A Master Of Craft

“I didn’t dream you’d come down here,” he said, at length.

“No, you never invited me, so I came without,” said the girl softly; “it’s a dear little schooner, and I like it very much. I shall come often.”

A slight shade passed over Captain Flower’s face, but he said nothing.

“You must take me back now,” said Miss Tyrell. “Good-bye, Mr. Fraser.”

She held out her hand to the mate, and giving a friendly pressure, left the cabin, followed by Flower.

The mate let them get clear of the ship, and then, clambering on to the jetty, watched them off the wharf, and, plunging his hands into his pockets, whistled softly.

“Poppy Tyrell,” he said to himself, slowly. “Poppy Tyrell! I wonder why the skipper has never mentioned her. I wonder why she took his arm. I wonder whether she knows that he’s engaged to be married.”

Deep in thought he paced slowly up and down the wharf, and then wandered listlessly round the piled-up empties and bags of sugar in the open floor beneath the warehouse. A glance through the windows of the office showed him the watchman slumbering peacefully by the light of a solitary gas-jet, and he went back to the schooner and gazed at the dark water and the dim shapes of the neighbouring craft in a vein of gentle melancholy. He walked to the place where her chair had been, and tried to conjure up the scene again; then, becoming uncertain as to the exact spot, went down to the cabin, where, the locker being immovable, no such difficulty presented itself. He gazed his fill, and then, smoking a meditative pipe, turned in and fell fast asleep.

He was awakened suddenly from a dream of rescuing a small shark surrounded by a horde of hungry Poppies, by the hurried and dramatic entrance of Captain Fred Flower. The captain’s eyes were wild and his face harassed, and he unlocked the door of his state-room and stood with the handle of it in his hand before he paused to answer the question in the mate’s sleepy eyes.

“It’s all right, Jack,” he said, breathlessly.

“I’m glad of that,” said the mate, calmly.

“I hurried a bit,” said the skipper.

“Anxious to see me again, I suppose,” said the mate; “what are you listening for?”

“Thought I heard somebody in the water as I came aboard,” said Flower glibly.

“What have you been up to?” enquired the other, quickly.

Captain Flower turned and regarded him with a look of offended dignity.

“Good heavens! don’t look like that,” said the mate, misreading it. “You haven’t chucked anybody overboard, have you?”

“If anybody should happen to come aboard this vessel,” said Flower, without deigning to reply to the question, “and ask questions about the master of it, he’s as unlike me, Jack, as any two people in this world can be. D’ye understand?”

“You’d better tell me what you’ve been up to,” urged the mate.

“As for your inquisitiveness, Jack, it don’t become you,” said Flower, with severity; “but I don’t suppose it’ll be necessary to trouble you at all.”

He walked out of the cabin and stood listening at the foot of the companion-ladder, and the mate heard him walk a little way up. When he reentered the cabin his face had cleared, and he smiled comfortably.

“I shall just turn in for an hour,” he said, amiably; “good-night, Jack.”

“Good-night,” said the curious mate. “I say–” he sat up suddenly in his bunk and looked seriously at the skipper.

“Well?” said the other.

“I suppose,” said the mate, with a slight cough—“I suppose it’s nothing about that girl that was down here?”

“Certainly not,” said Flower, violently. He extinguished the lamp, and, entering his state-room, closed the door and locked it, and the mate, after lying a little while drowsily wondering what it all meant, fell asleep again.

CHAPTER II

WHILE the skipper and mate slumbered peacefully below, the watchman sat on a post at the extreme end of the jetty, yearning for human society and gazing fearfully behind him at the silent, dimly-lit wharf. The two gas-lamps high up on the walls gave but a faint light, and in no way dispelled the deep shadows thrown by the cranes and the piled-up empties which littered the place. He gazed intently at the dark opening of the floor beneath the warehouse, half fancying that he could again discern the veiled apparition which had looked in at him through the office window, and had finally vanished before his horror-struck eyes in a corner the only outlet to which was a grating. Albeit a careful man and tender, the watchman pinched himself. He was awake, and, rubbing the injured part, swore softly.

“If I go down and tell ‘em,” he murmured softly, in allusion to the crew, “what’ll they do? Laugh at me.”

He glanced behind him again, and, rising hastily to his feet, nearly fell on to the deck below as a dark figure appeared for a moment at the opening and then vanished again. With more alacrity than might have been expected of a man of his figure, he dropped into the rigging and lowered himself on to the schooner.

The scuttle was open, and the seamen’s lusty snores fell upon his ears like sweet music. He backed down the ladder, and groped in the darkness towards the bunks with outstretched hand. One snore stopped instantly.

“Eh!” said a sleepy voice. “Wot! ‘Ere, what the blazes are you up to?”

“A’ right, Joe,” said the watchman, cheerfully.

“But it ain’t all right,” said the seaman, sharply, “comin’ down in the dark an’ ketchin’ ‘old o’ people’s noses. Give me quite a start, you did.”

“It’s nothing to the start I’ve ‘ad,” said the other, pathetically; “there’s a ghost on the wharf, Joe. I want you to come up with me and see what it is.

“Yes, I’m sure to do that,” said Joe, turning over in his bunk till it creaked with his weight. “Go away, and let me get to sleep again. I don’t get a night’s rest like you do, you know.”

“What’s the matter?” enquired a sleepy voice.

“Old George ‘ere ses there’s a ghost on the wharf,” said Joe.

“I’ve seen it three times,” said the watchman, eager for sympathy.

“I expect it’s a death-warning for you, George,” said the voice, solemnly. “The last watchman died sudden, you remember.”

“So he did,” said Joe.

“His ‘art was wrong,” said George, curtly; “‘ad been for years.”

“Well, we can’t do nothin’ for you, George,” said Joe, kindly; “it’s no good us going up. We sha’n’t see it. It isn’t meant for us.”

“‘Ow d’yer know it’s a ghost,” said a third voice, impatiently; “very likely while you’re all jawing about it down ‘ere it’s a-burglin’ the offis.”

Joe gave a startled grunt, and, rolling out of his bunk, grabbed his trousers, and began to dress. Three other shadowy forms followed suit, and, hastily dressing, followed the watchman on deck and gained the wharf. They went through the gloomy ground floor in a body, yawning sleepily.

“I shouldn’t like to be a watchman,” said a young ordinary seaman named Tim, with a shiver; “a ghost might easy do anything with you while you was all alone. P’r’aps it walks up an’ down behind you, George, makin’ faces. We shall be gorn in another hour, George.”

The office, when they reached it, was undisturbed, and, staying only long enough to drink the watchman’s coffee, which was heating on a gas-jet, they left it and began to search the wharf, Joe leading with a small lantern.

“Are we all ‘ere?” demanded Tim, suddenly.

“I am,” said the cook, emphatically.

“‘Cos I see su’thing right behind them bags o’ sugar,” said the youth, clutching hold of the cook on one side and the watchman on the other. “Spread out a bit, chaps.”