Short Blue, although I’ve been so short a time with them—moreover, I owe service as well as gratitude to the Mission for sending me here.”

Accordingly next morning he set sail with a fair wind, and in due course found himself on shore. He went straight to the old abode of Mrs Dotropy, and, to his great satisfaction, found Ruth there. He also found young Dalton, which was not quite so much to his satisfaction, but Ruth soon put his mind at rest by saying—

“Oh! Captain Bream, I’m so glad to have this unexpected visit, because, for months and months past I have wanted you to go with me to visit a particular place in Yarmouth, and you have always slipped through my fingers; but I’m determined that you shan’t escape again.”

“That’s odd, my dear,” returned the captain, “because my object in coming here is to take you to a certain place in Yarmouth, and, although I have not had the opportunity of letting you slip through my fingers, I’ve no doubt you’d do so if you were tempted away by a bait that begins with a D.”

“How dare you, sir!” said Ruth, blushing, laughing, and frowning all at once—“but no. Even D will fail in this instance—for my business is urgent.”

“Well, Miss Ruth, my business is urgent also. The question therefore remains, which piece of business is to be gone about first.”

“How can you be so ungallant? Are not a lady’s wishes to be considered before those of a gentleman? Come, sir, are you ready to go? I am quite ready, and fortunately D, to whom you dared to refer just now, has gone to the post with a letter.”

Although extremely anxious to have his mind set at rest, Captain Bream gave in with his accustomed good-nature, and went out with Ruth to settle her business first.

Rejoiced to have her little schemes at last so nearly brought to an issue, the eager girl hurried through the town till she came to one of its narrow Rows.

“Well, my dear,” said the captain, “it is at all events a piece of good luck that so far you have led me in the very direction I desired to lead you.”

“Indeed? Well, that is odd. But after all,” returned Ruth with a sudden feeling of depression, “it may turn out to be a wild-goose chase.”

“What may turn out to be a wild-goose chase?”

“This—this fancy—this hope of mine, but you shall know directly—come.”

Ruth was almost running by this time, and the captain, being still far from strong, found it difficult to keep up with her.

“This way, down here,” she cried, turning a corner.

“What, this way?” exclaimed the captain in amazement.

“Yes, why not?” said Ruth, reflecting some of his surprise as she looked up in his face.

“Why—why, because this is the very Row I wanted to bring you to!”

“That is strange—but—but never mind just now; you’ll explain afterwards. Come along.”

Poor Ruth was too much excited to attend to any other business but that on which her heart was set just then; and fear lest her latest castle should prove to have no foundations and should fall like so many others in ruins at her feet, caused her to tremble.

“Here is the door,” she said at last, coming to a sudden halt before widow Bright’s dwelling, and pressing both hands on her palpitating heart to keep it still.

“Wonders will never cease!” exclaimed the captain. “This is the very door to which I intended to bring you.”

Ruth turned her large blue eyes on her friend with a look that made them larger and, if possible, bluer than ever. She suddenly began to feel as deep an interest in the captain’s business as in her own.

“This door?” she said, pointing to it emphatically.

“Yes, that door. Widow Bright lives there, don’t she?”

“Yes—oh! yes,” said Ruth, squeezing her heart tighter.

“Well, I’ve come here to search for a long-lost sister.”

“Oh!” gasped Ruth.

But she got no time to gasp anything more, for the impatient captain had pushed the door open without knocking, and stood in the middle of the widow’s kitchen.

Mrs Bright was up to the elbows in soap-suds at the moment, busy with some of the absent Billy’s garments. Beside her sat Mrs Joe Davidson, endeavouring to remove, with butter, a quantity of tar with which the “blessed babby” had recently besmeared herself.

They all looked up at the visitors, but all remained speechless, as if suddenly paralysed, for the expression on our big captain’s face was wonderful, as well as indescribable. Mrs Bright opened her eyes to their widest, also her mouth, and dropped the Billy-garments. Mrs Davidson’s buttery hands became motionless; so did the “babby’s” tarry visage. For three seconds this lasted. Then the captain said, in the deepest bass notes he ever reached—

“Sister Nellie!”

A wild scream from Mrs Bright was the reply, as she sprang at Captain Bream, seized him in her arms, and covered the back of his neck with soap-suds.

