












THE FLOATING LIGHT OF THE GOODWIN SANDS, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.



PREFACE.

This tale, reader--if you read it through--will give you some insight
into the condition, value, and vicissitudes of the light-vessels, or
floating lighthouses, which guard the shores of this kingdom, and mark
the dangerous shoals lying off some of our harbours and roadsteads.  It
will also convey to you--if you don't skip--a general idea of the life
and adventures of some of the men who have manned these interesting and
curious craft in time past, as well as give you some account of the
sayings and doings of several other personages more or less connected
with our coasts.  May you read it with pleasure and profit, and--"may
your shadow never be less."

I gratefully express my acknowledgment and tender my best thanks to the
Elder Brethren of the Trinity House, to whose kindness I am indebted for
having been permitted to spend a week on board the Gull-stream
light-vessel, one of the three floating-lights which mark the Goodwin
Sands; and to Robin Allen, Esquire, Secretary to the Trinity House, who
has kindly furnished me with valuable books, papers, and information.  I
have also gratefully to tender my best thanks to Captain Valle, District
Superintendent under the Trinity House at Ramsgate, for the ready and
extremely kind manner in which he afforded me every facility for
visiting the various light-vessels and buoys of his district, and for
observing the nature and duties of the service.

To the master of the Gull, whose "bunk" I occupied while he was on
shore--to Mr John Leggett, the mate, who was in command during the
period of my visit--and to the men of the "Floating-light" I have to
offer my heartfelt thanks for not only receiving me with generous
hospitality, but for treating me with hearty goodwill during my pleasant
sojourn with them in their interesting and peculiar home.

My best thanks, for much useful and thrilling information, are due to
Mr Isaac Jarman, the coxswain, and Mr Fish, the bowman, of the
Ramsgate Lifeboat-men who may be said to carry their lives continually
in their hands, and whose profession it is to go out at the call of duty
and systematically grapple with Death and rob him of his prey.  To the
Harbour Master, and Deputy Harbour Master at Ramsgate, I am also
indebted for information and assistance, and to Mr Reading, the master
of the Aid steam-tug, which attends upon, and shares the perils of, the
Lifeboat.

R.M.  BALLANTYNE.

EDINBURGH, 1870.



CHAPTER ONE.

PARTICULAR INQUIRIES.

A light--clear, ruddy and brilliant, like a huge carbuncle--uprose one
evening from the deep, and remained hovering about forty feet above the
surface, scattering its rays far and wide, over the Downs to Ramsgate
and Deal, along the coast towards Dover, away beyond the North Foreland,
across the Goodwin Sands, and far out upon the bosom of the great North
Sea.

It was a chill November evening, when this light arose, in the year--
well, it matters not what year.  We have good reasons, reader, for
shrouding this point in mystery.  It may have been recently; it may have
been "long, long ago."  We don't intend to tell.  It was not the first
time of that light's appearance, and it certainly was not the last.  Let
it suffice that what we are about to relate did happen, sometime or
other within the present century.

Besides being cold, the evening in question was somewhat
stormy--"gusty," as was said of it by a traveller with a stern visage
and remarkably keen grey eyes, who entered the coffee-room of an hotel
which stood on the margin of Ramsgate harbour facing the sea, and from
the upper windows of which the light just mentioned was visible.

"It is, sir," said the waiter, in reply to the "gusty" observation,
stirring the fire while the traveller divested himself of his hat and
greatcoat.

"Think it's going to blow hard?" inquired the traveller, planting
himself firmly on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his
thumbs hooked into the armholes of his waistcoat.

"It may, sir, and it may not," answered the waiter, with the caution of
a man who has resolved, come what may, never to commit himself.
"Sometimes it comes on to blow, sir, w'en we don't look for it; at other
times it falls calm w'en we least expects it.  I don't pretend to
understand much about the weather myself, sir, but I shouldn't wonder if
it _was_ to come on to blow 'ard.  It ain't an uncommon thing at
Ramsgate, sir."

The traveller, who was a man of few words, said "Humph!" to which the
waiter dutifully replied "Yessir," feeling, no doubt, that the
observation was too limited to warrant a lengthened rejoinder.

The waiter of the Fortress Hotel had a pleasant, sociable, expressive
countenance, which beamed into a philanthropic smile as he added--

"Can I do anything for you, sir?"

"Yes--tea," answered the traveller with the keen grey eyes, turning, and
poking the fire with the heel of his boot.

"Anything _with_ it, sir?" asked the waiter with that charmingly
confident air peculiar to his class, which induces one almost to believe
that if a plate of elephant's foot or a slice of crocodile's tail were
ordered it would be produced, hot, in a few minutes.

"D'you happen to know a man of the name of Jones in the town?" demanded
the traveller, facing round abruptly.

The waiter replied that he had the pleasure of knowing at least seven
Joneses in the town.

"Does one of the seven deal largely in cured fish and own a small
sloop?" asked the traveller.

"Yessir, he do, but he don't live in Ramsgate; he belongs to Yarmouth,
sir, comes 'ere only now and then."

"D'you know anything about him?"

"No, sir, he don't frequent this 'otel."

The waiter said this in a tone which showed that he deemed that fact
sufficient to render Jones altogether unworthy of human interest; "but I
believe," he added slowly, "that he is said to 'ave plenty of money,
bears a bad character, and is rather fond of his bottle, sir."

"You know nothing more?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Ham and eggs, dry toast and shrimps," said the keen-eyed traveller in
reply to the reiterated question.

Before these viands were placed on the table the brief twilight had
passed away and darkness en-shrouded land and sea.  After they had been
consumed the traveller called for the latest local paper, to which he
devoted himself for an hour with unflagging zeal--reading it straight
through, apparently, advertisements and all, with as much diligence as
if it were a part of his professional business to do so.  Then he tossed
it away, rang the bell, and ordered a candle.

"I suppose," he said, pointing towards the sea, as he was about to quit
the room, "that that is the floating light?"

"It is one of 'em, sir," replied the waiter.  "There are three lights on
the sands, sir; the Northsan 'ead, the Gull-stream, and the Southsan
'ead.  That one, sir, is the Gull."

"How far off may it be?"

"About four miles, sir."

"What is the mate's name?"

"Welton, sir, John Welton."

"Is he aboard just now?"

"Yessir, it's the master's month ashore.  The master and mate 'ave it
month an' month about, sir--one month afloat, next month ashore; but it
seems to me, sir, that they have 'arder work w'en ashore than they 'ave
w'en afloat--lookin' after the Trinity stores, sir, an' goin' off in the
tender to shift and paint the buoys an' such like; but then you see,
sir, w'en it's their turn ashore they always gits home to spend the
nights with their families, sir, w'ich is a sort of compensation, as it
were,--that's where it is, sir."

"Humph! d'you know what time it is slack water out there in the
afternoon just now?"

"About three o'clock, sir."

"Call me at nine to-morrow; breakfast at half-past; beefsteaks, coffee,
dry toast.  Good-night."

"Yessir--good-night, sir--Number 27, sir, first floor, left-hand side."

Number 27 slammed his door with that degree of violence which indicates
a stout arm and an easy conscience.  In less than quarter of an hour the
keen grey eyes were veiled in slumber, as was proved unmistakably to the
household by the sounds that proceeded from the nose to which these eyes
belonged.

It is not unfrequently found that strength of mind, vigour of body, high
colour, and a tremendous appetite are associated with great capacity for
snoring.  The man with the keen grey eyes possessed all these qualities,
as well as a large chin and a firm mouth, full of very strong white
teeth.  He also possessed the convenient power of ability to go to sleep
at a moment's notice and to remain in that felicitous condition until he
chose to awake.  His order to be "called" in the morning had reference
merely to hot water; for at the time of which we write men were still
addicted to the ridiculous practice of shaving--a practice which, as
every one knows, is now confined chiefly to very old men--who naturally
find it difficult to give up the bad habit of a lifetime--and to little
boys, who _erroneously_ suppose that the use of a sharp penknife will
hasten Nature's operations.

Exactly at nine o'clock, a knock at the door and "'Ot water, sir,"
sounded in the ears of Nunber 27.  At half-past nine precisely Number 27
entered the coffee-room, and was so closely followed by the waiter with
breakfast that it seemed as if that self-sacrificing functionary had sat
up all night keeping the meal hot in order to testify, by excessive
punctuality, the devotion of his soul to duty.

The keen-eyed man had a keen appetite, if one might judge from
appearances in such a matter.  A thick underdone steak that overwhelmed
his plate appeared to melt away rapidly from before him.  Potatoes he
disposed of in two bites each; small ones were immolated whole.  Of
mustard he used as much as might have made a small-sized plaster; pepper
he sowed broadcast; he made no account whatever of salt, and sugar was
as nothing before him.  There was a peculiar crash in the sound produced
by the biting of his toast, which was suggestive at once of irresistible
power and thorough disintegration.  Coffee went down in half-cup gulps;
shrimps disappeared in shoals, shells and all; and--in short, his
proceedings might have explained to an intelligent observer how it is
that so many men grow to be exceedingly fat, and why it is that hotel
proprietors cannot afford to lower their apparently exorbitant charges.
The waiter, standing modestly by, and looking on with solemn interest,
mentally attributed the traveller's extraordinary powers and high health
to the fact that he neither smoked nor drank.  It would be presumptuous
in us to hazard a speculation on this subject in the face of an opinion
held by one who was so thoroughly competent to judge.

Breakfast over, the keen-eyed man put on his hat and overcoat and
sallied forth to the harbour, where he spent the greater part of the
forenoon in loitering about, inspecting the boats--particularly the
lifeboat--and the shipping with much interest, and entering into
conversation with the boatmen who lounged upon the pier.  He was very
gracious to the coxswain of the lifeboat--a bluff, deep-chested, hearty,
neck-or-nothing sort of man, with an intelligent eye, almost as keen as
his own, and a manner quite as prompt.  With this coxswain he conversed
long about the nature of his stirring and dangerous duties.  He then
made inquiry about his crew: how many men he had, and their
circumstances; and, by the way, whether any of them happened to be named
Jones.  One of them was so named, the coxswain said--Tom Jones.  This
led the traveller to ask if Tom Jones owned a small sloop.  No, he
didn't own a sloop, not even a boat.  Was there any other Jones in the
town who owned a small sloop and dealt largely in cured fish?  Yes there
was, and he was a regular gallow's-bird, if all reports were true, the
coxswain told him.

The traveller did not press the subject long.  Having brought it up as
it were incidentally, he dismissed it carelessly, and again concentrated
his attention and interest on the lifeboat.

To all the men with whom he conversed this bluff man with the keen grey
eyes put the same question, and he so contrived to put it that it seemed
to be a matter of comparatively little interest to him whether there was
or was not a man of the name of Jones in the town.  Nevertheless, he
gained all the information about Jones that he desired, and then, hiring
a boat, set out for the floating light.

The weather, that had appeared threatening during the night, suddenly
became calm and fine, as if to corroborate the statement of the waiter
of the Fortress Hotel in regard to its uncertainty; but knowing men in
oilcloth sou'westers and long boots gave it as their opinion that the
weather was not to be trusted.  Fortunately for the traveller, it
remained trustworthy long enough to serve his purpose.  The calm
permitted his boat to go safely alongside of the light-ship, and to
climb up the side without difficulty.

The vessel in which he found himself was not by any means what we should
style clipper-built--quite the reverse.  It was short for its length,
bluff in the bows, round in the stern, and painted all over, excepting
the mast and deck, of a bright red colour, like a great scarlet dragon,
or a gigantic boiled lobster.  It might have been mistaken for the first
attempt in the ship-building way of an infatuated boy, whose
acquaintance with ships was founded on hearsay, and whose taste in
colour was violently eccentric.  This remarkable thing had one immense
mast in the middle of it, supported by six stays, like the Norse galleys
of old, but it had no yards; for, although the sea was indeed its home,
and it incessantly braved the fury of the storm, diurnally cleft the
waters of flood and ebb-tide, and gallantly breasted the billows of
ocean all the year round, it had no need of sails.  It never advanced an
inch on its course, for it had no course.  It never made for any port.
It was never either homeward or outward bound.  No streaming eyes ever
watched its departure; no beating hearts ever hailed its return.  Its
bowsprit never pointed either to "Greenland's icy mountains, or India's
coral strand," for it had no bowsprit at all.  Its helm was never swayed
to port or starboard, although it _had_ a helm, because the vessel
turned submissive with the tides, and its rudder, being lashed hard and
fast amidships--like most weather-cocks--couldn't move.  Its doom was to
tug perpetually, day and night, from year to year, at a gigantic anchor
which would not let go, and to strain at a monster chain-cable which
would not snap--in short, to strive for ever, like Sisyphus, after
something which can never be attained.

