A Master Of Craft

“You don’t know me, Jack,” said the skipper, more in sorrow than in anger.

“No, I didn’t think you were quite so bad,” said the mate, slowly. “Is—Miss Tyrell—fond of you?”

“Of course she is,” said Flower, indignantly; “they all are, that’s the worst of it. You were never much of a favourite with the sex, Jack, were you?”

Fraser shook his head, and, the saucer being full, spooned the contents slowly back into the cup again.

“Captain Tyrell leave any money?” he enquired.

“Other way about,” replied Flower. “I lent him, altogether, close on a hundred pounds. He was a man of very good position, but he took to drink and lost his ship and his self-respect, and all he left behind was his debts and his daughter.”

“Well, you’re in a tight place,” said Fraser, “and I don’t see how you’re going to get out of it. Miss Tipping’s got a bit of a clue to you now, and if she once discovers you, you’re done. Besides, suppose Miss Tyrell finds anything out?”

“It’s all excitement,” said Flower, cheerfully. “I’ve been in worse scrapes than this and always got out of ‘em. I don’t like a quiet life. I never worry about things, Jack, because I’ve noticed that the things people worry about never happen.”

“Well, if I were you, then,” said the other, emphasizing his point with the spoon, “I should just worry as much as I could about it. I’d get up worrying and I’d go to bed worrying. I’d worry about it in my sleep.”

“I shall come out of it all right,” said Flower. “I rather enjoy it. There’s Gibson would marry Elizabeth like a shot if she’d have him; but, of course, she won’t look at him while I’m above ground. I have thought of getting somebody to tell Elizabeth a lot of lies about me.”

“Why, wouldn’t the truth do?” enquired the mate, artlessly.

The skipper turned a deaf ear. “But she wouldn’t believe a word against me,” he said, with mournful pride, as he rose and went on deck. “She trusts me too much.”

From his knitted brows, as he steered, it was evident, despite his confidence, that this amiable weakness on the part of Miss Banks was causing him some anxiety, a condition which was not lessened by the considerate behaviour of the mate, who, when any fresh complication suggested itself to him, dutifully submitted it to his commander.

“I shall be all right,” said Flower, confidently, as they entered the river the following afternoon and sailed slowly along the narrow channel which wound its sluggish way through an expanse of mud-banks to Seabridge.

The mate, who was suffering from symptoms hitherto unknown to him, made no reply. His gaze wandered idly from the sloping uplands, stretching away into the dim country on the starboard side, to the little church-crowned town ahead, with its out-lying malt houses and neglected, grass-grown quay, A couple of moribund ship’s boats lay rotting in the mud, and the skeleton of a fishing-boat completed the picture. For the first time perhaps in his life, the landscape struck him as dull and dreary.

Two men of soft and restful movements appeared on the quay as they approached, and with the slowness characteristic of the best work, helped to make them fast in front of the red-tiled barn which served as a warehouse. Then Captain Flower, after descending to the cabin to make the brief shore-going toilet necessary for Seabridge society, turned to give a last word to the mate.

“I’m not one to care much what’s said about me, Jack,” he began, by way of preface.

“That’s a good job for you,” said Fraser, slowly.

“Same time let the hands know I wish ‘em to keep their mouths shut,” pursued the skipper; “just tell them it was a girl that you knew, and I don’t want it talked about for fear of getting you into trouble. Keep me out of it; that’s all I ask.”

“If cheek will pull you through,” said Fraser, with a slight display of emotion, “you’ll do. Perhaps I’d better say that Miss Tyrell came to see me, too. How would you like that?”

“Ah, it would be as well,” said Flower, heartily. “I never thought of it.”

He stepped ashore, and at an easy pace walked along the steep road which led to the houses above. The afternoon was merging into evening, and a pleasant stillness was in the air. Menfolk working in their cottage gardens saluted him as he passed, and the occasional whiteness of a face at the back of a window indicated an interest in his affairs on the part of the fairer citizens of Seabridge. At the gate of the first of an ancient row of cottages, conveniently situated within hail of The Grapes, The Thorn, and The Swan, he paused, and walking up the trim-kept garden path, knocked at the door.

It was opened by a stranger—a woman of early middle age, dressed in a style to which the inhabitants of the row had long been unaccustomed. The practised eye of the skipper at once classed her as “rather good-looking.”

“Captain Barber’s in the garden,” she said, smiling. “He wasn’t expecting you’d be up just yet.”

The skipper followed her in silence, and, after shaking hands with the short, red-faced man with the grey beard and shaven lip, who sat with a paper on his knee, stood watching in blank astonishment as the stranger carefully filled the old man’s pipe and gave him a light. Their eyes meeting, the uncle winked solemnly at the nephew.

“This is Mrs. Church,” he said, slowly; “this is my nevy, Cap’n Fred Flower.”

“I should have known him anywhere,” declared Mrs. Church; “the likeness is wonderful.”

Captain Barber chuckled—loudly enough for them to hear.

“Me and Mrs. Church have been watering the flowers,” he said. “Give ‘em a good watering, we have.”

“I never really knew before what a lot there was in watering,” admitted Mrs. Church.

“There’s a right way and a wrong in doing everything,” said Captain Barber, severely; “most people chooses the wrong. If it wasn’t so, those of us who have got on, wouldn’t have got on.”

“That’s very true,” said Mrs. Church, shaking her head.

“And them as haven’t got on would have got on,” said the philosopher, following up his train of thought. “If you would just go out and get them things I spoke to you about, Mrs. Church, we shall be all right.”

“Who is it?” enquired the nephew, as soon as she had gone.

Captain Barber looked stealthily round, and, for the second time that evening, winked at his nephew.

“A visitor?” said Flower.

Captain Barber winked again, and then laughed into his pipe until it gurgled.

“It’s a little plan o’ mine.” he said, when he had become a little more composed. “She’s my housekeeper.”

“Housekeeper?” repeated the astonished Flower.

“Bein’ all alone here,” said Uncle Barber, “I think a lot. I sit an’ think until I get an idea. It comes quite sudden like, and I wonder I never thought of it before.”

“But what did you want a housekeeper for?” enquired his nephew. “Where’s Lizzie?”

“I got rid of her,” said Captain Barber. “I got a housekeeper because I thought it was time you got married. Now do you see?”

“No,” said Flower, shortly.

Captain Barber laughed softly and, relighting his pipe which had gone out, leaned back in his chair and again winked at his indignant nephew.

“Mrs. Banks,” he said, suggestively.

His nephew gazed at him blankly.

Captain Barber, sighing good-naturedly at his dulness, turned his chair a bit and explained the situation.

“Mrs. Banks won’t let you and Elizabeth marry till she’s gone,” said he.

His nephew nodded.

“I’ve been at her ever so long,” said the other, “but she’s firm. Now I’m trying artfulness. I’ve got a good-looking housekeeper—she’s the pick o’ seventeen what all come here Wednesday morning—and I’m making love to her.”