Many Cargoes

The mate smiled feebly, and glanced uneasily at the girl, who, with a fine colour and an air of vast unconcern, was looking straight in front of her; and it was a relief to both of them when they found themselves hesitating and dodging in front of a schooner which was coming up.

“Do you want all the river?” demanded the exasperated master of the latter vessel, running to the side as they passed. “Why don’t you drop anchor if you want to spoon?”

“Perhaps you ‘d better let me take the wheel a bit,” said the mate, not without a little malice in his voice.

“No; you can go an’ keep a look-out in the bows,” said the girl serenely. “It’ll prevent misunderstandings, too. Better take the potatoes with you and peel them for dinner.”

The mate complied, and the voyage proceeded in silence, the steering being rendered a little nicer than usual by various nautical sparks bringing their boats a bit closer than was necessary in order to obtain a good view of the fair steersman.

After dinner, the tide having turned and a stiff head-wind blowing, they brought up off Sheppey. It began to rain hard, and the crew of the Osprey, having made all snug above, retired to the cabin to resume their quarrel.

“Don’t mind me,” said Miss Cringle scathingly, as the mate lit his pipe.

“Well, I didn’t think you minded,” replied the mate; “the old man”—

“Who?” interrupted Miss Cringle, in a tone of polite inquiry.

“Captain Cringle,” said the mate, correcting himself, “smokes a great deal, and I’ve heard him say that you liked the smell of it.”

“There’s pipes and pipes,” said Miss Cringle oracularly.

The mate flung his on the floor and crunched it beneath his heel, then he thrust his hands in his pockets, and, leaning back, scowled darkly up at the rain as it crackled on the skylight.

“If you are going to show off your nasty temper,” said the girl severely, “you’d better go forward. It’s not quite the thing after all for you to be down here—not that I study appearances much.”

“I shouldn’t think you did,” retorted the mate, whose temper was rapidly getting the better of him. “I can’t think what your father was thinking of to let a pret—to let a girl like you come away like this.”

“If you were going to say pretty girl,” said Miss Cringle, with calm self-abnegation, “don’t mind me, say it. The captain knows what he’s about. He told me you were a milksop; he said you were a good young man and a teetotaller.”

The mate, allowing the truth of the captain’s statement as to his abstinence, hotly denied the charge of goodness. “I can understand your father’s hurry to get rid of you for a spell,” he concluded, being goaded beyond all consideration of politeness. “His gout ‘ud never get well while you were with him. More than that, I shouldn’t wonder if you were the cause of it.”

With this parting shot he departed, before the girl could think of a suitable reply, and went and sulked in the dingy little fo’c’sle.

In the evening, the weather having moderated somewhat, and the tide being on the ebb, they got under way again, the girl coming on deck fully attired in an oilskin coat and sou’-wester to resume the command. The rain fell steadily as they ploughed along their way, guided by the bright eye of the “Mouse” as it shone across the darkening waters. The mate, soaked to the skin, was at the wheel.

“Why don’t you go below and put your oilskins on?” inquired the girl, when this fact dawned upon her.

“Don’t want ‘em,” said the mate.

“I suppose you know best,” said the girl, and said no more until nine o’clock, when she paused at the companion to give her last orders for the night.

“I’m going to turn in,” said she; “call me at two o’clock. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said the other, and the girl vanished.

Left to himself, the mate, who began to feel chilly, felt in his pockets for a pipe, and was in all the stress of getting a light, when he heard a thin, almost mild voice behind him, and, looking round, saw the face of the girl at the companion.

“I say, are these your oilskins I’ve been wearing?” she demanded awkwardly.

“You’re quite welcome,” said the mate.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” said the girl indignantly. “I wouldn’t have worn them for anything if I had known it.”

“Well, they won’t poison you,” said the mate resentfully. “Your father left his at Ipswich to have ‘em cobbled up a bit.”

The girl passed them up on the deck, and, closing the companion with a bang, disappeared. It is possible that the fatigues of the day had been too much for her, for when she awoke, and consulted the little silver watch that hung by her bunk, it was past five o’clock, and the red glow of the sun was flooding the cabin as she arose and hastily dressed.

The deck was drying in white patches as she went above, and the mate was sitting yawning at the wheel, his eyelids red for want of sleep.

“Didn’t I tell you to call me at two o’clock?” she demanded, confronting him.

“It’s all right,” said the mate. “I thought when you woke would be soon enough. You looked tired.”

“I think you’d better go when we get to Ipswich,” said the girl, tightening her lips. “I’ll ship somebody who’ll obey orders.”

“I’ll go when we get back to London,” said the mate. “I’ll hand this barge over to the cap’n, and nobody else.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said the girl, as she took the wheel, “I think you’ll go at Ipswich.”

For the remainder of the voyage the subject was not alluded to; the mate, in a spirit of sulky pride, kept to the fore part of the boat, except when he was steering, and, as far as practicable, the girl ignored his presence. In this spirit of mutual forbearance they entered the Orwell, and ran swiftly up to Ipswich.

It was late in the afternoon when they arrived there, and the new skipper, waiting only until they were made fast, went ashore, leaving the mate in charge. She had been gone about an hour when a small telegraph boy appeared, and, after boarding the barge in the unsafest manner possible, handed him a telegram. The mate read it and his face flushed. With even more than the curtness customary in language at a halfpenny a word, it contained his dismissal.

“I’ve had a telegram from your father sacking me,” he said to the girl, as she returned soon after, laden with small parcels.

“Yes, I wired him to,” she replied calmly. “I suppose you’ll go NOW?”

“I’d rather go back to London with you,” he said slowly.

“I daresay,” said the girl. “As a matter of fact I wasn’t really meaning for you to go, but when you said you wouldn’t I thought we’d see who was master. I’ve shipped another mate, so you see I haven’t lost much time.”

“Who is he,” inquired the mate.

“Man named Charlie Lee,” replied the girl; “the foreman here told me of him.”

“He’d no business too,” said the mate, frowning; “he’s a loose fish; take my advice now and ship somebody else. He’s not at all the sort of chap I’d choose for you to sail with.”

“You’d choose,” said the girl scornfully; “dear me, what a pity you didn’t tell me before.”

“He’s a public-house loafer,” said the mate, meeting her eye angrily, “and about as bad as they make ‘em; but I s’pose you’ll have your own way.”

“He won’t frighten me,” said the girl. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you. Good evening.”

The mate stepped ashore with a small bundle, leaving the remainder of his possessions to go back to London with the barge. The girl watched his well-knit figure as it strode up the quay until it was out of sight, and then, inwardly piqued because he had not turned round for a parting glance, gave a little sigh, and went below to tea.

The docile and respectful behaviour of the new-comer was a pleasant change to the autocrat of the Osprey, and cargoes were worked out and in without an unpleasant word. They laid at the quay for two days, the new mate, whose home was at Ipswich, sleeping ashore, and on the morning of the third he turned up punctually at six o’clock, and they started on their return voyage.

“Well, you do know how to handle a craft,” said Lee admiringly, as they passed down the river. “The old boat seems to know it’s got a pretty young lady in charge.”