A sad destiny, some may be tempted to exclaim.  No, reader, not so sad
as it appears.  We have presented but one side of the picture.  That
curious, almost ridiculous-looking craft, was among the aristocracy of
shipping.  Its important office stamped it with nobility.  It lay there,
conspicuous in its royal colour, from day to day and year to year, to
mark the fair-way between the white cliffs of Old England and the
outlying shoals--distinguished in daylight by a huge ball at its
mast-head, and at night by a magnificent lantern with argand lamps and
concave reflectors, which shot its rays like lightning far and wide over
the watery waste, while, in thick weather, when neither ball nor light
could be discerned, a sonorous gong gave its deep-toned warning to the
approaching mariner, and let him know his position amid the surrounding
dangers.  Without such warnings by night and by day, the world would
suffer the loss of thousands of lives and untold millions of gold.
Indeed the mere absence of such warnings for one stormy night would
certainly result in loss irreparable to life and property.  As well
might Great Britain dispense with her armies as with her floating
lights!  That boiled-lobster-like craft was also, if we may be allowed
to say so, stamped with magnanimity, because its services were
disinterested and universal.  While other ships were sailing grandly to
their ports in all their canvas panoply, and swelling with the pride of
costly merchandise within, each unmindful of the other, _this_ ship
remained floating there, destitute of cargo, either rich or poor, never
in port, always on service, serene in all the majesty of her one settled
self-sacrificing purpose--to guide the converging navies of the world
safely past the dangerous shoals that meet them on their passage to the
world's greatest port, the Thames, or to speed them safely thence when
outward-bound.  That unclipperly craft, moreover, was a gallant vessel,
because its post was one of danger.  When other ships fled on the wings
of terror--or of storm trysails--to seek refuge in harbour and
roadstead, this one merely lengthened her cable--as a knight might shake
loose the reins of his war-horse on the eve of conflict--and calmly
awaited the issue, prepared to let the storm do its worst, and to meet
it with a bold front.  It lay right in the Channel, too, "i' the
imminent deadly breach," as it were, prepared to risk encounter with the
thousands of ships, great and small, which passed to and fro
continually;--to be grazed and fouled by clumsy steersmen, and to be run
into at night by unmanageable wrecks or derelicts; ready for anything in
fact--come weal come woe, blow high blow low--in the way of duty, for
this vessel was the Floating Light that marked the Gull-stream off the
celebrated and fatal Goodwin Sands.



CHAPTER TWO.

THE FLOATING LIGHT BECOMES THE SCENE OF FLOATING SURMISES AND VAGUE
SUSPICIONS.

It must not be supposed, from what has been said, that the Gull
Lightship was the only vessel of the kind that existed at that time.
But she was a good type of the class of vessels (numbering at present
about sixty) to which she belonged, and, both as regarded her situation
and duties, was, and still is, one of the most interesting among the
floating lights of the kingdom.

When the keen-eyed traveller stepped upon her well-scrubbed deck, he was
courteously received by the mate, Mr John Welton, a strongly-built man
above six feet in height, with a profusion of red hair, huge whiskers,
and a very peculiar expression of countenance, in which were united calm
self-possession, coolness, and firmness, with great good-humour and
affability.

"You are Mr Welton, I presume?" said the traveller abruptly, touching
his hat with his forefinger in acknowledgment of a similar salute from
the mate.

"That is my name, sir."

"Will you do me the favour to read this letter?" said the traveller,
selecting a document from a portly pocket-book, and presenting it.

Without reply the mate unfolded the letter and quietly read it through,
after which he folded and returned it to his visitor, remarking that he
should be happy to furnish him with all the information he desired, if
he would do him the favour to step down into the cabin.

"I may set your mind at rest on one point at once," observed the
stranger, as he moved towards the companion-hatch, "my investigations
have no reference whatever to yourself."

Mr Welton made no reply, but a slight look of perplexity that had
rested on his brow while he read the letter cleared away.

"Follow me, Mr Larks," he said, turning and descending the ladder
sailor-fashion--which means crab-wise.

"Do you happen to know anything," asked Mr Larks, as he prepared to
follow, "about a man of the name of Jones?  I have come to inquire
particularly about him, and about your son, who, I am told--"

The remainder of the sentence was lost in the cabin of the floating
light.  Here, with the door and skylight shut, the mate remained
closeted for a long time in close conference with the keen-eyed man,
much to the surprise of the two men who constituted the watch on deck,
because visitors of any kind to a floating light were about as rare as
snowflakes in July, and the sudden advent of a visitor, who looked and
acted mysteriously, was in itself a profound mystery.  Their curiosity,
however, was only gratified to this extent, that they observed the
stranger and the mate through the skylight bending earnestly over
several newspapers spread out before them on the cabin table.

In less than an hour the keen-eyed man re-appeared on deck, bade the
mate an abrupt good-bye, nodded to the men who held the ropes for him,
descended into the boat, and took his departure for the shore whence he
had come.

By this time the sun was beginning to approach the horizon.  The mate of
the floating light took one or two turns on the deck, at which he gazed
earnestly, as if his future destiny were written there.  He then glanced
at the compass and at the vessel's bow, after which he leant over the
side of the red-dragon, and looked down inquiringly at the flow of the
tide.  Presently his attention was fixed on the shore, behind which the
sun was about to set, and, after a time, he directed a stern look
towards the sky, as if he were about to pick a quarrel with that part of
the universe, but thinking better of it, apparently, he unbent his
brows, let his eyes fall again on the deck, and muttered to himself,
"H'm!  I expected as much."

What it was that he expected, Mr John Welton never told from that day
to this, so it cannot be recorded here, but, after stating the fact, he
crossed his arms on his broad chest, and, leaning against the stern of
his vessel, gazed placidly along the deck, as if he were taking a
complacent survey of the vast domain over which he ruled.

It was an interesting kingdom in detail.  Leaving out of view all that
which was behind him, and which, of course, he could not see, we may
remark that, just before him stood the binnacle and compass, and the
cabin skylight.  On his right and left the territory of the quarter-deck
was seriously circumscribed, and the promenade much interfered with, by
the ship's boats, which, like their parent, were painted red, and which
did not hang at the davits, but, like young lobsters of the kangaroo
type, found shelter within their mother, when not at sea on their own
account.  Near to them were two signal-carronades.  Beyond the skylight
rose the bright brass funnel of the cabin chimney, and the winch, by
means of which the lantern was hoisted.  Then came another skylight, and
the companion-hatch about the centre of the deck.  Just beyond this
stood the most important part of the vessel--the lantern-house.  This
was a circular wooden structure, above six feet in diameter, with a door
and small windows.  Inside was the lantern--the beautiful piece of
costly mechanism for which the light-ship, its crew, and its
appurtenances were maintained.  Right through the centre of this house
rose the thick unyielding mast of the vessel.  The lantern, which was
just a little less than its house, surrounded this mast and travelled
upon it.  Beyond this the capital of the kingdom, the eye of the monarch
was arrested by another bright brass funnel, which was the chimney of
the galley-fire, and indicated the exact position of the abode of the
crew, or--to continue our metaphor--the populace, who, however, required
no such indicator to tell of their existence or locality, for the chorus
of a "nigger" melody burst from them, ever and anon, through every
opening in the decks, with jovial violence, as they sat, busily engaged
on various pieces of work below.  The more remote parts of this
landscape--or light-scape, if we may be allowed the expression--were
filled up with the galley-skylight, the bitts, and the windlass, above
which towered the gong, and around which twined the two enormous chain
cables.  Only one of these, however, was in use--that, with a single
mushroom-anchor, being sufficient to hold the ship securely against tide
and tempest.

In reference to this we may remark in passing that the cable of a
floating light is frequently renewed, and that the chafing of the links
at the hawse-hole is distributed by the occasional paying out or hauling
in of a few yards of chain--a process which is styled "easing the nip."

"Horroo! me hearty, ye're as clain as a lady's watch," exclaimed a man
of rugged form but pleasant countenance, as he issued from the small
doorway of the lantern-house with a bundle of waste in one hand and an
oil-can in the other.

This was one of the lamplighters of the light-ship--Jerry MacGowl--a man
whose whole soul was, so to speak, in that lantern.  It was his duty to
clip and trim the wicks, and fill the lamps, and polish the reflectors
and brasses, and oil the joints and wheels (for this was a revolving--in
other words a flashing light), and clean the glasses and windows.  As
there were nine lights to attend to, and get ready for nightly service,
it may be easily understood that the lamplighter's duty was no sinecure.

The shout of Jerry recalled the king from his contemplation of things in
general to the lantern in particular.

"All ready to hoist, Jerry?" inquired Mr Welton, going forward.

"All ready, sir," exclaimed the man, looking at his handiwork with
admiration, and carefully removing a speck of dust that had escaped his
notice from one of the plate-glass windows; "An't she a purty thing
now?--baits the best Ginaiva watch as iver was made.  Ye might ait yer
supper off her floor and shave in the reflictors."

"That's a fact, Jerry, with no end of oil to your salad too," said Mr
Welton, surveying the work of the lamplighter with a critical eye.

"True for ye," replied Jerry, "an' as much cotton waste as ye like
without sinful extravagance."

"The sun will be down in a few minutes," said the mate, turning round
and once more surveying the western horizon.

Jerry admitted that, judging from past experience, there was reason to
believe in the probability of that event; and then, being of a poetical
temperament, he proceeded to expatiate upon the beauty of the evening,
which was calm and serene.

"D'ye know, sir," he said, gazing towards the shore, between which and
the floating light a magnificent fleet of merchantmen lay at anchor
waiting for a breeze--each vessel reflected clearly in the water along
with the dazzling clouds of gold that towered above the setting
sun--"D'ye know, sir, I niver sees a sky like that but it minds me o'
the blissid green hills an' purty lakes of owld Ireland, an' fills me
buzzum wid a sort of inspiration till it feels fit a'most to bust."

"You should have been a poet, Jerry," observed the mate, in a
contemplative tone, as he surveyed the shipping through his telescope.

"Just what I've often thought mesilf, sir," replied Jerry, wiping his
forehead with the bunch of waste--"many a time I've said to mesilf, in a
thoughtful mood--

  "Wan little knows what dirty clo'es
  May kiver up a poet;
  What fires may burn an' flout an' skurn,
  An' no wan iver know it."

"That's splendid, Jerry; but what's the meanin' of `skurn?'"

"Sorrow wan of me knows, sir, but it conveys the idee somehow; don't it,
now?"

"I'm not quite sure that it does," said the mate, walking aft and
consulting his chronometer for the last time, after which he put his
head down the hatchway and shouted, "Up lights!" in a deep sonorous
voice.

"Ay, ay, sir," came the ready response from below, followed by the
prompt appearance of the other lamplighter and the four seamen who
composed the crew of the vessel Jerry turned on his heel, murmuring, in
a tone of pity, that the mate, poor man, "had no soul for poethry."

Five of the crew manned the winch; the mate and Jerry went to a
block-tackle which was also connected with the lifting apparatus.  Then
the order to hoist was given, and immediately after, just as the sun
went down, the floating light went up,--a modest yet all-important
luminary of the night.  Slowly it rose, for the lantern containing it
weighed full half a ton, and caused the hoisting chain and pulleys to
groan complainingly.  At last it reached its destination at the head of
the thick part of the mast, but about ten or fifteen feet beneath the
ball.  As it neared the top, Jerry sprang up the chain-ladder to connect
the lantern with the rod and pinion by means of which, with clockwork
beneath, it was made to revolve and "flash" once every third of a
minute.

Simultaneously with the ascent of the Gull light there arose out of the
sea three bright stars on the nor'-eastern horizon, and another star in
the south-west.  The first were the three fixed lights of the lightship
that marked the North sandhead; the latter was the fixed light that
guarded the South sandhead.  The Goodwin sentinels were now placed for
the night, and the commerce of the world might come and go, and pass
those dreaded shoals, in absolute security.

Ere long the lights of the shipping in the Downs were hung out, and one
by one the lamps on shore shone forth--those which marked the entrance
of Ramsgate harbour being conspicuous for colour and brilliancy--until
the water, which was so calm as to reflect them all, seemed alive with
perpendicular streams of liquid fire; land and sea appearing to be the
subjects of one grand illumination.  A much less poetical soul than that
of the enthusiastic lamp-lighter might have felt a touch of unwonted
inspiration on such a night, and in such a scene.  The effect on the
mind was irresistibly tranquillising.  While contemplating the
multitudes of vessels that lay idle and almost motionless on the glassy
water, the thought naturally arose that each black hull en-shrouded
human beings who were gradually sinking into rest--relaxing after the
energies of the past day--while the sable cloak of night descended,
slowly and soothingly, as if God were spreading His hand gently over all
to allay the fever of man's busy day-life and calm him into needful
rest.

The watch of the floating light having been set, namely, two men to
perambulate the deck--a strict watch being kept on board night and day--
the rest of the crew went below to resume work, amuse themselves, or
turn in as they felt inclined.

While they were thus engaged, and darkness was deepening on the scene,
Welton stood on the quarterdeck observing a small sloop that floated
slowly towards the lightship.  Her sails were indeed set, but no breath
of wind bulged them out; her onward progress was caused by the tide,
which had by that time begun to set with a strong current to the
northward.  When within about a cable's length, the rattle of her chain
told that the anchor had been let go.  A few minutes later, a boat was
seen to push off from the sloop and make for the lightship.  Two men
rowed it and a third steered.  Owing to the force of the current they
made the vessel with some difficulty.

"Heave us a rope," cried one of the men, as they brushed past.

"No visitors allowed aboard," replied Mr Welton sternly; catching up,
nevertheless, a coil of rope.

"Hallo! father, surely you've become very unhospitable," exclaimed
another voice from the boat.

"Why, Jim, is that you, my son?" cried the mate, as he flung the coil
over the side.

The boatmen caught it, and next moment Jim stood on the deck--a tall
strapping young seaman of twenty or thereabouts--a second edition of his
father, but more active and lithe in his motions.

