Sea Urchins

“Then the major went into figgers, an’ worked out that it ‘ud take us about ten days to reach land and three to reach the bottom o’ the water kegs. He shouted that out to the mate; an’ the young leftenant what was in the mate’s boat smoking a big cigar said there’d be quite a run on granite tombstones. He said it was a blessed thing he had disinherited his children for marrying agin his wishes, so there wouldn’t be any orphans left to mourn for him.

“Some o’ the wimmin smiled a little at this, an’ old Mrs. Prendergast shook so that she made the boat rock. We got quite cheerful somehow, and one of the other men spoke up and said that owing to his only having reckoned two pints to the gallon, the major’s figgers wasn’t to be relied upon.

“We got more cheerful then, and we was beginning to look on it as just a picnic, when I’m blest if the mate’s boat didn’t put about and head for the ship agin.

“There was a commotion then if you like, everybody talking and laughing at once; and Mrs. Prendergast said that such a thing as one single-handed cap’n staying behind to go down with his ship, and then putting the fire out all by himself after his men had fled, had never been heard of before, an’ she believed it never would be again. She said he must be terribly burnt, and he’d have to be put to bed and wrapped up in oily rags.

“It didn’t take us long to get aboard agin, and the ladies fairly mobbed the skipper. Tom Hall swore as ‘ow Mrs. Prendergast tried to kiss him, an’ the fuss they made of him was ridiculous. I heard the clang of the telegraph in the engine-room soon as the boats was hoisted up, the engines started, and off we went again.

“‘Speech,’ yells out somebody. ‘Speech.’

“‘Bravo!’ ses the others. ‘Bravo!”

“Then the skipper stood up an’ made ‘em a nice little speech. First of all he thanked ‘em for their partiality and kindness shown to him, and the orderly way in which they had left the ship. He said it reflected credit on all concerned, crew and passengers, an’ no doubt they’d be surprised when he told them that there hadn’t been any fire at all, but that it was just a test to make sure that the boat drill was properly understood.

“He was quite right about them being surprised. Noisy, too, they was, an’ the things they said about the man they’d just been wanting to give granite tombstones to was simply astonishing. It would have taken a whole cemetery o’ tombstones to put down all they said about him, and then they’d ha’ had to cut the letters small.

“I vote we have an indignation meeting in the saloon to record our disgust at the cap’n’s behaviour,’ ses the major fiercely. ‘I beg to propose that Mr. Macpherson take the chair.’

“‘I second that,’ ses another, fierce-like.

“‘I beg to propose the major instead,’ ses somebody else in a heasy off-hand sort o’ way; ‘Mr. Macpherson’s boat not having come back yet.’

“At first everybody thought he was joking, but when they found he was really speaking the truth the excitement was awful. Fortunately, as Mrs. Prendergast remarked, there was no ladies in the boat, but there was several men passengers. We were doing a good thirteen knots an hour, but we brought up at once, an’ then we ‘ad the most lovely firework display I ever see aboard ship in my life. Blue lights and rockets and guns going all night, while we cruised slowly about, and the passengers sat on deck arguing as to whether the skipper would be hung or only imprisoned for life.

“It was daybreak afore we sighted them, just a little speck near the sky-line, an’ we bore down on them for all we was worth. Half an hour later they was alongside, an’ of all the chilly, miserable-looking men I ever see they was the worst.

“They had to be helped up the side a’most, and they was so grateful it was quite affecting, until the true state o’ things was explained to them. It seemed to change ‘em wonderful, an’ after Mr. Macpherson had had three cups o’ hot coffee an’ four glasses o’ brandy he took the chair at the indignation meeting, an’ went straight off to sleep in it. They woke him up three times, but he was so cross about it that the ladies had to go away an’ the meeting was adjourned.

“I don’t think it ever came to much after all, nobody being really hurt, an’ the skipper being so much upset they felt sort o’ sorry for ‘im.

“The rest of the passage was very quiet an’ comfortable, but o’ course it all came out at the other end, an’ the mate brought the ship home. Some o’ the chaps said the skipper was a bit wrong in the ‘ed, and, while I’m not gainsaying that, it’s my firm opinion that he was persuaded to do what he did by that young leftenant. As I said afore, he was a larky young chap, an’ very fond of a joke if he didn’t have to pay for it.”

