Billy Topsail & Company: A Story for Boys

“What’s the matter with the fire-box?”

“She has a habit of droppin’ out,” said the conductor.

“We’ll be a day late in St. John’s,” the passenger grumbled.

The conductor laughed. “You will,” said he, “if the trouble is with the fire-box.”

While the mixed accommodation was panting on the long grade, Tom Topsail’s punt, Burnt Bay bound, was splashing through a choppy sea, humoured along by a clever hand and a heart that understood her whims. It was blowing smartly; but the wind was none too much for the tiny craft, and she was making the best of it. At this rate–with neither change nor failure of the wind–Tom Topsail would land Archie Armstrong in Burnt Bay long before the accommodation had begun to think of achieving that point in her journey across the island. There was no failure of the wind as the night spent itself; it blew true and fair until the rosy dawn came softly out of the east. The boy awoke from a long doze to find the punt overhauling the first barren islands of the long estuary at the head of which the Burnt Bay settlement is situated.

With the most favourable weather there was a day’s sailing and more yet to be done.

“How’s the weather?” was Archie’s first question.

“Broodin’,” Tom Topsail drawled.

Archie could find no menace in the dawn.

“Jus’ broodin’,” Topsail repeated.

Towards night it seemed that a change and a gale of wind might be hatched by the brooding day. The wind fluttered to the east and blew up a thickening fog.

“We’ve time an’ t’ spare,” said Topsail, in the soggy dusk. “Leave us go ashore an’ rest.”

They landed, presently, on a promising island, and made a roaring fire. The hot tea and the lobster and the hard-bread–and the tales of Topsail–and the glow and warmth of the fire–were grateful to Archie. He fell sound asleep, at last, with his greatcoat over him; and Tom Topsail was soon snoring, too. In the meantime the mixed accommodation, back in the wilderness, had surmounted the grade, had dropped three heavy cars at a way station, and was rattling on her way towards Burnt Bay with an energy and determination that surprised her weary passengers and could only mean that she was bound to make up at least some lost time or explode in the attempt.

Morning came–it seemed to Archie Armstrong that it never would come–morning came in a thick fog to Tom Topsail and the lad. In a general way Tom Topsail had his bearings, but he was somewhat doubtful about trusting to them. The fog thickened with an easterly wind. It blew wet and rough and cold. The water, in so far as it could be seen from the island, was breaking in white-capped waves; and an easterly wind was none of the best on the Burnt Bay course. But Tom Topsail and Archie put confidently out. The mixed accommodation was not due at Burnt Bay until 12:33. She would doubtless be late; she was always late. There was time enough; perhaps there would be time and to spare. The wind switched a bit to the south of east, however, and became nearly adverse; and down came the fog, thick and blinding. A hundred islands, and the narrowing main-shore to port and starboard, were wiped out of sight. There were no longer landmarks.

“Man,” Tom Topsail declared, at last, “I don’t know where I is!”

“Drive on, Tom,” said Archie.

The punt went forward in a smother of water.

“Half after eleven,” Archie remarked.

Tom Topsail hauled the sheet taut to pick up another puff of wind. An hour passed. Archie had lost the accommodation if she were on time.

“They’s an island dead ahead,” said Tom. “I feels it. Hark!” he added. “Does you hear the breakers?”

Archie could hear the wash of the sea.

“Could it be Right-In-the-Way?” Tom Topsail wondered. “Or is it Mind-Your-Eye Point?”

There was no help in Archie.

“If ’tis Right-In-the-Way,” said Tom, “I’d have me bearin’s. ’Tis a marvellous thick fog, this,” he complained.

Mind-Your-Eye is a point of the mainland.

“I’m goin’ ashore t’ find out,” Tom determined.

Landed, however, he could make nothing of it. Whether Right-In-the-Way, an island near by Burnt Bay, or Mind-Your-Eye, a long projection of the main-shore, there was no telling. The fog hid all outlines. If it were Right-In-the-Way, Tom Topsail could land Archie in Burnt Bay within half an hour; if it were Mind-Your-Eye point–well, maybe.

“Hark!” Tom exclaimed.

Archie could hear nothing.

“Did you not hear it?” said Tom.

“What, man? Hear what?”