"Why you creep up to us, Jim, like a thief in the night.  What brings
you here, lad, at such an hour?" asked Mr Welton, senior, as he shook
hands with his son.

"I've come to have a talk with 'ee, father.  As to creeping like a
thief, a man must creep with the tide when there's no wind, d'ye see, if
he don't come to an anchor.  'Tis said that time and tide wait for no
man; that bein' so, I have come to see you now that I've got the chance.
That's where it is.  But I can't stay long, for old Jones will--"

"What!" interrupted the mate with a frown, as he led his son to the
forepart of the vessel, in order to be out of earshot of the watch,
"have 'ee really gone an' shipped with that scoundrel again, after all
I've said to 'ee?"

"I have, father," answered the young man with a perplexed expression;
"it is about that same that I've come to talk to 'ee, and to explain--"

"You have need to explain, Jim," said the mate sternly, "for it seems to
me that you are deliberately taking up with bad company; and I see in
you already one o' the usual consequences; you don't care much for your
father's warnings."

"Don't say that, father," exclaimed the youth earnestly, "I am sure that
if you knew--stay; I'll send back the boat, with orders to return for me
in an hour or so."

Saying this he hurried to the gangway, dismissed the boat, and returned
to the forepart of the vessel, where he found his father pacing the deck
with an anxious and somewhat impatient air.

"Father," said Jim, as he walked up and down beside his sire, "I have
made up my mind that it is my duty to remain, at least a little longer
with Jones, because--"

"Your duty!" interrupted the mate in surprise.  "James!" he added,
earnestly, "you told me not long ago that you had taken to attending the
prayer-meetings at the sailors' chapel when you could manage it, and I
was glad to hear you say so, because I think that the man who feels his
need of the help of the Almighty, and acts upon his feeling, is safe to
escape the rocks and shoals of life--always supposin' that he sails by
the right chart--the Bible; but tell me, does the missionary, or the
Bible, teach that it is any one's duty to take up with a swearing,
drinking scoundrel, who is going from bad to worse, and has got the name
of being worthy of a berth in Newgate?"

"We cannot tell, father, whether all that's said of Morley Jones be
true.  We may have our suspicions, but we can't prove t'em; and there's
no occasion to judge a man too soon."

"That may be so, Jim, but that is no reason why you should consort with
a man who can do you no goods and, will certainly do 'ee much harm, when
you've no call for to do so.  Why do 'ee stick by him--that's what I
want to know--when everybody says he'll be the ruin of you?  And why do
'ee always put me off with vague answers when I git upon that subject?
You did not use to act like that, Jim.  You were always fair an'
above-board in your young days.  But what's the use of askin'?  It's
plain that bad company has done it, an' my only wonder is, how _you_
ever come to play the hypocrite to that extent, as to go to the
prayer-meeting and make believe you've turned religious."

There was a little bitterness mingled with the tone of remonstrance in
which this was said, which appeared to affect the young man powerfully,
for his face crimsoned as he stopped and laid his hand on his father's
shoulder.

"Whatever follies or sins I may have committed," he said, solemnly, "I
have not acted a hypocrite's part in this matter.  Did you ever yet find
me out, father, tellin' you a lie?"

"Well, I can't say I ever did," answered the mate with a relenting
smile, "'xcept that time when you skimmed all the cream off the milk and
capsized the dish and said the cat done it, although you was slobbered
with it from your nose to your toes--but you was a _very_ small fellow
at that time, you was, and hadn't got much ballast aboard nor begun to
stow your conscience."

"Well, father," resumed Jim with a half-sad smile, "you may depend upon
it I am not going to begin to deceive you now.  My dear mother's last
words to me on that dreary night when she died,--`Always stick to the
_truth_, Jim, whatever it may cost you,'--have never been forgotten, and
I pray God they never may be.  Believe me when I tell you that I never
join Morley in any of his sinful doings, especially his drinking bouts.
You know that I am a total abstainer--"

"No, you're not," cried Mr Welton, senior; "you don't abstain totally
from bad company, Jim, and it's that I complain of."

"I never join him in his drinking bouts," repeated Jim, without noticing
the interruption; "and as he never confides to me any of his business
transactions, I have no reason to say that I believe them to be unfair.
As I said before, I may suspect, but suspicion is not knowledge; we have
no right to condemn him on mere suspicion."

"True, my son; but you have a perfect right to steer clear of him on
mere suspicion."

"No doubt," replied Jim, with some hesitation in his tone, "but there
are circumstances--"

"There you go again with your `circumstances,'" exclaimed Welton senior
with some asperity; "why don't you heave circumstances overboard, rig
the pumps and make a clean breast of it?  Surely it's better to do that
than let the ship go to the bottom!"

"Because, father, the circumstances don't all belong to myself.  Other
people's affairs keep my tongue tied.  I do assure you that if it
concerned only myself, I would tell you everything; and, indeed, when
the right time comes, I promise to tell you all--but in the meantime I--
I--"

"Jim," said Mr Welton, senior, stopping suddenly and confronting his
stalwart son, "tell me honestly, now, isn't there a pretty girl mixed up
in this business?"

Jim stood speechless, but a mantling flush, which the rays of the
revolving light deepened on his sunburnt countenance, rendered speech
unnecessary.

"I knew it," exclaimed the mate, resuming his walk and thrusting his
hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, "it never was otherwise since
Adam got married to Eve.  Whatever mischief is going you're sure to find
a woman underneath the _very_ bottom of it, no matter how deep you go!
If it wasn't that the girls are at the bottom of everything good as well
as everything bad, I'd be glad to see the whole bilin of 'em made fast
to all the sinkers of all the buoys along the British coast and sent to
the bottom of the North Sea."

"I suspect that if that were done," said Jim, with a laugh, "you'd soon
have all the boys on the British coast making earnest inquiries after
their sinkers!  But after all, father, although the girls are hard upon
us sometimes, you must admit that we couldn't get on without 'em."

"True for ye, boy," observed Jerry MacGowl, who, coming up at that
moment, overheard the conclusion of the sentence.  "It's mesilf as
superscribes to that same.  Haven't the swate creeturs led me the life
of a dog; turned me inside out like an owld stockin', trod me in the
dust as if I was benaith contimpt an' riven me heart to mortial tatters,
but I couldn't get on widout 'em nohow for all that.  As the pote might
say, av he only knowd how to putt it in proper verse:--

  "`Och, woman dear, ye darlin',
  It's I would iver be
  Yer praises caterwaulin'
  In swaitest melodee!'"

"Mind your own business, Jerry," said the mate, interrupting the flow of
the poet's inspiration.

"Sure it's that same I'm doin', sir," replied the man, respectfully
touching his cap as he advanced towards the gong that surrounded the
windlass and uncovered it.  "Don't ye see the fog a-comin' down like the
wolf on the fold, an' ain't it my dooty to play a little tshune for the
benefit o' the public?"

Jerry hit the instrument as he spoke and drowned his own voice in its
sonorous roar.  He was driven from his post, however, by Dick Moy, one
of the watch, who, having observed the approaching fog had gone forward
to sound the gong, and displayed his dislike to interference by
snatching the drumstick out of Jerry's hand and hitting him a smart blow
therewith on the top of his head.

As further conversation was under the circumstances impossible, John
Welton and his son retired to the cabin, where the former detailed to
the latter the visit of the strange gentleman with the keen grey eyes,
and the conversation that had passed between them regarding Morley
Jones.  Still the youth remained unmoved, maintaining that suspicion was
not proof, although he admitted that things now looked rather worse than
they had done before.

While the father and son were thus engaged, a low moaning wail and an
unusual heave of the vessel caused them to hasten on deck, just as one
of the watch put his head down the hatch and shouted, "A squall, sir,
brewing up from the nor'-east."



CHAPTER THREE.

A DISTURBED NIGHT; A WRECK AND AN UNEXPECTED RESCUE.

The aspect of the night had completely changed.  The fog had cleared
away; heavy clouds rolled athwart the sky; a deeper darkness descended
on the shipping at anchor in the Downs, and a gradually increasing swell
caused the Gull to roll a little and tug uneasily at her cable.
Nevertheless the warning light at her mast-head retained its
perpendicular position in consequence of a clever adaptation of
mechanism on the principle of the universal joint.

With the rise of the swell came the first rush of the squall.

"If they don't send the boat at once, you'll have to spend the night
with us, Jim," said the mate, looking anxiously in the direction of the
sloop belonging to Morley Jones, the dark outlines of which could just
be seen looming of a deeper black against the black sky.

"It's too late even now," returned Jim in an anxious tone; "the boat,
like everything else about the sloop, is a rotten old thing, and would
be stove against the side in this swell, slight though it be as yet.
But my chief trouble is, that the cables are not fit to hold her if it
comes on to blow hard."

For some time the wind increased until it blew half a gale.  At that
point it continued steady, and as it gave no indication of increasing,
John Welton and his son returned to the cabin, where the latter amused
himself in glancing over some of the books in the small library with
which the ship was furnished, while the sire busied himself in posting
up the ship's log for the day.

For a considerable time they were silent, the one busily engaged
writing, the other engrossed with a book.  At last Mr Welton senior
heaved a deep sigh, and said, while he carefully dotted an _i_ and
stroked a _t_--

"It has always been my opinion, Jim, that when boys are bein' trained
for the sea, they should be taught writing in a swing or an omnibus, in
order to get 'em used to do it in difficult circumstances.  There she
goes again," he added, referring to a lurch of the vessel which caused
the tail of a _y_ to travel at least two inches out of its proper
course.  "Now, that job's done.  I'll turn in for a spell, and advise
you to do the same, lad."

"No, I'll go on deck and have a talk with Dick Moy.  If the gale don't
increase I'll perhaps turn in, but I couldn't sleep just now for
thinkin' o' the sloop."

"Please yourself, my son, an' you'll please me," replied the mate with a
smile which ended in a yawn as he opened the door of a small sleeping
berth, and disappeared into its recesses.

James Welton stood for a few minutes with his back to the small
fireplace, and stared meditatively at the cabin lamp.

The cabin of the floating light was marvellously neat and immaculately
clean.  There was evidence of a well-ordered household in the tidiness
with which everything was put away in its proper place, even although
the fair hand of woman had nothing to do with it, and clumsy man reigned
paramount and alone!  The cabin itself was very small--about ten feet or
so in length, and perhaps eight in width.  The roof was so low that Jim
could not stand quite erect because of the beams.  The grate resembled a
toy, and was of brass polished so bright that you might have used it for
a looking-glass; the fire in it was proportionately small, but large
enough for the place it had to warm.  A crumb or speck of dust could
scarce have been found on the floor with a microscope,--and no wonder,
for whenever John Welton beheld the smallest symptom of such a blemish
he seized a brush and shovel and swept it away.  The books in the little
library at the stern were neatly arranged, and so were the cups, plates,
glasses, salt-cellars, spoons, and saucers, in the little recess that
did duty as a cupboard.  In short, order and cleanliness reigned
everywhere.

And not only was this the case in the cabin, but in every department of
the ship.  The bread-lockers, the oil-room next to the cabin, the galley
where the men lived--all were scrupulously clean and everything therein
was arranged with the method and precision that one is accustomed to
expect only on board a man-of-war.  And, after all, what is a floating
light but a man-of-war?  Its duty is, like that of any three-decker, to
guard the merchant service from a dangerous foe.  It is under command of
the Trinity Corporation--which is tantamount to saying that it is well
found and handled--and it does battle continually with the storm.  What
more could be said of a man-of-war?  The only difference is that it does
its work with less fuss and no noise!

After warming himself for a short time, for the night had become
bitterly cold, Jim Welton put on one of his sire's overcoats and went on
deck, where he had a long walk and talk with Dick Moy, who gave it as
his opinion that "it was a wery cold night," and said that he "wouldn't
be surprised if it wor to come on to blow 'arder before mornin'."

Dick was a huge man with a large expanse of good-natured visage, and a
tendency to make all his statements with the solemnity of an oracle.
Big and little men, like large and small dogs, have usually a
sympathetic liking for each other.  Dick Moy's chief friend on board was
little Jack Shales, who was the life of the ship, and was particularly
expert, as were also most of his mates, in making, during hours of
leisure, beautiful workboxes and writing-desks with inlaid woods of
varied colours, which were sold at a moderate price on shore, in order
to eke out the monthly wage and add to the comforts of wives and little
ones at Ramsgate.  It may be added that Jack Shales was unquestionably
the noisiest man on board.  He had a good voice; could sing, and _did_
sing, from morning till night, and had the power of uttering a yell that
would have put to shame the wildest warrior among the Cherokee savages!

Jack Shales kept watch with Moy that night, and assisted in the
conversation until a sudden snow storm induced young Welton to bid them
good-night and retire below.

"Good-night," said Shales, as Jim's head was disappearing down the
hatchway, "stir up the fire and keep yourself warm."

"That's just what I mean to do," replied Jim; "sorry I can't communicate
some of the warmth to you."

"But you can think of us," cried Jack, looking down the hatchway, "you
can at least pity us poor babes out here in the wind and snow!"

"Shut up, Jack!" said Moy with a solemn growl, "wot a tremendous jaw
you've got w'en you let loose!  Why, wot are 'ee starin' at now?  'Ave
'ee seed a ghost?"

"No, Dick," said Shales, in a tone of voice from which every vestige of
jocularity had disappeared; "look steady in the direction of the South
sandhead light and--see! ain't that the flash of a gun?"