The castle was destined to stand, after all! Ruth’s joy overflowed. She glanced hurriedly round for some object on which to expend it. There was nothing but the “blessed babby”—and that was covered with tar; but genuine feeling does not stick at trifles. Ruth caught up the filthy little creature, pressed it to her bounding heart, wept and laughed, and covered it with passionate kisses to such an extent that her own fair face became thoroughly besmeared, and it cost Mrs Joe an additional half hour’s labour to get her clean, besides an enormous expenditure of butter—though that was selling at the time at the high figure of 1 shilling 6 pence a pound!

Chapter Thirty One.

The Last.

There came a day, not very long after the events narrated in the previous chapter, when a grand wedding took place in Yarmouth.

But it was not meant to be a grand one, by any means. Quite the contrary. The parties principally concerned were modest, retiring, and courted privacy. But the more they courted privacy, the more did that condition—like a coy maiden—fly away from them.

The name of the bride was Ruth, and the name of the bridegroom began,—as Captain Bream was fond of saying—with a Dee.

Neither bride nor groom had anything particular to do with the sea, yet that wedding might have easily been mistaken for a fisherman’s wedding—as well as a semi-public one, so numerous were the salts—young and old—who attended it; some with invitation, and others without. You see, the ceremony being performed in the old parish church, any one who chose had a right to be there and look on.

The reason of this nautical character of the wedding was not far to seek, for had not the bridegroom—whose name began with a Dee—risked his life in rescuing from the deep a Bright—we might almost say the brightest—young life belonging to the fishing fleets of the North Sea? And was not the lovely bride one of the best and staunchest friends of the fisherman? And was she not mixed up, somehow, with the history of that good old sea-captain—if not actually a relation of his—who preached so powerfully, and who laboured so earnestly to turn seamen from darkness to light? And had not the wedding been expressly delayed until the period of one of the smacks’ return to port, so that six fishermen—namely, Joe Davidson, Ned Spivin, Luke Trevor, John Gunter, Billy Bright, and Zulu—might be invited guests? Besides these, there were the skipper and crew of the gospel-ship which was also in port at that time; and other fishermen guests there were, known by such names as Mann, White, Snow, Johnston, Goodchild, Brown, Bowers, Tooke, Rogers, Snell, Moore, Roberts, and many more—all good men and true—who formed part of that great population of 12,000 which is always afloat on the North Sea.

Besides these guests, and a host of others who were attracted by the unusual interest displayed in this wedding, there were several people with whom we may claim some slight acquaintance,—such as Miss Jessie Seaward and her sister, who wept much with joy, and laughed not a little at being so foolish as to cry, and Liffie Lee, who was roused with excitement to the condition of a half-tamed wildcat, but was so dressed up and brushed down and washed out that her best friend might have failed to recognise her. But if we go on, we shall never have done—for the whole of Yarmouth seemed to be there—high and low, rich and poor! Of course Mrs Dotropy was also there, grand, confused, sententious as ever, amiable, and unable to command her feelings—in a state, so to speak, of melting magnificence. And a great many “swell” people—as Billy styled them—came down from London, for Mrs Dotropy, to their disgust, had positively refused to have the wedding in the West End mansion, for reasons best known to herself.

You should have heard the cheer that followed the happy couple when they finally left the church and drove away! We do not refer to the cheering of the multitude; that, though very well in its way, was a mere mosquito-squeak to the deep-toned deafening, reverberating shout of an enthusiasm—born upon the sea, fed on the bread and water of life, strengthened alike by the breezes of success and the gales of adversity—which burst in hurricane violence from the leathern lungs and throats of the North Sea fishermen! We leave it, reader, to your imagination.

There was no wedding breakfast proper, for the happy pair left Yarmouth immediately after the knot was tied, but there was a small select party which drove off in a series of cabs to a feast prepared in a certain cottage not far from the town. This party was composed chiefly of fishermen and their wives and children. It was headed by Captain Bream and his sister Mrs Bright. In the same carriage were Mrs Dotropy, the Miss Seawards, and Mrs Joe Davidson and her baby. It was a big old-fashioned carriage capable of holding six inside, and Billy Bright “swarmed” upon the dickey.

Arrived at the cottage, which had a fine lawn in front and commanded a splendid view of the sea, Captain Bream got down, took up a position at the garden-gate, and, shaking hands with each guest as he or she entered, bade him or her welcome to “Short Blue Cottage!”

“’Tis a pleasant anchorage,” he said to the sisters Seaward as they passed in, “very pleasant at the end of life’s voyage. Praise the Lord who gave it me! Show them the way, Nellie; they’ll know it better before long. You’ll find gooseberry bushes in the back garden, an’ the theological library in the starboard attic. Their own berths are on the ground-floor.”