“That!” Tom ejaculated.

Archie heard the distant whistle of a train.

“I knows this place,” Tom burst out, in vast excitement. “’Tis Mind-Your-Eye. They’s a cut road from here t’ the railway. ’Tis but half a mile, lad.”

Followed by Archie, Tom Topsail plunged into the bush. They did not need to be told that the mixed accommodation was labouring on a steep grade from Red Brook Bridge. They did not need to be told that a little fire, builded by the track before she ran past, a flaring signal in the fog, would stop her. With them it was merely a problem of getting to the track in time to start that fire.

CHAPTER XXXVI

And Last: In Which Archie Armstrong Hangs His Head in His Father’s Office, the Pale Little Clerk Takes a Desperate Chance, Bill o’ Burnt Bay Loses His Breath, and there is a Grand Dinner in Celebration of the Final Issue, at Which the Amazement of the Crew of the “Spot Cash” is Equalled by Nothing in the World Except Their Delight

It was the first of September. A rainy day, this, in St. John’s: the wind in the east, thick fog blowing in from the open. Sir Archibald’s grate was crackling in its accustomed cheerful way. Rain lashed the office windows at intervals; a melancholy mist curtained the harbour from view. Sir Archibald was anxious. He drummed on the desk with his finger-tips; he paced the office floor, he scowled, he pursed his lips, he dug his restless hands deep in his pockets. The expected had not happened. It was now two o’clock. Sir Archibald was used to going home at three. And it was now two o’clock–no, by Jove! it was eight after. Sir Archibald walked impatiently to the window. It was evident that the fog was the cause of his impatience. He scowled at it. No, no (thought he); no schooner could make St. John’s harbour in a fog like that. And the winds of the week had been fair winds from the French Shore. Still the expected had not happened. Why had the expected not happened?

A pale little clerk put his head in at the door in a very doubtful way.

“Skipper of the Black Eagle, sir,” said he. “Clerk, too,” he added.

“Show ’em in,” Sir Archibald growled.

What happened need not be described. It was both melancholy and stormy without; there was a roaring tempest within. Sir Archibald was not used to giving way to aggravation; but he was now presently embarked on a rough sea of it, from which, indeed, he had difficulty in reaching quiet harbour again. It was not the first interview he had had with the skipper and clerk of the Black Eagle since that trim craft had returned from the French Shore trade. But it turned out to be the final one. The books of the Black Eagle had been examined; her stores had been appraised, her stock taken, her fish weighed. And the result had been so amazing that Sir Archibald had not only been mystified but enraged. It was for this reason that when Skipper George Rumm, with Tommy Bull, the rat-eyed little clerk, left the presence of Sir Archibald Armstrong, the prediction of the clerk had come true: there were two able-bodied seamen looking for a berth on the streets of St. John’s. First of all, however, they set about finding Tom Tulk o’ Twillingate; but this, somehow or other, the discreet Tom Tulk never would permit them to do.

By Sir Archibald’s watch it was now exactly 2:47. Sir Archibald rose from the chair that was his throne.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I had hoped–”

Again the pale little clerk put his head in at the door. This time he was grinning shamelessly.

“Well?” said Sir Archibald. “What is it?”

“Master Archie, sir.”

Archie shook hands with his father in a perfunctory way. Sir Archibald’s cheery greeting–and with what admiration and affection and happiness his heart was filled at that moment!–Sir Archibald’s cheery greeting failed in his throat. Archie was prodigiously scowling. This was no failure of affection; nor was it an evil regard towards his creditor, who would have for him, as the boy well knew, nothing but the warmest sympathy. It was shame and sheer despair. In every line of the boy’s drawn face–in his haggard eyes and trembling lips–in his dejected air–even in his dishevelled appearance (as Sir Archibald sadly thought)–failure was written. What the nature of that failure was Sir Archibald did not know. How it had come about he could not tell. But it was failure. It was failure–and there was no doubt about it. Sir Archibald’s great fatherly heart warmed towards the boy. He did not resent the brusque greeting; he understood. And Sir Archibald came at that moment nearer to putting his arms about his big son in the most sentimental fashion in the world than he had come in a good many years.

“Father,” said Archie, abruptly, “please sit down.”

Sir Archibald sat down.