"It looks like it.  A wreck on the sand, I fear," muttered Dick Moy,
putting up both hands to guard his eyes from the snow-flakes that were
driven wildly about by the wind, which had by that time increased to a
furious gale.

For a few minutes the two men stood gazing intently towards the
south-west horizon.  Presently a faint flash was seen, so faint that
they could not be certain it was that of a signal-gun.  In a few
minutes, however, a thin thread of red light was seen to curve upwards
into the black sky.

"No mistake now," cried Jack, leaping towards the cabin skylight, which
he threw up, and bending down, shouted--"South sandhead light is firing,
sir, and sending up rockets!"

The mate, who was at the moment in the land of dreams, sprang out of
them and out of his bunk, and stood on the cabin floor almost before the
sentence was finished.  His son, who had just drawn the blanket over his
shoulders, and given vent to the first sigh of contentment with which a
man usually lays his head on his pillow for the night, also jumped up,
drew on coat, nether garments, and shoes, as if his life depended on his
speed, and dashed on deck.  There was unusual need for clothing that
night, for it had become bitterly cold, a coat of ice having formed even
on the salt-water spray which had blown into the boats.  They found Dick
Moy and Jack Shales already actively engaged--the one loading the lee
gun, the other adjusting a rocket to its stick.  A few hurried questions
from the mate elicited all that it was needful to know.  The flash of
the gun from the South sandhead lightship, about six miles off, had been
distinctly seen a third time, and a third rocket went up just as Welton
and his son gained the deck, indicating that a vessel had struck upon
the fatal Goodwin Sands.  The report of the gun could not be heard,
owing to the gale carrying the sound to leeward, but the bright line of
the rocket was distinctly visible.  At the same moment the flaring light
of a burning tar-barrel was observed.  It was the signal of the vessel
in distress just on the southern tail of the sands.

By this time the gun was charged and the rocket in position.

"Look alive, Jack, fetch the poker!" cried the mate as he primed the
gun.

Jack Shales dived down the companion-hatch, and in another moment
returned with a red-hot poker, which the mate had thrust into the cabin
fire at the first alarm.  He applied it in quick succession to the gun
and rocket.  A blinding flash and deafening crash were followed by the
whiz of the rocket as it sprang with a magnificent curve far away into
the surrounding darkness.

This was their answer to the South sandhead light, which, having fired
three guns and sent up three rockets to attract the attention of the
Gull, then ceased firing.  It was also their first note of warning to
the look-out on the pier of Ramsgate harbour.  Of the three light-ships
that guarded the sands, the Gull lay nearest to Ramsgate; hence,
whichever of the other two happened to send up signals, the Gull had to
reply and thenceforward to continue repeating them until the attention
of the Ramsgate look-out should be gained, and a reply given.

"That's a beauty," cried the mate, referring to the rocket; "fetch
another, Jack; sponge her well out, Dick Moy, we'll give 'em another
shot in a few minutes."

Loud and clear were both the signals, but four and a half miles of
distance and a fresh gale neutralised their influence.  The look-out on
the pier did not observe them.  In less than five minutes the gun and
rocket were fired again.  Still no answering signal came from Ramsgate.

"Load the weather gun this time," cried the mate, "they'll have a better
chance of seeing the flash of that."

Jack obeyed, and Jim Welton, having nothing to do but look on, sought
shelter under the lee of the weather bulwarks, for the wind, according
to Dick Moy, "was blowin' needles and penknives."

The third gun thundered forth and shook the floating light from stem to
stern, but the rocket struck the rigging and made a low wavering flight.
Another was therefore sent up, but it had scarcely cut its bright line
across the sky when the answering signal was observed--a rocket from
Ramsgate pier!

"That's all right now; _our_ duty's done," said the mate, as he went
below, and, divesting himself of his outer garments, quietly turned in,
while the watch, having sponged out and re-covered the guns, resumed
their active perambulation of the deck.

James Welton, however, could not calm down his feelings so easily.  This
was the first night he had ever spent in a light-ship; the scene was
therefore quite new to him, and he could not help feeling somewhat
disappointed at the sudden termination of the noise and excitement.  He
was told that the Ramsgate lifeboat could not be out in less than an
hour, and it seemed to his excited spirit a terrible thing that human
lives should be kept so long in jeopardy.  Of course he began to think,
"Is it not possible to prevent this delay?" but his better sense
whispered to him that excited spirits are not the best judges in such
matters, although it cannot be denied that they have an irresistible
tendency to judge.  There was nothing for it, however, but to exercise
philosophic patience, so he went below and turned in, as sailors have
it, "all standing," to be ready when the lifeboat should make its
appearance.

The young sailor's sleep was prompt and profound.  It seemed to him but
a few minutes after he had laid his head on the pillow when Jack Shale's
voice again resounded in the cabin--

"Lifeboat close alongside, sir.  Didn't see her till this moment.  She
carries no lights."

The Weltons, father and son, sprang out of their bunks a second time,
and, minus coat, hat, and shoes, scrambled on deck just in time to see
the Broadstairs lifeboat rush past before the gale.  She was close under
the stern, and rendered spectrally visible by the light of the lantern.

"What are you firing for?" shouted the coxswain of the boat.

"Ship on the sands, bearing south," roared Jack Shales at the full pitch
of his stentorian voice.

There was no time for more, for the boat did not pause in her
meteor-like flight.  The question was asked and answered as she passed
with a magnificent rush into darkness.  The reply had been heard, and
the lifeboat shot, straight as an arrow, to the rescue.

Reader, we often hear and read of such scenes, but we can tell you from
experience that vision is necessary to enable one to realise the full
import of all that goes on.  There was a strange thrill at the heart of
young Welton when he saw the familiar blue-and-white boat leaping over
the foaming billows.  Often had he seen it in model and in quiescence in
its boat-house, ponderous and almost ungainly; but now he saw it for the
first time in action, as if endued with life.  So, we fancy, warriors
might speak of our heavy cavalry as _we_ see them in barracks and as
_they_ saw them at Alma.

Again all was silent and unexciting on board the Gull; but, not many
minutes later, the watch once more shouted down the skylight--

"Tug's in sight, sir."

It was afterwards ascertained that a mistake had been made in reference
to the vessel that had signalled.  Some one on shore had reported that
the guns and rockets had been seen flashing from the _North_ sandhead
vessel, whereas the report should have been, "from the vessel at the
_South_ sandhead."  The single word was all-important.  It had the
effect of sending the steam-tug Aid (which always attends upon the
Ramsgate lifeboat) in the wrong direction, involving much loss of time.
But we mention this merely as a fact, not as a reproof.  Accidents will
happen, even in the best regulated families.  The Ramsgate lifeboat
service is most admirably regulated; and for once that an error of this
kind can be pointed out, we can point to dozens--ay, hundreds--of cases
in which the steamer and lifeboat have gone, straight as the crow flies,
to the rescue, and have done good service on occasions when all other
lifeboats would certainly have failed; so great is the value of steam in
such matters.

On this occasion, however, the tug appeared somewhat late on the scene,
and hailed the Gull.  When the true state of the case was ascertained,
her course was directed aright, and full steam let on.  The Ramsgate
boat was in tow far astern.  As she passed, the brief questions and
answers were repeated for the benefit of the coxswain, and Jim Welton
observed that every man in the boat appeared to be crouching down on the
thwarts except the coxswain, who stood at the steering tackles.  No
wonder.  It is not an easy matter to sit up in a gale of wind, with
freezing spray, and sometimes green seas, sweeping over one!  The men
were doubtless wideawake and listening, but, as far as vision went, that
boat was manned by ten oilskin coats and sou'westers!

A few seconds carried them out of sight, and so great was the power of
steam that, despite the loss of time, they reached the neighbourhood of
the wreck as soon as the Broadstairs boat, and found that the crew of
the stranded vessel had already been saved, and taken ashore by the Deal
lifeboat.

It may be as well to observe here, that although in this case much
energy was expended unnecessarily, it does not follow that it is
frequently so expended.  Often, far too often, all the force of lifeboat
service on that coast is insufficient to meet the demands on it.  The
crews of the various boats in the vicinity of the Goodwin Sands are
frequently called out more than once in a night, and they are sometimes
out all night, visiting various wrecks in succession.  In all this work
the value of the steam-tug is very conspicuous, for it can tow its boat
again and again to windward of a wreck, and renew the effort to save
life in cases where, devoid of such aid, lifeboats would be compelled to
give in after the failure of their first attempt, in consequence of
their being driven helplessly to leeward.

But we have forestalled our narrative.  The drama, as far as the
Gull-Light was concerned, ended that night with the disappearance of the
tug and lifeboat.  It was not until several days afterwards that her
crew learned the particulars of the wreck in connection with which they
had acted so brief but so important a part.

Meanwhile, Dick Moy, who always walked the deck with a rolling swagger,
with his huge hands thrust deep into his breeches' pockets when there
was nothing for them to do, said to Jim Welton, "he'd advise 'im to go
below an' clap the dead-lights on 'is peepers."

Jim, approving the advice, was about to descend to the cabin, when he
was arrested by a sharp cry that appeared to rise out of the waves.

"Wot iver is that?" exclaimed Dick, as they all rushed to the port bow
of the vessel and looked over the side.

"Something in the water," cried Jack Shales, hastily catching up a coil
of rope and throwing it overboard with that promptitude which is
peculiar to seamen.

"Why, _he_ can't kitch hold on it; it's only a dog," observed Dick Moy.

All uncertainty on this point was cleared away, by a loud wail to which
the poor animal gave vent, as it scraped along the ship's hull, vainly
endeavouring to prevent itself from being carried past by the tide.

By this time they were joined by the mate and the rest of the crew, who
had heard the unwonted sounds and hurried on deck.  Each man was eagerly
suggesting a method of rescue, or attempting to carry one into effect,
by means of a noose or otherwise, when Mr Welton, senior, observed that
Mr Welton, junior, was hastily tying a rope round his waist.

"Hallo!  Jim," he cried, "surely you don't mean to risk your life for a
dog?"

"There's no risk about it, father.  Why should I leave a poor dog to
drown when it will only cost a ducking at the worst?  You know I can
swim like a cork, and I ain't easily cooled down."

"You shan't do it if I can prevent," cried the mate, rushing at his
reckless son.

But Jim was too nimble for him.  He ran to the stern of the vessel,
leaped on the bulwarks, flung the end of the coil of rope among the men,
and shouting, "Hold on taut, boys!" sprang into the sea.

The men did "hold on" most powerfully; they did more, they hauled upon
the rope, hand over hand, to a "Yo-heave-ho!" from Jerry MacGowl, which
put to shame the roaring gale, and finally hauled Jim Welton on board
with a magnificent Newfoundland dog in his arms, an event which was
greeted with three enthusiastic cheers!



CHAPTER FOUR.

A NEW CHARACTER INTRODUCED.

The gale was a short-lived one.  On the following morning the wind had
decreased to a moderate breeze, and before night the sea had gone down
sufficiently to allow the boat of Mr Jones's sloop to come alongside of
the floating light.

Before Jim Welton bade his friends good-bye, he managed to have an
earnest and private talk with each of them.  Although he had never been
connected with the Gull, he had frequently met with the men of that
vessel, and, being one of those large-hearted sympathetic men who
somehow worm themselves into the affection and confidence of most of
their friends and comrades, he had something particular to say to each,
either in reference to wives and families on shore, or to other members
of that distracting section of the human family which, according to Mr
Welton senior, lay at the foundation of all mischief.

But young Welton did not confine himself to temporal matters.  It has
already been hinted that he had for some time been in the habit of
attending prayer-meetings, but the truth was that he had recently been
led by a sailor's missionary to read the Bible, and the precious Word of
God had been so blessed to his soul, that he had seen his own lost
condition by nature, and had also seen, and joyfully accepted, Jesus
Christ as his all-sufficient Saviour.  He had come to "know the truth,"
and "the truth had set him free;" free, not only from spiritual death
and the power of sin, but free from that unmanly shame which, alas! too
often prevents Christians from taking a bold stand on the Lord's side.

The young sailor had, no doubt, had severe inward conflicts, which were
known only to God and himself, but he had been delivered and
strengthened, for he was not ashamed of Christ in the presence of his
old comrades, and he sought by all the means in his power to draw them
to the same blessed Saviour.

"Well, good-bye, Jim," said Mr Welton, senior, as his son moved towards
the gangway, when the boat came alongside, "all I've got to say to 'ee,
lad, is, that you're on dangerous ground, and you have no right to shove
yourself in the way of temptation."

"But I don't _shove_ myself, father; I think I am led in that way.  I
may be wrong, perhaps, but such is my belief."

"You'll not forget that message to my mother," whispered a
sickly-looking seaman, whose strong-boned frame appeared to be somewhat
attenuated by disease.

"I'll not forget, Rainer.  It's likely that we shall be in Yarmouth in a
couple of days, and you may depend upon my looking up the old woman as
soon after I get ashore as possible."

"Hallo! hi!" shouted a voice from below, "wot's all the hurry?" cried
Dick Moy, stumbling hastily up on deck while in the act of closing a
letter which bore evidence of having been completed under difficulties,
for its form was irregular, and its back was blotted.  "Here you are,
putt that in the post at Yarmouth, will 'ee, like a good fellow?"

"Why, you've forgotten the address," exclaimed Jim Welton in affected
surprise.

"No, I 'aven't.  There it is hall right on the back."

"What, that blot?"

