A Master Of Craft

“Those of us who live longest’ll see the most,” said Mrs. Tipping, calmly.

An hour or two passed, the mate sitting smoking with a philosophy which he hoped the waiting mariner at the “Admiral Cochrane” would be able to imitate. He lit the lamp at last, and going on deck, ordered the cook to prepare supper.

Mother and daughter, with feelings of gratitude, against which they fought strongly, noticed that the table was laid for three, and a little later, in a somewhat awkward fashion, they all sat down to the meal together.

“Very good beef,” said Mrs. Tipping, politely.

“Very nice,” said her daughter, who was ex-changing glances with the mate. “I suppose you’re very comfortable here, Mr. Fraser?”

The mate sighed. “It’s all right when the old man’s away,” he said, deceitfully. “He’s got a dreadful temper.”

“I hope you didn’t get into trouble through my coming aboard the other night,” said Miss Tipping, softly.

“Don’t say anything about it,” replied the mate, eyeing her admiringly. “I’d do more than that for you, if I could.”

Miss Tipping, catching her mother’s eye, bestowed upon her a glance of complacent triumph.

“You don’t mind us coming down here, do you?” she said, languishingly.

“I wish you’d live here,” said the unscrupulous Fraser; “but of course I know you only come here to try and see that fellow Robinson,” he added, gloomily.

“I like to see you, too,” was the reply. “I like you very much, as a friend.”

The mate in a melancholy voice thanked her, and to the great annoyance of the cook, who had received strict orders from the forecastle to listen as much as he could, sat in silence while the table was cleared.

“What do you say to a hand at cards?” he said, after the cook had finally left the cabin.

“Three-handed cribbage,” said Mrs. Tipping, quickly; “it’s the only game worth playing.”

No objection being raised, the masterful lady drew closer to the table, and concentrating energies of no mean order on the game, successfully played hands of unvarying goodness, aided by a method of pegging which might perhaps be best described as dot and carry one.

“You haven’t seen anything of this Mr. Robinson since you were here last, I suppose?” said Fraser, noting with satisfaction that both ladies gave occasional uneasy glances at the clock.

“No, an’ not likely to,” said Mrs. Tipping; “fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and a pair’s eight.”

“Where’s the fifteen six?” enquired Fraser, glancing over.

“Eight and seven,” said the lady, pitching the cards with the others and beginning to shuffle for the next deal.

“It’s very strange behaviour,” said the mate; “Robinson, I mean. Do you think he’s dead?”

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Tipping, briefly. “Where’s that captain of yours?”

Fraser, whose anxiety was becoming too much for his play, leaned over the table as though about to speak, and then, apparently thinking better of it, went on with the game.

“Eh?” said Mrs. Tipping, putting her cards face downwards on the table and catching his eye. “Where?”

“O, nowhere,” said Fraser, awkwardly. “I don’t want to be dragged into this, you know. It isn’t my business.”

“If you know where he is, why can’t you tell us?” asked Mrs. Tipping, softly. “There’s no harm in that.”

“What’s the good?” enquired Fraser, in a low voice; “when you’ve seen the old man you won’t be any forwarder—he wouldn’t tell you anything even if he knew it.”

“Well, we’d like to see him,” said Mrs. Tipping, after a pause.

“You see, you put me in a difficulty,” said Fraser; “if the skipper doesn’t come aboard, you’re going with us, I understand?”

Mrs. Tipping nodded. “Exactly,” she said, sharply.

“That’ll get me into trouble, if anything will,” said the mate, gloomily. “On the other hand, if I tell you where he is now, that’ll get me into trouble, too.”

He sat back and drummed on the table with his fingers. “Well, I’ll risk it,” he said, at length; “you’ll find him at 17, Beaufort Street, Bow.”

The younger woman sprang excitedly to her feet, but Mrs. Tipping, eyeing the young man with a pair of shrewd, small eyes, kept her seat.

“And while we’re going, how do we know the capt’n won’t come back and go off with the ship?” she enquired.

Fraser hesitated. “Well, I’ll come with you, if you like,” he said, slowly.

“And suppose they go away and leave you, behind?” objected Mrs. Tipping.

“Oh, well, you’d better stay then,” said the mate, wearily, “unless we take a couple of the hands with us. How would that suit you? They can’t sail with half a crew.”

Mrs. Tipping, who was by no means as anxious for a sea voyage as she tried to make out, carefully pondered the situation. “I’m going to take an arm of each of ‘em and Matilda’ll take yours,” she said, at length.

“As you please,” said Fraser, and in this way the procession actually started up the wharf, and looking back indignantly over its shoulder saw the watchman and Ben giving way to the most unseemly mirth, while the cook capered joyously behind them. A belated cab was passing the gate as they reached it, and in response to the mate’s hail pulled sharply up.

Mrs. Tipping, pushing her captives in first, stepped heavily into the cab followed by her daughter, while the mate, after a brief discussion, clambered onto the box.

“Go on,” he said, nodding.

“Wot, ain’t the rest of you comin’?” enquired the cabman, eyeing the crowd at the gate, in pained surprise.

“No. 17, Beaufort Street, Bow,” said Mrs. Tipping, distinctly, as she put her head out of the window.

“You could sit on ‘er lap,” continued the cabman, appealingly.

No reply being vouchsafed to this suggestion, he wrapped himself up in various rugs and then sat down suddenly before they could unwind themselves. Then, with a compassionate “click” to his horse, started up the road. Except for a few chance wayfarers and an occasional coffee-stall, the main streets were deserted, but they were noisy compared with Beaufort Street. Every house was in absolute darkness as the cab, with instinctive deference to slumber, crawled slowly up and down looking for No. 17.

It stopped at last, and the mate, springing down, opened the door, and handing out the ladies, led the way up a flight of steps to the street door.

“Perhaps you won’t mind knocking,” he said to Mrs. Tipping, “and don’t forget to tell the cap’n I’ve done this to oblige you because you insisted upon it.”

Mrs. Tipping, seizing the knocker, knocked loud and long, and after a short interval repeated the performance. Somebody was heard stirring upstairs, and a deep voice cried out that it was coming, and peremptorily requested them to cease knocking.

“That’s not Flower’s voice,” said Fraser.

“Not loud enough,” said Miss Tipping.