A Master Of Craft

Joe dashed boldly round with the lantern. There was a faint scream and an exclamation of triumph from the seaman. “I’ve got it!” he shouted.

The others followed hastily, and saw the fearless Joe firmly gripping the apparition. At the sight the cook furtively combed his hair with his fingers, while Tim modestly buttoned up his jacket.

“Take this lantern, so’s I can hold her better,” said Joe, extending it.

The cook took it from him, and holding it up, revealed the face of a tall, good-looking woman of some seven or eight and twenty.

“What are you doin’ here?” demanded the watchman, with official austerity.

“I’m waiting for a friend of mine,” said the visitor, struggling with Joe. “Make this man leave go of me, please.”

“Joe,” said the watchman, with severity. “I’m ashamed of you. Who is your friend, miss?”

“His name is Robinson,” said the lady. “He came on here about an hour ago. I’m waiting for him.”

“There’s nobody here,” said the watchman, shaking his head.

“I’m not sure he didn’t go on that little ship,” said the lady; “but if he has, I suppose I can wait here till he comes off. I’m not doing any harm.”

“The ship’ll sail in about an hour’s time, miss,” said Tim, regretfully, “but there ain’t nobody o’ the name of Robinson aboard her. All the crew’s ‘ere, and there’s only the skipper and mate on her besides.”

“You can’t deceive me, young man, so don’t try it,” said the lady, sharply. “I followed him on here, and he hasn’t gone off, because the gate has been locked since.”

“I can’t think who the lady means,” said Joe.

“I ain’t seen nobody come aboard. If he did, he’s down the cabin.”

“Well, I’ll go down there,” said the lady, promptly.

“Well, miss, it’s nothing to do with us,” said Joe, “but it’s my opinion you’ll find the skipper and mate has turned in.”

“Well, I’m going down,” said the lady, gripping her parasol firmly by the middle; “they can’t eat me.”

She walked towards the Foam, followed by the perplexed crew, and with the able assistance of five pairs of hands reached the deck. The companion was open, and at Joe’s whispered instructions she turned and descended the steps backwards.

It was at first quite dark in the cabin, but as the visitor’s eyes became accustomed to it, she could just discern the outlines of a small table, while a steady breathing assured her that somebody was sleeping close by. Feeling her way to the table she discovered, a locker, and, taking a seat, coughed gently. The breathing continuing quite undisturbed, she coughed again, twice.

The breathing stopped suddenly. “Who the devil’s that coughing?” asked a surprised voice.

“I beg pardon, I’m sure,” said the visitor, “but is there a Mr. Robinson down here?”

The reply was so faint and smothered that she could not hear it. It was evident that the speaker, a modest man, was now speaking from beneath the bedclothes.

“Is Mr. Robinson here?” she repeated loudly.

“Never heard of him,” said the smothered voice.

“It’s my opinion,” said the visitor, hotly, “that you’re trying to deceive me. Have you got a match?”

The owner of the voice said that he had not, and with chilly propriety added that he wouldn’t give it to her if he had. Whereupon the lady rose, and, fumbling on the little mantel-piece, found a box and struck one. There was a lamp nailed to the bulkhead over the mantel-piece, and calmly removing the chimney, she lit it.

A red, excited face, with the bedclothes fast about its neck, appeared in a small bunk and stared at her in speechless amaze. The visitor returned his gaze calmly, and then looked carefully round the cabin.

“Where does that lead to?” she asked, pointing to the door of the state-room.

The mate, remembering in time the mysterious behaviour of Flower, considered the situation. “That’s the pantry,” he said, untruthfully.

The visitor rose and tried the handle. The door was locked, and she looked doubtfully at the mate. “I suppose that’s a leg of mutton I can hear asleep in there,” she said, with acerbity.

“You can suppose what you like,” said the mate, testily; “why don’t you go away? I’m surprised at you.”

“You’ll be more surprised before I’ve done with you,” said the lady, with emotion. “My Fred’s in there, and you know it.”

“Your Fred!” said Fraser, in great surprise.

“Mr. Robinson,” said the visitor, correcting herself.

“I tell you there’s nobody in there except the skipper,” said the mate.

“You said it was the pantry just now,” exclaimed the other, sharply.

“The skipper sleeps in the pantry so’s he can keep his eye on the meat,” explained Fraser.

The visitor looked at him angrily. “What sort of a man is he?” she enquired, suddenly.

“You’ll soon know if he comes out,” said the mate. “He’s the worst-tempered man afloat, I should think. If he comes out and finds you here, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” said the other, with spirit. “What do you call him? Skipper?”

The mate nodded, and the visitor tapped loudly at the door. “Skipper!” she cried, “Skipper!”

No answer being vouchsafed, she repeated her cry in a voice louder than before.

“He’s a heavy sleeper,” said the perturbed Fraser; “better go away, there’s a good girl.”

The lady, scornfully ignoring him, rapped on the door and again called upon its occupant. Then, despite her assurance, she sprang back with a scream as a reply burst through the door with the suddenness and fury of a thunder-clap.

“Halloa!” it said.

“My goodness,” said the visitor, aghast. “What a voice! What a terrible voice!”

She recovered herself and again approached the door.

“Is there a gentleman named Robinson in there?” she asked, timidly.

“Gentleman named who?” came the thunderclap again.

“Robinson,” said the lady, faintly.