"Ay, that's wot stands for Mrs Moy," said Dick, with a good-natured
smile.

"Sure now," observed Jerry MacGowl, looking earnestly at the letter, "it
do seem to me, for all the world, as if a cat had drawed his tail across
it after stumblin' over a ink-bottle."

"Don't Mrs Moy live in Ramsgate?" inquired Jim Welton.

"Of course she do," replied Dick.

"But I'm not going there; I'm goin' to Yarmouth," said Jim.

"Wot then?" retorted Dick, "d'ee suppose the clerk o' the post-office at
Yarmouth ain't as well able to read as the one at Ramsgate, even though
the writin' _do_ be done with a cat's tail?  Go along with 'ee."

Thus dismissed, Jim descended the side and was quickly on board the
sloop Nora to which he belonged.

On the deck of the little craft he was received gruffly by a man of
powerful frame and stern aspect, but whose massive head, covered with
shaggy grey curling hair, seemed to indicate superior powers of
intellect.  This was Morley Jones, the master and owner of the sloop.

"A pretty mess you've made of it; I might have been in Yarmouth by this
time," he said, testily.

"More likely at the bottom of the sea," answered Jim, quietly, as he
went aft and looked at the compass--more from habit than from any desire
to receive information from that instrument.

"Well, if I had been at the bottom o' the sea, what then?  Who's to say
that I mayn't risk my life if I see fit?  It's not worth much," he said,
gloomily.

"You seem to forget that in risking your own life you risk the lives of
those who sail along with you," replied Jim, with a bold yet
good-humoured look at the skipper.

"And what if I do risk their lives?--they ain't worth much, either,
_I'm_ sure?"

"Not to you, Morley, but worth a good deal to themselves, not to mention
their wives and families and friends.  You know well enough that if I
had wished ever so much to return aboard last night your boat could not
have got alongside the Gull for the sea.  Moreover, you also know that
if you had attempted to put to sea in such weather, this leaky tub, with
rotten sails and running gear, would have been a wreck on the Goodwin
sands before now, and you and I, with the two men and the boy, would
have been food for the gulls and fishes."

"Not at all," retorted Jones, "there's not much fear of our lives here.
The lifeboat crews are too active for that; and as to the sloop, why,
she's insured you know for her full value--for more than her value,
indeed."

Jones said this with a chuckle and a sly expression in his face, as he
glanced meaningly at his companion.

"I know nothing about your insurance or your cargo, and, what's more, I
don't want to know," said Jim, almost angrily.  "You've been at
Square-Tom again," he added, suddenly laying his hand upon the shoulder
of his companion and looking earnestly into his eyes.

It was now Jones's turn to be angry, yet it was evident that he made an
effort to restrain his feelings, as he replied, "Well, what if I have?
It's one thing for you to advise me to become a teetotaller, and it's
quite another thing for me to agree to do it.  I tell you again, as I've
often told you before, Jim Welton, that _I don't mean to do it_, and I'm
not going to submit to be warned and reasoned with by you, as if you was
my grandfather.  I _know_ that drink is the curse of my life, and I know
that it will kill me, and that I am a fool for giving way to it, but it
is the only thing that makes me able to endure this life; and as for the
next, I don't care for it, and _I don't believe in it_."

"But your not believing in it does not make it less certain," replied
Jim, quietly, but without any approach to solemnity in his tone or look,
for he knew that his companion was not in a mood just then to stand such
treatment.  "You remember the story of the ostrich that was run down?
Finding that it could not escape, it stuck its head in the sand and
thought that nobody saw it.  You may shut your eyes, Morley, but facts
remain facts for all that."

"Shutting my eyes is just what I am _not_ doing," returned Jones,
flinging round and striding to the other side of the deck; then, turning
quickly, he strode back, and added, with an oath, "have I not told you
that I see myself, my position, and my prospects, as clearly as you do,
and that I intend to face them all, and take the consequences?"

Jim Welton flushed slightly, and his eyes dilated, as he replied--

"Have you not the sense to see, Morley Jones, that my remonstrances with
you are at least disinterested?  What would you think if I were to say
to you, `Go, drink your fill till death finds you at last wallowing on
the ground like a beast, or worse than a beast; I leave you to your
fate?'"

"I would think that Jim Welton had changed his nature," replied Jones,
whose anger disappeared as quickly as it came.  "I have no objection to
your storming at me, Jim.  You may swear at me as much as you please,
but, for any sake, spare me your reasonings and entreaties, because they
only rouse the evil spirit within me, without doing an atom of good; and
don't talk of leaving me.  Besides, let me tell you, you are not so
disinterested in this matter as you think.  There is some one in
Yarmouth who has something to do with your interest in me."

The young man flushed again at the close of this speech, but not from a
feeling of anger.  He dropt his eyes before the earnest though unsteady
gaze of his half-tipsy companion, who burst into a loud laugh as Jim
attempted some stammering reply.

"Come," he added, again assuming the stern aspect which was natural to
him, but giving Jim a friendly slap on the shoulder, "don't let us fall
out, Jim you and I don't want to part just now.  Moreover, if we have a
mind to get the benefit of the tide to-night, the sooner we up anchor
the better, so we won't waste any more time talking."

Without waiting for a reply, Mr Jones went forward and called the crew.
The anchor was weighed, the sails were set, and the sloop Nora--bending
over before the breeze, as if doing homage in passing her friend the
Gull-Light--put to sea, and directed her course for the ancient town and
port of Yarmouth.



CHAPTER FIVE.

MORE NEW CHARACTERS INTRODUCED.

If it be true that time and tide wait for no man, it is equally true, we
rejoice to know, that authors and readers have a corresponding immunity
from shackles, and are in nowise bound to wait for time or tide.

We therefore propose to leave the Gull-stream light, and the Goodwin
sands, and the sloop Nora, far behind us, and, skipping a little in
advance of Time itself proceed at once to Yarmouth.

Here, in a snug parlour, in an easy chair, before a cheerful fire, with
a newspaper in his hand, sat a bluff little elderly gentleman, with a
bald head and a fat little countenance, in which benignity appeared to
hold perpetual though amicable rivalry with fun.

That the fat little elderly gentleman was eccentric could scarcely be
doubted, because he not only looked _over_ his spectacles instead of
through them, but also, apparently, read his newspaper upside down.  A
closer inspection, however, would have shown that he was not reading the
paper at all, but looking over the top of it at an object which
accounted for much of the benignity, and some of the fun of his
expression.

At the opposite side of the table sat a very beautiful girl, stooping
over a book, and so earnestly intent thereon as to be evidently quite
oblivious of all else around her.  She was at that interesting age when
romance and reality are supposed to be pretty equally balanced in a
well-regulated female mind--about seventeen.  Although not classically
beautiful--her nose being slightly turned upward--she was, nevertheless,
uncommonly pretty, and, as one of her hopeless admirers expressed it,
"desperately love-able."  Jet black ringlets--then in vogue--clustered
round an exceedingly fair face, on which there dwelt the hue of robust
health.  Poor Bob Queeker, the hopeless admirer above referred to, would
have preferred that she had been somewhat paler and thinner, if that had
been possible; but this is not to be wondered at, because Queeker was
about sixteen years of age at that time, and wrote sonnets to the moon
and other celestial bodies, and also indulged in "lines" to various
terrestrial bodies, such as the lily or the snowdrop, or something
equally drooping or pale.  Queeker never by any chance addressed the
sun, or the red-rose, or anything else suggestive of health and vigour.
Yet his melancholy soul could not resist Katie,--which was this angel's
name,--because, although she was energetic, and vigorous, and
matter-of-fact, not to say slightly mischievous, she was intensely
sympathetic and tender in her feelings, and romantic too.  But her
romance puzzled him.  There was something too intense about it for his
taste.  If he had only once come upon her unawares, and caught her
sitting with her hands clasped, gazing in speechless adoration at the
moon, or even at a street-lamp, in the event of its being thick weather
at the time, his love for her would have been without alloy.

As it was, Queeker thought her "desperately love-able," and in his
perplexity continued to write sonnets without number to the moon, in
which efforts, however, he was singularly unsuccessful, owing to the
fact that, after he had gazed at it for a considerable length of time,
the orb of night invariably adopted black ringlets and a bright sunny
complexion.

George Durant--which was the name of the bald fat little elderly
gentleman--was Katie's father.  Looking at them, no one would have
thought so, for Katie was tall and graceful in form; and her
countenance, except when lighted up with varying emotion, was grave and
serene.

As Mr Durant looked at it just then, the gravity had deepened into
severity; the pretty eyebrows frowned darkly at the book over which they
bent, and the rosy lips represented a compound of pursing and pouting as
they moved and muttered something inaudibly.

"What is it that puzzles you, Katie?" asked her father, laying down the
paper.

"'Sh!" whispered Katie, without lifting her head; "seventeen,
twenty-two, twenty-nine, thirty-six,--one pound sixteen;--no, I _can't_
get it to balance.  Did you ever know such a provoking thing?"

She flung down her pencil, and looked full in her father's face, where
fun had, for the time, so thoroughly conquered and overthrown benignity,
that the frown vanished from her brow, and the rosy lips expanded to
join her sire in a hearty fit of laughter.

"If you could only see your own face, Katie, when you are puzzling over
these accounts, you would devote yourself ever after to drawing _it_,
instead of those chalk-heads of which you are so fond."

"No, I wouldn't, papa," said Katie, whose gravity quickly returned.
"It's all very well for you to joke about it, and laugh at me, but I can
tell you that this account _won't_ balance; there is a two-and-sixpence
wrong somewhere, and you know it has to be all copied out and sent off
by the evening post to-morrow.  I really can't understand why we are
called upon to make so many copies of all the accounts and papers for
that ridiculous Board of Trade; I'm sure they have plenty of idle clerks
of their own, without requiring us to slave as we do--for such a
wretched salary, too!"

Katie shook her curls indignantly, as she thought of the unjust demands
and inadequate remuneration of Government, and resumed her work, the
frowning brows and pursed coral lips giving evidence of her immediate
and total absorption in the accounts.

Old Mr Durant, still holding the newspaper upside down, and looking
over the top of it and of his spectacles at the fair accountant, thought
in his heart that if the assembled Board, of which his daughter spoke in
such contemptuous terms, could only behold her labouring at their books,
in order to relieve her father of part of the toil, they would
incontinently give orders that he should be thenceforth allowed a salary
for a competent clerk, and that all the accounts sent up from Yarmouth
should be bound in cloth of gold!

"Here it is, papa, I've got it!" exclaimed Katie, looking up with
enthusiasm similar to that which might be expected in a youthful
sportsman on the occasion of hooking his first salmon.  "It was the
two-and-sixpence which you told me to give to--"

At that moment the outer door bell rang.

"There's cousin Fanny, oh, I'm _so_ glad!" exclaimed Katie, shutting up
her books and clearing away a multitude of papers with which the table
was lumbered; "she has promised to stay a week, and has come in time to
go with me to the singing class this afternoon.  She's a darling girl,
as fond of painting and drawing almost as I am, and hates cats.  Oh, I
do so love a girl that doesn't like cats.  Eh, pussy, shall I tread on
your tail?"

This question was put to a recumbent cat which lay coiled up in earthly
bliss in front of the fire, and which Katie had to pass in carrying her
armful of books and papers to the sideboard drawer in which they were
wont to repose.  She put out her foot as if to carry her threat into
execution.

"Dare!" exclaimed Mr Durant, with whom the cat was a favourite.

"Well, then, promise that if Mr Queeker comes to-night you won't let
him stay to spoil our fun," said Katie, still holding her foot over the
cat's unconscious tail.

As she spoke, one of the rather heavy account-books (which ought to have
been bound in cloth of gold) slipped off the pile, and, as ill luck
would have it, fell on the identical tail in question, the cat belonging
to which sprang up with a fierce caterwaul in rampant indignation.

"Oh, papa, you _know_ I didn't mean it."

Mr Durant's eyes twinkled with amusement as he beheld the sudden change
of poor Katie's expression to intense earnestness, but before he could
reply the door was thrown open; "cousin Fanny" rushed in, the cat rushed
out, the two young ladies rushed into each other's arms, and went in a
species of ecstatic waltz up-stairs to enjoy the delights of a private
interview, leaving Mr Durant to sink into the arms of his easy chair
and resume his paper--this time with the right side up!

Let it be understood that the old gentleman was employed in Yarmouth
under one of the departments of the Board of Trade.  We refrain from
entering into particulars as to which department, lest the vindictive
spirit which was accredited to that branch of the Government by Miss
Katie--who being a lady, must of course have been right--should induce
it to lay hold of our estimable friend and make an example of him for
permitting his independent daughter to expose its true character.  In
addition to his office in this connection Mr Durant also held the
position of a retired merchant and ship-owner, and was a man of
considerable wealth, although he lived in a quiet unostentatious way.
In fact, his post under Government was retained chiefly for the purpose
of extending his influence in his native town--for he counted himself a
"bloater"--and enabling him to carry out more vigorously his schemes of
Christian philanthropy.