You may be sure that with such a host the guests were not long in making themselves at home.

Captain Bream had not invited the party merely to a wedding feast. It was the season of fruits and flowers, and he had set his heart on his friends making a day of it. Accordingly, he had made elaborate preparations for enjoyment. With that practical sagacity which frequently distinguishes the nautical mind, he had provided bowls and quoits for the men; battledore and shuttlecock for the younger women; football and cricket and hoops, with some incomprehensible Eastern games for the children, and a large field at the side of the cottage afforded room for all without much chance of collision.

The feast was, of course, a strictly temperance one, and we need scarcely say it was all the more enjoyable on that account.

“You see, my friends,” said the host, referring to this in one of his brief speeches, “as long as it may please God to leave me at anchor in this snug port, I’ll never let a drop o’ strong drink enter my doors, except in the form of physic, and even then I’ll have the bottle labelled ‘poison—to be taken under doctor’s prescription.’ So, my lads—my friends, I mean, beggin’ the ladies’ pardon—you’ll have to drink this toast, and all the other toasts, in lemonade, ginger beer, soda water, seltzer, zoedone, tea, coffee, or cold water, all of which wholesome beverages have been supplied in overflowing abundance to this fallen world, and are to be found represented on this table.”

“Hear! hear!” from John Gunter, and it was wonderful to hear the improvement in the tone of Gunter’s voice since he had left off strong drink. His old foe, but now fast friend, Luke Trevor, who sat beside him, echoed the “hear! hear!” with such enthusiasm that all the others burst into a laugh, and ended in a hearty cheer.

“Now, fill up—fill up, lads,” continued the captain. “Let it be a bumper, whatever tipple you may choose. If our drink is better than it used to be, our cups ought not to be less full—and my toast is worthy of all honour. I drink to the success and prosperity, temporal and spiritual, of the North Sea Trawlers,”—there was a symptom of a gathering cheer at this point, but the captain checked it with a raised finger, “especially to that particular fleet which goes by the name of the ‘Short Blue!’”

The pent-up storm burst forth now with unrestrained vehemence, insomuch that three little ragged boys who had climbed on the low garden wall to watch proceedings, fell off backwards as if shot by the mere sound!

Observing this, and being near them, Mrs Bright rose, quietly leaned over the wall, and emptied a basket of strawberries on their heads by way of consolation.

We cannot afford space for the captain’s speech in full. Suffice it to say that he renewed his former promise to re-visit the fleet and spend some time among the fishermen as often as he could manage to do so, and wound up by coupling the name of Joe Davidson, skipper of the Evening Star, with the toast.

Whereupon, up started Joe with flashing eyes; (intense enthusiasm overcoming sailor-like modesty;) and delivered a speech in which words seemed to tumble out of him anyhow and everyhow—longwise, shortwise, askew, and upside-down—without much reference to grammar, but with a powerful tendency in the direction of common sense. We have not space for this speech either, but we give the concluding words:

“I tell ’ee wot it is, boys. Cap’n Bream has drunk prosperity to the Short Blue, an’ so have we, for we love it, but there’s another Short Blue—”

A perfect storm of cheering broke forth at this point and drowned Joe altogether. It would probably have blown over the three ragged boys a second time, but they were getting used to such fire, and, besides, were engaged with strawberries.

“There’s another Short Blue,” resumed Joe, when the squall was over, “which my missis an’ me was talkin’ about this very day, when our blessed babby fell slap out o’ bed an’ set up such a howl—”

Joe could get no further, because of the terrific peals of laughter which his words, coupled with the pathetic sincerity of his expression, drew forth. Again and again he tried to speak, but his innocent look and his mighty shoulders, and tender voice, with the thoughts of that “blessed babby,” were too much for his mates, so that he was obliged to finish off by shouting in a voice of thunder—“Let’s drink success to Short Blue Cottage!” and, with a toss of his hand in the true North Sea-salute style, sat down in a tempest of applause.

“Yes,” as an Irish fisherman remarked, “it was a great day intoirely,” that day at Short Blue Cottage, and as no description can do it full justice, we will turn to other matters—remarking, however, before quitting the subject, that we do not tell the reader the exact spot where the cottage is situated, as publicity on this point might subject our modest captain to much inconvenience!

“Billy,” said Captain Bream one day, a few months after the wedding-day just described, “come with me to the Theological Library; I want to have a chat with ’ee, lad.”

Billy followed his new-found uncle, and sat down opposite to him.

“Now, lad, the time has come when you and I must have it out. You’re fond o’ hard work, I’m told.”