BROTHER HUTCHINS

I’ve got a friend coming down with us this trip, George,” said the master of the Wave, as they sat on deck after tea watching the river. “One of our new members, Brother Hutchins.”

“From the Mission, I s’pose?” said the mate coldly.

“From the Mission,” confirmed the skipper. “You’ll like him, George; he’s been one o’ the greatest rascals that ever breathed.”

“Well, I don’t know what you mean,” said the mate, looking up indignantly.

“He’s ‘ad a most interestin’ life,” said the skipper; “he’s been in half the jails of England. To hear ‘im talk is as good as reading a book. And ‘e’s as merry as they make ‘em.”

“Oh, and is ‘e goin’ to give us prayers afore breakfast like that fat-necked, white-faced old rascal what came down with us last summer and stole my boots?” demanded the mate.

“He never stole ‘em, George,” said the skipper.

“If you’d ‘eard that man cry when I mentioned to ‘im your unjust suspicions, you’d never have forgiven yourself. He told ‘em at the meetin’, an’ they had prayers for you.”

“You an’ your Mission are a pack o’ fools,” said the mate scornfully. “You’re always being done. A man comes to you an’ ses ‘e’s found grace, and you find ‘im a nice, easy, comfortable living. ‘E sports a bit of blue ribbon and a red nose at the same time. Don’t tell me. You ask me why I don’t join you, and I tell you it’s because I don’t want to lose my commonsense.”

“You’ll know better one o’ these days, George,” said the skipper, rising. “I earnestly hope you’ll ‘ave some great sorrow or affliction, something almost too great for you to bear. It’s the only thing that’ll save you.”

“I expect that fat chap what stole my boots would like to see it too,” said the mate.

“He would,” said the skipper solemnly. “He said so.”

The mate got up, fuming and knocking his pipe out with great violence against the side of the schooner, stamped up and down the deck two or three times, and then, despairing of regaining his accustomed calm on board, went ashore.

It was late when he returned. A light burnt in the cabin, and the skipper with his spectacles on was reading aloud from an old number of the Evangelical Magazine to a thin, white-faced man dressed in black.

“That’s my mate,” said the skipper, looking up from his book.

“Is he one of our band?” inquired the stranger.

The skipper shook his head despondently.

“Not yet,” said the stranger encouragingly.

“Seen too many of ‘em,” said the mate bluntly. “The more I see of ‘em, the less I like ‘em. It makes me feel wicked to look at ‘em.”

“Ah, that ain’t you speaking now, it’s the Evil One,” said Mr. Hutchins confidently.

“I s’pose you know ‘im pretty well,” said the mate simply.

“I lived with him thirty years,” said Mr. Hutchins solemnly, “then I got tired of him.”

“I should think he got a bit sick too,” said the mate. “Thirty days ‘ud ha’ been too long for me.”

He went to his berth, to give Mr. Hutchins time to frame a suitable reply, and returned with a full bottle of whisky and a tumbler, and having drawn the cork with a refreshing pop, mixed himself a stiff glass and lit his pipe. Mr. Hutchins with a deep groan gazed reproachfully at the skipper and shook his head at the bottle.

“You know I don’t like you to bring that filthy stuff in the cabin, George,” said the skipper.

“It’s not for me,” said the mate flippantly. “It’s for the Evil One. He ses the sight of his old pal ‘Utchins ‘as turned his stomach.”

He glanced at the stranger and saw to his astonishment that he appeared to be struggling with a strong desire to laugh. His lips tightened and his shifty little eyes watered, but he conquered himself in a moment, and rising to his feet delivered a striking address in favour of teetotalism. He condemned whisky as not only wicked, but unnecessary, declaring with a side glance at the mate that two acidulated drops dissolved in water were an excellent substitute.

The sight of the whisky appeared to madden him, and the skipper sat spell-bound at his eloquence, until at length, after apostrophising the bottle in a sentence which left him breathless, he snatched it up and dashed it to pieces on the floor.

For a moment the mate was struck dumb with fury, then with a roar he leaped up and rushed for the lecturer, but the table was between them, and before he could get over it the skipper sprang up and seizing him by the arm, pushed his friend into the state-room.

“Lea’ go,” foamed the mate. “Let me get at him.”

“George,” said the skipper, still striving with him, “I’m ashamed of you.”

“Ashamed be damned,” yelled the mate, struggling. “What did he chuck my whisky away for?”