Cousin Fanny Hennings was a "darling girl" in Katie's estimation,
probably because she was her opposite in many respects, though not in
all.  In good-humour and affection they were similar, but Fanny had none
of Katie's fire, or enthusiasm, or intellect, or mischief; she had,
however, a great appreciation of fun, and was an inordinate giggler.
Fat, fair, and fifteen, with flaxen curls, pink cheeks, and blue eyes,
she was the _beau-ideal_ of a wax-doll, and possessed about as much
self-assertion as may be supposed to belong to that class of the
doll-community which is constructed so as to squeak when squeezed.  As
Katie Durant squeezed her friend pretty often, both mentally and
physically, cousin Fanny squeaked a good deal more than usual during her
occasional visits to Yarmouth, and even after her return home to
Margate, where she and her widowed mother dwelt--as Queeker poetically
said--"in a cottage by the sea."  It was usually acknowledged by all her
friends that Fanny had increased her powers amazingly while absent, in
so much that she learned at last to squeak on her own account without
being squeezed at all.

After the cousins had talked in private until they had made themselves
almost too late for the singing-class, they issued from the house and
betook themselves to the temple of music, where some amazing pieces were
performed by some thirty young vocalists of both sexes to their own
entire satisfaction, and to the entire dissatisfaction, apparently, of
their teacher, whose chief delight seemed to be to check the flow of
gushing melody at a critical point, and exclaim, "Try it again!"  Being
ignorant of classical music we do not venture to give an opinion on
these points, but it is important to state, as bearing on the subject in
a sanitary point of view, that all the pupils usually left the class in
high spirits, with the exception of Queeker, who had a voice like a
cracked tea-kettle, knew no more about music than Katie's cat--which he
adored because it was Katie's--and who went to the class, which was
indebted for its discord chiefly to him, wholly and solely because Katie
Durant went to it, and thus afforded him an opportunity of occasionally
shaking hands with her.

On the present evening, however, being of a shy disposition, he could
not bring himself to face cousin Fanny.  He therefore left the hall
miserable, and went home with desperate intentions as to the moon.
Unfortunately that luminary was not visible, the sun having just set,
but from his bedroom window, which commanded a view of the roadstead, he
beheld the lantern of the Saint Nicolas Gatt floating-light, and
addressed the following lines to it with all the fervour incident to a
hopeless affection:--

  "Why blaze, ye bright benignant beaming star,
  Guiding the homebound seaman from afar,
  Lighting the outbound wand'rer on his way,
  With all the lightsome perspicuity of day?
  Why not go out at once! and let be hurl'd
  Dark, dread, unmitigated darkness o'er the world?
  Why should the heavenly constellations shine?
  Why should the weather evermore be fine?
  Why should this rolling ball go whirling round?
  Why should the noise of mirth and music sound?
  Why should the sparrow chirp, the blackbird sing,
  The mountains echo, and the valleys ring,
  With all that's cheerful, humorous, and glad,
  Now that my heart is smitten and my brain gone mad?"

Queeker fetched a long deep-drawn sigh at this point, the agony of
intense composition being for a moment relaxed.  Then, catching his
breath and glaring, he went on in a somewhat gentler strain--

  "Forgive me, Floating-light, and you, ye sun,
  Moon, stars, and elements of Nature, every one;
  I did but vent my misery and spleen
  In utt'ring words of fury that I hardly mean.
  At least I do in part--but hold! why not?
  Oh! cease ye fiendish thoughts that rage and plot
  To bring about my ruin.  Hence! avaunt!
  Or else in pity tell me what you want.
  I cannot live, and yet I would not die!
  My hopes are blighted!  Where, oh whither shall I fly?
  'Tis past!  I'll cease to daily with vain sophistry,
  And try the virtue of a calm philosophy."

The effect of composition upon Queeker was such that when he had
completed his task he felt greatly tranquillised, and, having shut up
his portfolio, formed the sudden resolution of dropping in upon the
Durants to tea.

Meantime, and before the love-sick youth had begun the lines above
quoted, Katie and her cousin walked home by a road which conducted them
close past the edge of those extensive sandy plains called the Denes of
Yarmouth.  Here, at the corner of a quiet street, they were arrested by
the sobbing of a little boy who sat on a railing by the roadside,
swaying himself to and fro in an agony of grief.

Katie's sympathetic heart was instantly touched.  She at once went up to
the boy, and made earnest inquiries into the cause of his distress.

"Please, ma'am," said the boy, "I've lost a shillin', and I can't find
it nowheres.  Oh, wot ever shall I do?  My mother gave it me to give
with two other bobs to my poor sick brother whom I've comed all this way
to see, and there I've gone an' lost it, an' I'll 'ave to lay out all
night in the cold, for I dursn't go to see 'im without the money--boo,
hoo!"

"Oh, how _very_ unfortunate!" exclaimed Katie with real feeling for the
boy, whose soul was thus steeped to all appearance in woe unutterable,
was very small, and very dirty and ragged, and had an extremely handsome
intelligent face, with a profusion of wild brown curls.  "But I can make
that up to you, poor boy," she added, drawing out her purse, "here is a
shilling for you.  Where do you live?"

"At Ramsgate, ma'am."

"At Ramsgate?" exclaimed Katie in surprise, "why, how did you manage to
get here?"

"I come in a lugger, ma'am, as b'longs to a friend o' ourn.  We've just
arrived, an' we goes away agin to-morrow."

"Indeed!  That will give you little time to see your sick brother.  What
is the matter with him?"

"Oh, he's took very bad, ma'am.  I'm sorry to say he's bad altogether,
ma'am.  Bin an' run'd away from 'ome.  A'most broke his mother's 'eart,
he has, an' fall'd sick here, he did."

The small boy paused abruptly at this point, and looked earnestly in
Katie's kind and pitiful face.

"Where does your brother live?" asked Katie.

The small boy looked rather perplexed, and said that he couldn't rightly
remember the name of the street, but that the owner of the lugger
"know'd it."  Whereat Katie seemed disappointed, and said she would have
been so glad to have visited him, and given him such little comforts as
his disease might warrant.

"Oh, ma'am," exclaimed the small boy, looking wistfully at her with his
large blue eyes, "_wot_ a pity I've forgot it!  The doctor ordered 'im
wine too--it was as much as 'is life was worth not to 'ave wine,--but of
course they couldn't afford to git 'im wine--even cheap wine would do
well enough, at two bob or one bob the bottle.  If you was to give me
two bob--shillins I mean, ma'am--I'd git it for 'im to-night."

Katie and her cousin conversed aside in low tones for a minute or two as
to the propriety of complying with this proposal, and came to the
conclusion that the boy was such a nice outspoken honest-like fellow,
that it would do no harm to risk that sum in the circumstances.  Two
shillings were therefore put into the boy's dirty little hand, and he
was earnestly cautioned to take care of it, which he earnestly, and no
doubt honestly, promised to do.

"What is your name, boy?" asked Katie, as she was about to leave him.

"Billy--Billy Towler, ma'am," answered the urchin, pulling his forelock
by way of respectful acknowledgment, "but my friends they calls me
Walleye, chiefly in consikence o' my bein' wery much the rewerse of
blind, ma'am, and niver capable of bein' cotched in a state o' slumber
at no time."

This reply had the effect of slightly damaging the small boy's character
for simplicity in Katie's mind, although it caused both herself and her
companion to laugh.

"Well, Billy," she said, opening her card-case, "here is my card--give
it to your sick brother, and when he sends it to me with his address
written on the back of it I'll call on him."

"Thankee, ma'am," said the small boy.

After he had said this, he stood silently watching the retiring figure
of his benefactress, until she was out of sight, and then dashing round
the corner of a bye-street which was somewhat retired, he there went off
into uncontrollable fits of laughter--slapped his small thighs, held his
lean little sides with both hands, threw his ragged cap into the air,
and in various other ways gave evidence of ecstatic delight.  He was
still engaged in these violent demonstrations of feeling when Morley
Jones--having just landed at Yarmouth, and left the sloop _Nora_ in
charge of young Welton--came smartly round the corner, and, applying his
heavy boot to the small boy's person, kicked him into the middle of the
road.



CHAPTER SIX.

THE TEMPTER AND THE TEMPTED.

"What are ye howlin' there for, an' blockin' up the Queen's highway like
that, you precious young villain?" demanded Morley Jones.

"An' wot are you breakin' the Queen's laws for like that?" retorted
Billy Towler, dancing into the middle of the road and revolving his
small fists in pugilistic fashion.  "You big hairy walrus, I don't know
whether to 'ave you up before the beaks for assault and battery or turn
to an' give 'ee a good lickin'."

Mr Jones showed all his teeth with an approving grin, and the small boy
grinned in return, but still kept on revolving his fists, and warning
the walrus to "look hout and defend hisself if he didn't want his
daylights knocked out or his bows stove in!"

"You're a smart youth, you are," said Jones.

"Ha! you're afraid, are you? an' wants to make friends, but I won't 'ave
it at no price.  Come on, will you?"

Jones, still grinning from ear to ear, made a rush at the urchin, who,
however, evaded him with such ease that the man perceived he had not the
smallest chance of catching him.

"I say, my lad," he asked, stopping and becoming suddenly grave, "where
d'you come from?"

"I comes from where I b'longs to, and where I'm agoin' back to w'en it
suits me."

"Very good," retorted Jones, "and I suppose you don't object to earn a
little money in an easy way?"

"Yes, I do object," replied Billy; "it ain't worth my while to earn a
_little_ money in any way, no matter how easy; I never deals in small
sums.  A fi' pun' note is the lowest figur' as I can stoop to."

"You'll not object, however, to a gift, I daresay," remarked Jones, as
he tossed a half-crown towards the boy.

Billy caught it as deftly as a dog catches a bit of biscuit, looked at
it in great surprise, tossed it in the air, bit its rim critically, and
finally slid it into his trousers pocket.

"Well, you know," he said slowly, "to obleege a _friend_, I'm willin' to
accept."

"Now then, youngster, if I'm willing to trust that half-crown in your
clutches, you may believe I have got something to say to 'ee worth your
while listenin' to; for you may see I'm not the man to give it to 'ee
out o' Christian charity."

"That's true," remarked Billy, who by this time had become serious, and
stood with his hands in his pockets, still, however, at a respectful
distance.

"Well, the fact is," said Mr Jones, "that I've bin lookin' out of late
for a smart lad with a light heart and a light pocket, and that ain't
troubled with much of a conscience."

"That's me to a tee," said Billy promptly; "my 'art's as light as a
feather, and my pocket is as light as a maginstrate's wisdom.  As for
conscience, the last beak as I wos introdooced to said I must have bin
born without a conscience altogether; an' 'pon my honour I think he wos
right, for I never felt it yet, though I've often tried--'xcept once,
w'en I'd cleaned out the pocket of a old ooman as was starin' in at a
shop winder in Cheapside, and she fainted dead away w'en she found it
out, and her little grand-darter looked so pale and pitiful that I says
to myself, `Hallo!  Walleye, you've bin to the wrong shop this time; go
an' put it back, ye young dog;' so I obeyed orders, an' slipped back the
purse while pretendin' to help the old ooman.  It wos risky work,
though, for a bobby twigged me, and it was only my good wind and tough
pair o' shanks that saved me.  Now," continued the urchin, knitting his
brows as he contemplated the knotty point, "I've had my doubts whether
that wos conscience, or a sort o' nat'ral weakness pecooliar to my
constitootion.  I've half a mind to call on the Bishop of London on the
point one o' these days."

"So, you're a city bird," observed Jones, admiringly.

"Ah, and I can see that you're a provincial one," replied Billy,
jingling the half-crown against the silver in his pocket.

"What brings you so far out of your beat, Walleye?" inquired Jones.

"Oh, I'm on circuit just now, makin' a tower of the provinces.  I tried
a case just before you came up, an' made three shillins out of it,
besides no end o' promises--which, unfort'nately, I can't awail myself
of--from a sweet young lady, with such a pleasant face, that I wished I
could adopt her for a darter.  But that's an expensive luxury, you see;
can't afford it yet."

"Well, youngster," said Jones, assuming a more grave yet off-hand air,
"if you choose to trust me, I'll put you in the way of makin' some money
without much trouble.  It only requires a little false swearing, which I
daresay you are used to."

"No, I ain't," retorted the urchin indignantly; "I never tells a lie
'xcept w'en I can't help it.  _Then_, of course, a feller _must_ do it!"

"Just so, Walleye, them's my sentiments.  Have you got a father?"

"No, nor yet a mother," replied Billy.  "As far as I'm aweer of, I wos
diskivered on the steps of a city work'us, an' my first impressions in
this life wos the knuckles of the old woman as banged me up.  The
governor used to talk a lot o' balderdash about our bein' brought up;
but I knows better.  I wos banged up; banged up in the mornins, banged
to meals, and banged to bed; banged through thick and thin, for
everything an' for nothin', until I banged myself out o' the door one
fine mornin', which I banged arter me, an' 'ave bin bangin' about, a
gen'lem'n at large, ever since."

"Ha! got no friends and nothin' to do?" said Morley Jones.

"Jis so."

"Well, if you have a mind to take service with me, come along an' have a
pot o' beer."

The man turned on his heel and walked off to a neighbouring
public-house, leaving the small boy to follow or not as he pleased, and
apparently quite indifferent as to what his decision might be.

Billy Towler--_alias_ Walleye--looked after him with an air of
uncertainty.  He did not like the look of the man, and was about to
decide against him, when the jingle of the half-crown in his pocket
turned the scale in his favour.  Running after him, he quietly said,
"I'm your man," and then began to whistle, at the same time making an
abortive effort to keep step with his long-limbed employer, who said
nothing in reply, but, entering a public-house, ordered two pots of
beer.  These, when produced, he and his little companion sat down to
discuss in the most retired box in the place, and conversed in low
tones.

