Many Cargoes

“Look here!” said the mate suddenly; “I’ve got an idea. You go down below and I’ll call him up and start rating him. When I’m in the thick of it you come and stick up for him.”

“George,” said the skipper, with glistening eyes, “you’re a wonder. Lay it on thick, and if he hits you I’ll make it up to you in some way.”

He went below, and the mate, after waiting for some time, leaned over the wheel and shouted for the cook.

“What do you want?” growled the “Bruiser,” as he thrust a visage all red and streaky with his work from the galley.

“Why the devil don’t you wash them saucepans up?” demanded the mate, pointing to a row which stood on the deck. “Do you think we shipped you becos we wanted a broken-nosed, tenth-rate prize-fighter to look at?”

“Tenth-rate!” roared the “Bruiser,” coming out on to the deck.

“Don’t you roar at your officer,” said the mate sternly. “Your manners is worse than your cooking. You’d better stay with us a few trips to improve ‘em.”

The “Bruiser” turned purple, and shivered with impotent wrath.

“We get a parcel o’ pot-house loafers aboard here,” continued the mate, airily addressing the atmosphere, “and, blank my eyes! if they don’t think they’re here to be waited on. You’ll want me to wash your face for you next, and do all your other dirty work, you—”

“George!” said a sad, reproving voice.

The mate started dramatically as the skipper appeared at the companion, and stopped abruptly.

“For shame, George!” said the skipper. “I never expected to hear you talk to anybody like that, especially to my friend Mr. Simmons.”

“Your WOT? demanded the friend hotly.

“My friend,” repeated the other gently; “and as to tenth-rate prize-fighters, George, the ‘Battersea Bruiser’ might be champion of England, if he’d only take the trouble to train.”

“Oh, you’re always sticking up for him,” said the artful mate.

“He deserves it,” said the skipper warmly. “He’s always run straight, ‘as Bill Simmons, and when I hear ‘im being talked at like that, it makes me go ‘ot all over.”

“Don’t you take the trouble to go ‘ot all over on my account,” said the “Bruiser” politely.

“I can’t help my feelings, Bill,” said the skipper softly.

“And don’t you call me Bill,” roared the “Bruiser” with sudden ferocity. “D’ye think I mind what you and your little tinpot crew say. You wait till we get ashore, my friend, and the mate too. Both of you wait!”

He turned his back on them and walked off to the galley, from which, with a view of giving them an object-lesson of an entertaining kind, he presently emerged with a small sack of potatoes, which he slung from the boom and used as a punching ball, dealing blows which made the master of the Frolic sick with apprehension.

“It’s no good,” he said to the mate; “kindness is thrown away on that man.”

“Well, if he hits one, he’s got to hit the lot,” said the mate. “We’ll all stand by you.”

“I can’t always have the crew follering me about,” said the skipper dejectedly. “No, he’ll wait his opportunity, and, after he’s broke my head, he’ll go ‘ome and break up my wife’s ‘art.”

“She won’t break ‘er ‘art,” said the mate confidently. “She and you’ll have a rough time of it; p’raps it would be better for you if she did break it a bit, but she’s not that sort of woman. Well, those of us as live longest’ll see the most.”

For the remainder of that day the cook maintained a sort of unnatural calm. The Frolic rose and fell on the seas like a cork, and the “Bruiser” took short unpremeditated little runs about the deck, which aggravated him exceedingly. Between the runs he folded his arms on the side, and languidly cursed the sea and all that belonged to it; and finally, having lost all desire for food himself, went below and turned in.

He stayed in his bunk the whole of the next day and night, awaking early the following morning to the pleasant fact that the motion had ceased, and that the sides and floor of the fo’c’sle were in the places where people of regular habits would expect to find them. The other bunks were empty, and, after a toilet hastened by a yearning for nourishment, he ran up on deck.

Day had just broken, and he found to his surprise that the voyage was over, and the schooner in a small harbour, lying alongside a stone quay. A few unloaded trucks stood on a railway line which ran from the harbour to the town clustered behind it, but there was no sign of work or life; the good people of the place evidently being comfortably in their beds, and in no hurry to quit them.

The “Bruiser,” with a happy smile on his face, surveyed the scene, sniffing with joy the smell of the land as it came fresh and sweet from the hills at the back of the town. There was only one thing wanting to complete his happiness—the skipper.

“Where’s the cap’n?” he demanded of Dowse, who was methodically coiling a line.

“Just gone ‘ome,” replied Dowse shortly.

In a great hurry the “Bruiser” sprang on to the side and stepped ashore, glancing keenly in every direction for his prey. There was no sign of it, and he ran a little way up the road until he saw the approaching figure of a man, from whom he hoped to obtain information. Then, happening to look back, he saw the masts of the schooner gliding by the quay, and, retracing his steps a little, perceived, to his intense surprise, the figure of the skipper standing by the wheel.

“Ta, ta, cookie!” cried the skipper cheerily.

Angry and puzzled the “Bruiser” ran back to the edge of the quay, and stood owlishly regarding the schooner and the grinning faces of its crew as they hoisted the sails and slowly swung around with their bow pointing to the sea.

“Well, they ain’t making a long stay, old man,” said a voice at his elbow, as the man for whom he had been waiting came up. “Why, they only came in ten minutes ago. What did they come in for, do you know?”

“They belong here,” said the “Bruiser”; “but me and the skipper’s had words, and I’m waiting for ‘im.”

“That craft don’t belong here,” said the stranger, as he eyed the receding Frolic.

“Yes, it does,” said the “Bruiser.”

“I tell you it don’t,” said the other. “I ought to know.”

“Look here, my friend,” said the “Bruiser” grimly, “don’t contradict me. That’s the Frolic of Fairhaven.”

“Very likely,” said the man. “I don’t know where she’s from, but she’s not from here.”

“Why,” said the “Bruiser,” and his voice shook, “ain’t this Fairhaven?”

“Lord love you, no!” said the stranger; “not by a couple o’ hundred miles it ain’t. Wot put that idea into your silly fat head?”

The frantic “Bruiser” raised his fist at the description, but at that moment the crew of the Frolic, which was just getting clear of the harbour, hung over the stern and gave three hearty cheers. The stranger was of a friendly and excitable disposition, and, his evil star being in the ascendant that morning, he took off his hat and cheered wildly back. Immediately afterwards he obtained unasked the post of whipping-boy to the master of the Frolic, and entered upon his new duties at once.