“Well, uncle, I won’t say as I’m exactly fond of it, but I don’t object to it.”

“So far good,” returned the captain. “Well, you know I’m your uncle, an’ I’ve got a goodish lot of tin, an’ I’m goin’ to leave the most of it to your mother—for she’s the only relation I have on earth,—but you needn’t expect that I’m goin’ to leave it to you after her.”

“I never said as I did expect that, uncle,” said Billy with such a straightforward look of simplicity that the captain burst into one of his thundering laughs.

“Good, my boy,” he said, in a more confidential tone. “Well, then, this is how the matter stands. I’ve long held the opinion that those who can work should work, and that all or nearly all the cash that people have to spare should be given or left to those who can’t work—such as poor invalids—specially women—and those who have come to grief one way or another, and lost the use o’ their limbs.”

“Right you are, uncle,” said Billy with strong emphasis.

“Glad you agree so heartily, boy. Well, that bein’ so, I mean to leave the interest of all that I have to your dear mother as long as she lives—except a legacy to the Miss Seawards and some other poor folk that I know of. Meanwhile, they have agreed, as long as I live, to stay wi’ me here in this cottage, as my librarians and assistants in the matter of Theology. I had a tough job to get ’em to agree, but I managed it at last. So you see, Billy, I don’t mean to leave you a sixpence.”

“Well, uncle,” said Billy with a quiet look, “I don’t care a brass farden!”

Again the captain laughed. “But,” he continued, “I’m very fond o’ you, Billy, an’ there’s no reason why I shouldn’t help you, to help yourself. So, if you’re willin’, I’ll send you to the best of schools, and after that to college, an’ give you the best of education,—in short, make a man of you, an’ put you in the way of makin’ your fortune.”

Captain Bream looked steadily into the fair boy’s handsome face as he made this glowing statement; but, somewhat to his disappointment, he got no responsive glance from Billy. On the contrary, the boy became graver and graver, and at last his mind seemed lost in meditation while his gaze was fixed on the floor.

“What think ye, lad?” demanded the captain.

Billy seemed to awake as from a dream, and then, looking and speaking more like a man than he had ever done before, he said—

“It is kind of you, uncle—very kind—but my dear dad once said he would make a man of me, and he did! I’ll do my best to larn as much as ever I can o’ this world’s larnin’, but I’ll never leave the sea.”

“Now, my boy,” said the captain, “think well before you decide. You could do far more good if you were a highly educated man, you know.”

“Right you may be, uncle, an’ I don’t despise edication, by no means, but some folk are born to it, and others ain’t. Besides, good of the best kind can be done without much edication, when the heart’s right an’ the will strong, as I’ve seed before now on the North Sea.”

“I’m sorry you look at it this way, Billy, for I don’t see that I can do much for you if you determine to remain a fisherman.”

“Oh! yes, you can, uncle,” cried Billy, rising up in his eagerness and shaking back his curly hair. “You can do this. You can take the money you intended to waste on my schoolin’, an’ send out books an’ tracts and medicines, an’ all sorts o’ things to the fishin’ fleets. An’ if you’re awful rich—as you seem to be by the way you talk—you can give some thousands o’ pounds an’ fit out two or three more smacks as you did the noo Evenin’ Star, an’ hand ’em over to the Mission to become gospel-ships to the fleets that have got none yet. That’s the way to do good wi’ your coppers. As for me—my daddy was a fisherman and my mother was a fisherman’s wife, and I’m a fisherman to the back-bone. What my father was before me, I mean to be after him, so, God permittin’, I’ll sail wi’ Joe Davidson till I’m old enough to take command o’ the Evenin’ Star; and then I’ll stick through thick an’ thin to the North Sea, and live and die a fisherman of the Short Blue!”

Billy Bright’s determination was unalterable, so Captain Bream fell in with it, and heartily set about that part of the work which his nephew had recommended to him.

Whether he and Billy will remain of the same mind to the end, the future alone can show—we cannot tell; but this we—you and I, Reader—can do if we will—we can sympathise with our enthusiastic young Trawler, and do what in us lies to soften the hard lot of the fisherman, by aiding those whose life-work it is to fish for souls of men, and to toil summer and winter, in the midst of life and death, tempest and cold, to rescue the perishing on the North Sea.

Table of Contents

Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

sChapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Chapter Thirty Three.

ENDNOTES

Fighting the Flames by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Life in the Red Brigade by R.M. Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

The Lively Poll by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Young Trawler by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Table of Contents

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty One.