"What was it brought you to Yarmouth, Walleye?" asked Mr Jones.

"Call me Billy," said the boy, "I like it better."

"Well, Billy--and, by the way, you may call me Morley--my name's Jones,
but, like yourself, I have a preference.  Now, then, what brought you
here?"

"H'm, that involves a story--a hanecdote, if I may so speak," replied
this precocious youngster with much gravity.  "You see, some time arter
I runn'd away from the work'us, I fell'd in with an old gen'lem'n with a
bald head an' a fat corpus.  Do 'ee happen to know, Mr Morley, 'ow it
is that bald heads an' fat corpuses a'most always go together?"

Morley replied that he felt himself unable to answer that difficult
question; but supposed that as good-humour was said to make people fat,
perhaps it made them bald also.

"I dun know," continued Billy; "anyhow, this old gen'lem'n he took'd a
fancy to me, an' took'd me home to his 'otel; for he didn't live in
London--wos there only on a wisit at the time he felled in love with me
at first sight.  Well, he give me a splendacious suit of noo clo'es, an
'ad me put to a school, where I soon larned to read and write; an' I do
b'lieve wos on the highroad to be Lord Mayor of London, when the old
schoolmaster died, before I'd bin two year there, an' the noo un wos so
fond o' the bangin' system that I couldn't stand it, an' so bid 'em all
a tender farewell, an' took to the streets agin.  The old gen'lem'n he
comed three times from Yarmouth, where he belonged, for to see me arter
I wos put to the school, an' I had a sort o' likin' for him, but not
knowin' his name, and only been aweer that he lived at Yarmouth, I
thought I'd have no chance o' findin' him.  Over my subsikint career
I'll draw a wail; it's enough to say I didn't like either it or my pals,
so I made up my mind at last to go to Yarmouth an' try to find the old
gen'lem'n as had adopted me--that's what he said he'd done to me.  W'en
I'd prigged enough o' wipes to pay my fare down, I comed away,--an' here
I am."

"Have you seen the old gentleman?" asked Morley, after a pause.

"No, only just arrived this arternoon."

"And you don't know his name, nor where he lives?"

"No."

"And how did you expect to escape bein' nabbed and put in limbo as a
vagrant?" inquired Morley.

"By gittin' employment, of coorse, from some _respectable_ gen'lem'n
like yourself, an' then runnin' away from 'im w'en I'd diskivered the
old chap wi' the bald head."

Morley Jones smiled grimly.

"Well, my advice to you is," he said, "to fight shy of the old chap,
even if you do discover him.  Depend upon it the life you would lead
under his eye would be one of constant restraint and worry.  He'd put
you to school again, no doubt, where you'd get banged as before--a
system I don't approve of at all--and be made a milksop and a flunkey,
or something o' that sort--whereas the life you'll lead with me will be
a free and easy rollikin' manly sort o' life.  Half on shore and half at
sea.  Do what you like, go where you will,--when business has bin
attended to--victuals and clothing free gratis, and pocket-money enough
to enable you to enjoy yourself in a moderate sort of way.  You see I'm
not goin' to humbug you.  It won't be all plain sailin', but what is a
man worth if he ain't fit to stand a little rough-and-tumble?  Besides,
rough work makes a fellow take his ease with all the more zest.  A life
on the ocean wave one week, with hard work, and a run on shore the next
week, with just enough to do to prevent one wearyin'.  That's the sort
o' thing for you and me, Billy, eh boy?" exclaimed the tempter, growing
garrulous in his cups, and giving his small victim a pat on the
shoulder, which, although meant to be a facetious touch, well-nigh
unseated him.

Billy Towler recovered himself, however, and received it as it was
meant, in perfect good humour.  The beer had mounted to his own little
brain, and his large eyes glowed with more than natural light as he sat
gazing into his companion's rugged face, listening with delight to the
description of a mode of life which he thought admirably suited to his
tastes and capabilities.  He was, however, a shrewd little creature.
Sad and very rough experience of life had taught him to be uncommonly
circumspect for his years.

"What's your business, Morley?" he demanded eagerly.

"I've a lot of businesses," said Mr Jones with a drunken leer, "but my
principal one is fishcuring.  I'm a sort of shipowner too.  Leastwise
I've got two craft--one bein' a sloop, the other a boat.  Moreover, I
charter no end of vessels, an' do a good deal in the insurance way.  But
you'll understand more about these things all in good time, Billy.  I
live, while I'm at home, in Gravesend, but I've got a daughter and a
mother livin' at Yarmouth, so I may say I've got a home at both places.
It's a convenient sort o' thing, you see,--a town residence and a
country villa, as it were.  Come, I'll take you to the villa now, and
introduce 'ee to the women."

So saying, this rascal paid for the poison he had been administering in
large doses to himself and his apprentice, and, taking Billy's dirty
little hand in his large horny fist, led him towards the centre of the
town.

Poor Billy little knew the nature of the awful gulf of sin and misery
into which he was now plunging with a headlong hilarious vivacity
peculiarly his own.  He was, indeed, well enough aware of the fact that
he was a thief, and an outcast from society, and that he was a habitual
breaker of the laws of God and man, but he was naturally ignorant of the
extent of his guilt, as well as of the certain and terrible end to which
it pointed, and, above all, he had not the most remote conception of the
almost hopeless slavery to which he was doomed when once fairly secured
in the baleful net which Morley Jones had begun to twine around him.

But a higher Power was leading the poor child in a way that he knew
not--a way that was little suspected by his tempter--a way that has been
the means of snatching many and many a little one from destruction in
time past, and that will certainly save many more in time to come--as
long as Christian men and women band together to unite their prayers and
powers for the rescue of perishing souls.

Traversing several streets with unsteady gait--for he was now much the
worse of drink--Mr Jones led his willing captive down one of those
innumerable narrow streets, or passages, termed "rows," which bear some
resemblance to the "closes" of the Scottish capital.  In width they are
much the same, but in cleanliness there is a vast difference, for
whereas the _closes_ of the northern capital are notorious for dirt, the
_rows_ of Yarmouth are celebrated for their neat tidy aspect.  What the
cause of the neatness of the latter may be we cannot tell, but we can
bear the testimony of an eye-witness to the fact that--considering the
class of inhabitants who dwell in them, their laborious lives and
limited means--the _rows_ are wondrously clean.  Nearly all of them are
paved with pebbles or bricks.  The square courts opening out of them on
right and left, although ridiculously small, are so thoroughly scoured
and swept that one might roll on their floors with white garments and
remain unsoiled.  In each court may be observed a water-bucket and
scrubbing-brush wet, usually, from recent use, also a green painted
box-garden of dimensions corresponding to the court, full of well-tended
flowers.  Almost every door has a wooden or stone step, and each step is
worn and white with repeated scrubbings--insomuch that one is
irresistibly led to suspect that the "Bloaters" must have a strong
infusion of the Dutch element in their nature.

Emerging at the lower end of the row, Mr Jones and his small companion
hastened along the centre of a narrow street which led them into one of
much wider dimensions, named Friar's Lane.  Proceeding along this for
some time, they diverged to the right into another of the rows not far
from the old city-wall, at a place where one of the massive towers still
rears its rugged head as a picturesque ruin.  The moon sailed out from
under a mass of clouds at this point, giving to objects the distinctness
of daylight.  Hitherto Billy Towler had retained some idea of the
direction in which he was being led, but this last turn threw his
topographical ideas into utter confusion.

"A queer place this," he remarked, as they emerged from the narrowest
passage they had yet traversed into a neat, snug, and most unexpected
little square, with a garden in the middle of it, and a flagstaff in one
corner.

"Adam-and-Eve gardens, they call it," said Mr Jones; "we're pretty nigh
home now."

"I wonder they didn't call it Eden at once," observed Billy; "it would
have been shorter and comes to the same thing."

"Here we are at last," said Mr Jones, stumbling against a small door in
one of the network of rows that surrounded this Yarmouth paradise.
"Hope the women are in," he added, attempting to lift the latch, but,
finding that the door was locked, he hammered at it with foot and fist
violently.

"Hallo!" shouted the deep voice of a man within.

"Hallo, indeed!  Who may _you_ be?" growled Mr Jones with an angry
oath.  "Open the door, will you?"

The door was opened at once by James Welton, who stood aside to let the
other pass.

"Oh! it's you, is it?" said Mr Jones.  "Didn't recognise your voice
through the door.  I thought you couldn't have got the sloop made snug
so soon.  Well, lass, how are 'ee; and how's the old ooman?"

As the man made these inquiries in a half-hearty voice, he advanced into
a poorly-furnished apartment, so small and low that it seemed a couple
of sizes too small for him, and bestowed a kiss first upon the cheek of
his old mother, who sat cowering over the fire, but brightened up on
hearing his voice, and then upon the forehead of his daughter Nora, the
cheerfulness of whose greeting, however, was somewhat checked when she
observed the intoxicated state of her father.

Nora had a face which, though not absolutely pretty, was intensely
winsome in consequence of an air of quiet womanly tenderness which
surrounded it as with a halo.  She was barely eighteen, but her soft
eyes possessed a look of sorrow and suffering which, if not natural to
them, had, at all events, become habitual.

"Who is this little boy, father?" she said, turning towards Billy
Towler, who still stood in the doorway a silent but acute observer of
all that went on.

"Oh, that? why--a--that's my noo 'prentice just come down from
Gravesend.  He's been helpin' for some time in the `hang'" (by which Mr
Jones meant the place where his fish were cured), "and I'm goin' to take
him to sea with me next trip.  Come in, Billy, and make yourself at
home."

The boy obeyed with alacrity, and made no objection to a cup of tea and
slice of bread and butter which Nora placed before him--supper being
just then in progress.

"You'd better get aboard as soon as may be," said Jones to Jim Welton
somewhat sternly.  "I didn't expect you to leave the sloop tonight."

"And I didn't intend to leave her," replied Jim, taking no notice of the
tone in which this was said; "but I thought I'd come up to ask if you
wished me to begin dischargin' early to-morrow morning."

"No, we're not going to discharge," returned Jones.

"Not going to discharge!" echoed Jim in surprise.  "No.  I find that
it's not worth while discharging any part of the cargo here.  On the
contrary, I mean to fill up with bloaters and run over with them to the
coast of France; so you can go and stow the top tier of casks more
firmly, and get ready for the noo ones.  Good-night."

The tone in which this was said left no excuse for Jim to linger, so he
bade the household good-night and departed.

He had not gone far, however, when he was arrested by the sound of a
light footstep.  It was that of Nora, who had followed him.

"Nora!" exclaimed the young sailor in surprise, returning quickly and
taking one of the girl's hands in both of his.

"Oh, Jim!" said Nora, with a look and tone of earnest entreaty, "don't,
don't forsake him just now--if the love which you have so often
professed for me be true, don't forsake him, I beseech you."

Jim protested in the most emphatic terms that he had no intention of
forsaking anybody, and made a great many more protestations, in the
midst of which there were numerous ardent and more or less appropriate
references to hearts that never deserted their colours, sheet-anchors
that held on through thick and thin, and needles that pointed, without
the smallest shadow of variation, to the pole.

"But what makes you think I'm going to leave him?" he asked, at the end
of one of those flights.

"Because he is so rough to 'ee, Jim," replied the girl, leaning her head
on her lover's shoulder; "he spoke so gruff even now, and I thought you
went away huffed.  Oh, Jim, you are the only one that has any influence
over him--"

"Not the only one," returned Jim, quietly smoothing the fair girl's hair
with his hard strong hand.

"Well, the only _man_, at any rate," continued Nora, "especially when he
is overcome with that dreadful drink.  Dear Jim, you won't forsake him,
will you, even though he should insult, even though he should _strike_
you?"

"No, never!  Because he is your father, Nora, I'll stick by him in spite
of all he can say or do to me, and try, God helping me, to save him.
But I cannot stick by him if--"

"If what?" asked the girl anxiously, observing that he hesitated.

"If he does anything against the laws," said Jim in a low voice.  "It
isn't that I'm afraid of my good name--I'd even let that go, for _your_
sake, if by so doing I could get him out of mischief; and as long as I
know nothing against him _for certain_, I'll stand by him.  But if he
does fall, and I come to know it, I _must_ leave him, Nora, because I
won't be art and part in it.  I could no longer go on my knees to pray
for him if I did that, Nora.  Moreover, if anything o' that sort should
happen, I must leave the country, because he'd be sure to be caught and
tried, and I will never stand witness against _your_ father if I can
avoid it by fair means."

Poor Nora hung her head as she asked in a low voice if Jim really
thought her father was engaged in illegal practices.

"I can't say that I do," replied the youth earnestly.  "Come, cheer up,
dearest Nora.  After all, it is chiefly through reports that my
suspicions have been aroused, and we all know how easy it is for an
enemy to raise an evil report.  But, Nora, I wish you had not bound me
to secrecy as to my reason for sticking by your father.  Why should I
not say boldly that it's all for love of you?"

"Why should you wish to give any reason at all, Jim, and above all,
_that_ reason?" asked Nora, looking up with a blush.

"Because," said the youth, with a perplexed look, "my secrecy about the
matter has puzzled my father to such an extent that his confidence in me
is entirely shaken.  I have been all my life accustomed to open all my
heart to him, and now, without rhyme or reason, as he thinks, I have
suddenly gone right round on the other tack, and at the same time, as he
says, I have taken up with doubtful company.  Now, if--"

The sound of approaching footsteps here brought the interview to an
abrupt close.  Nora ran back to her poor home, and Jim Welton, directing
his steps towards the harbour, returned on board the little sloop which
had been named after the girl of his heart.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

TREATS OF QUEEKER AND OTHERS--ALSO OF YOUTHFUL JEALOUSY, LOVE, POETRY,
AND CONFUSION OF IDEAS.

Returning, now, to the moon-struck and Katie-smitten Queeker, we find
that poetic individual walking disconsolately in front of Mr George
Durant's mansion.

In a previous chapter it has been said that, after composing his
celebrated lines to the lantern of the floating light, he resolved to
drop in upon the Durants about tea-time--and well did Queeker know their
tea-time, although, every time he went there uninvited, the miserable
hypocrite expressed surprise at finding them engaged with that meal, and
said he had supposed they must have finished tea by that time!

But, on arriving at the corner of the street, his fluttering heart
failed him.  The thought of the cousin was a stumbling-block which he
could not surmount.  He had never met her before; he feared that she
might be witty, or sarcastic, or sharp in some way or other, and would
certainly make game of him in the presence of Katie.  He had observed
this cousin narrowly at the singing-class, and had been much impressed
with her appearance; but whether this impression was favourable or
unfavourable was to him, in the then confused state of his feelings, a
matter of great uncertainty.  Now that he was about to face her, he felt
convinced that she must be a cynic, who would poison the mind of Katie
against him, and no power within his unfortunate body was capable of
inducing him to advance and raise the knocker.

Thus he hung in torments of suspense until nine o'clock, when--in a fit
of desperation, he rushed madly at the door and committed himself by
hitting it with his fist.

His equanimity was not restored by its being opened by Mr Durant
himself.

"Queeker!" exclaimed the old gentleman in surprise; "come in, my dear
sir; did you stumble against the door?  I hope you haven't hurt
yourself?"

"Not at all--a--no, not at all; the fact is, I ran up the steps rather
hastily, and--how do you do, Miss Durant?  I hope you are _quite_ well?"

Poor Queeker said this and shook hands with as much earnestness as if he
had not seen Katie for five years.

"Quite well, thank you.  My cousin, Fanny Hennings--Mr Queeker."

Fanny bowed and Mr Queeker bowed, and, with a flushed countenance,
asked her about the state of her health with unnatural anxiety.

"Thank you, Mr Squeeker, I am very well," replied Fanny.

The unhappy youth would have corrected her in regard to his name, but
hesitated and missed the opportunity, and when, shortly afterwards,
while engaged in conversation with Mr Durant, he observed Fanny
giggling violently in a corner by herself, he felt assured that Katie
had kindly made the correction for him.

The announcement of supper relieved him slightly, and he was beginning
to calm down over a piece of bread and cheese when the door-bell rang.
Immediately after a heavy foot was heard in the passage, the parlour
door was flung open, the maid announced Mr Hall, and a tall elegant
young man entered the room.  His figure was slender, but his chest was
deep and his shoulders were broad and square.  An incipient moustache of
fair hair floated like a summer cloud on his upper lip, which expanded
with a hearty smile as he advanced towards Mr Durant and held out his
hand.

"You have forgotten me, I fear," he said.

"Forgotten you!" exclaimed the old gentleman, starting up and seizing
the young man's hand, which he shook violently--"forgotten Stanley
Hall--little Stanney, as I used to call you?  Man, how you _are_ grown,
to be sure.  What a wonderful change!"

"For the worse, I fear!" exclaimed the youth, laughing.

"Come, no fishing for compliments, sir.  Let me introduce you to my
daughter Katie, my niece Fanny Hennings, and my young friend Queeker.
Now, then, sit down, and make yourself at home; you're just in time;
we've only just begun; ring the bell for another plate, Katie.  How glad
I am to see you, Stanney, my boy--I can't call you by any other than the
old name, you see.  How did you leave your father, and what brings you
here?  Come, out with it all at once.  I declare you have quite excited
me."

Well was it for poor Queeker that every one was too much occupied with
the newcomer to pay any attention to him, for he could not prevent his
visage from betraying something of the feelings which harrowed up his
soul.  The moment he set eyes on Stanley Hall, mortal jealousy--keen,
rampant, virulent jealousy of the worst type--penetrated every fibre of
his being, and turned his heart to stone!  We cannot afford space to
detail the various shades of agony, the degrees of despair, through
which this unfortunate young man passed during that evening.  A thick
volume would not suffice to contain it all.  Language is powerless to
express it.  Only those who have similarly suffered can conceive it.

Of course, we need scarcely add that there was no occasion for jealousy.
Nothing was further from the mind of Stanley than the idea of falling
in love with Katie.  Nevertheless, politeness required that he should
address himself to her occasionally.  At such times, Queeker's soul was
stabbed in an unutterable manner.  He managed to command himself,
notwithstanding.  To his credit, be it said, that he refrained from
using the carving-knife.  He even joined with some show of interest (of
course hypocritical) in the conversation.

Stanley Hall was not only good-looking, but good-humoured, and full of
quiet fun and anecdote, so that he quickly ingratiated himself with all
the members of the family.

"D'you know it makes me feel young again to hear these old stories about
your father's college-life," said Mr Durant.  "Have some more cheese,
Stanney--you look like a man who ought to have a good appetite--fill
your glass and pass the bottle--thanks.  Now, how comes it that you have
turned up in this out-of-the-way part of the world?  By-the-bye, I hope
you intend to stay some time, and that you will take up your quarters
with me?  You can't imagine how much pleasure it would give me to have
the son of my old companion as a guest for some time.  I'm sure that
Katie joins me heartily in this hope."

Queeker's spirit sank with horror, and when Katie smilingly seconded her
father's proposal, his heart stood still with dismay.  Fanny Hennings,
who had begun to suspect that there was something wrong with Queeker,
put her handkerchief to her mouth, and coughed with what appeared to be
unreasonable energy.

"I regret," said Stanley (and Queeker's breath came more freely), "that
my stay must necessarily be short.  I need not say that it would afford
me the highest pleasure to accept your kind invitation" (he turned with
a slight bow to Katie, and Queeker almost fainted), "but the truth is,
that I have come down on a particular piece of business, in regard to
which I wish to have your advice, and must return to London to-morrow or
next day at furthest."

Queeker's heart resumed its office.

"I am sorry to hear that--very sorry.  However, you shall stay to-night
at all events; and you shall have the best advice I can give you on any
subject you choose to mention.  By the way talking of advice, you're an
M.D. now, I fancy?"

"Not yet," replied Stanley.  "I am not quite fledged, although nearly
so, and I wish to go on a voyage before completing my course."

"Quite right, quite right--see a little of life first, eh?  But how
comes it, Stanney, that you took kindly to the work at last, for, when I
knew you first you could not bear the idea of becoming a doctor?"

"One's ideas change, I suppose," replied the youth, with a
smile,--"probably my making the discovery that I had some talent in that
direction had something to do with it."

"H'm; how did you make that discovery, my boy?" asked the old gentleman.

"That question can't easily be answered except by my inflicting on you a
chapter of my early life," replied Stanley, laughing.

"Then inflict it on us without delay, my boy.  I shall delight to
listen, and so, I am sure, will Katie and Fanny.  As to my young friend
Queeker, he is of a somewhat literary turn, and may perhaps throw the
incidents into verse, if they are of a sufficiently romantic character!"

Katie and Fanny declared they would be charmed to hear about it, and
Queeker said, in a savagely jesting tone, that he was so used to things
being inflicted on him, that he didn't mind--rather liked it than
otherwise!

"But you must not imagine," said Stanley, "that I have a thrilling
narrative to give you, I can merely relate the two incidents which fixed
my destiny in regard to a profession.  You remember, I daresay, that my
heart was once set upon going to sea.  Well, like most boys, I refused
to listen to advice on that point, and told my father that I should
never make a surgeon--that I had no taste or talent for the medical
profession.  The more my father tried to reason me out of my desire, the
more obstinate I became.  The only excuse that I can plead is that I was
very young, very ignorant, and very stupid.  One day, however, I was
left in the surgery with a number of dirty phials to wash--my father
having gone to visit a patient at a short distance, when our servant
came running in, saying that there was a cab at the door with a poor boy
who had got his cheek badly cut.  As I knew that my father would be at
home in less than quarter of an hour, I ordered him to be brought in.
The poor child--a little delicate boy--was very pale, and bleeding
profusely from a deep gash in the cheek, made accidentally by a knife
with which he had been playing.  The mouth was cut open almost to the
ear.  We laid him on a sofa, and I did what I could to stop the flow of
blood.  I was not sixteen at the time, and, being very small for my age,
had never before felt myself in a position to offer advice, and indeed I
had not much to offer.  But one of the bystanders said to me while we
were looking at the child,--

"`What do you think should be done, sir?'

"The mere fact of being asked my opinion gratified my vanity, and the
respectful `sir' with which the question concluded caused my heart to
beat high with unwonted emotion.  It was the first time I had ever been
addressed gravely as a man; it was a new sensation, and I think may be
regarded as an era in my existence.

"With much gravity I replied that of course the wound ought to be sewed
up.

"`Then sooner it's done the better, I think,' said the bystander, `for
the poor child will bleed to death if it is allowed to go on like that.'

"A sudden resolution entered into my mind.  I stroked my chin and
frowned, as if in deep thought, then, turning to the man who had spoken,
said,--`It ought certainly to be done with as little delay as possible;
I expect my father to return every minute; but as it is an urgent case,
I will myself undertake it, if the parents of the child have no
objection.'

"`Seems to me, lad,' remarked a country fellow, who had helped to carry
the child in, `that it beant a time to talk o' parients objectin' w'en
the cheeld's blood'n to deth.  Ye'd better fa' to work at once--if 'ee
knows how.'

"I cast upon this man a look of scorn, but made no reply.  Going to the
drawer in which the surgical instruments were kept, I took out those
that suited my purpose, and went to work with a degree of coolness which
astonished myself.  I had often seen my father sew up wounds, and had
assisted at many an operation of the kind, so that, although altogether
unpractised, I was not ignorant of the proper mode of procedure.  The
people looked on with breathless interest.  When I had completed the
operation, I saw my father looking over the shoulders of the people with
an expression of unutterable surprise not unmingled with amusement.  I
blushed deeply, and began some sort of explanation, which, however, he
cut short by observing in an off-hand manner, that the thing had been
done very well, and the child had better be carried into my bedroom and
left there to rest for some time.  He thus got the people out of the
surgery, and then, when we were alone, told me that I was a born
surgeon, that he could not have done it much better himself, and, in
short, praised me to such an extent that I felt quite proud of my
performance."

Queeker, who had listened up to this point with breathless attention,
suddenly said--

"D'you mean to say that you _really_ did that?"

"I do," replied Stanley with an amused smile.

"Sewed up a mouth cut all the way to the ear?"

"Yes."

"With a--a--"

"With a needle and thread," said Stanley.

Queeker's powers of utterance were paralysed.  He looked at the young
doctor with a species of awe-stricken admiration.  Jealousy, for the
time, was in abeyance.

"This, then, was the beginning of your love for the profession?" said
Mr Durant.

"Undoubtedly it was, but a subsequent event confirmed me in my devotion
to it, and induced me to give up all thoughts of the sea.  The praise
that I had received from my father--who was not usually lavish of
complimentary remarks--made me ambitious to excel in other departments
of surgery, so I fixed upon the extraction of teeth as my next step in
the profession.  My father had a pretty large practice in that way.  We
lived, as you remember, in the midst of a populous rural district, and
had frequent visits from farm servants and labourers with heads tied up
and lugubrious faces.

"I began to fit myself for duty by hammering big nails into a block of
wood, and drawing them out again.  This was a device of my own, for I
wished to give my father another surprise, and did not wish to betray
what I was about, by asking his advice as to how I should proceed.  I
then extracted the teeth from the jaw-bones of all the sheep's-heads
that I could lay hands on; after a good deal of practice in this way, I
tried to tempt our cook with an offer of five shillings to let me
extract a back tooth which had caused her a great deal of suffering at
intervals for many months; but she was a timid woman, and would not have
allowed me for five guineas, I believe, even to look into her mouth.  I
also tried to tempt our small stable-boy with a similar sum.  He was a
plucky little fellow, and, although there was not an unsound tooth in
his head, agreed to let me draw one of the _smallest_ of his back teeth
for seven and sixpence if it should come out the first pull, and
sixpence for every extra rug!  I thought the little fellow extravagant
in his demands, but, rather than lose the chance, submitted.  He sat
down quite boldly on our operating chair, but grew pale when I advanced
with the instrument; when I tried to open his mouth, he began to
whimper, and finally, struggling out of my grasp, fled.  I afterwards
gave him sixpence, however, for affording me, as I told him, so much
pleasurable anticipation.

"After this I cast about for another subject, but failed to procure a
live one.  It occurred to me, however, that I might try my hand on two
skeletons that hung in our garret, so I got their heads off without
delay, and gradually extracted every tooth in their jaws.  As there were
about sixty teeth, I think, in each pair, I felt myself much improved
before the jaws were toothless.  At last, I resolved to take advantage
of the first opportunity that should offer, during my father's absence,
to practise on the living subject.  It was not long before I had a
chance.

"One morning my father went out, leaving me in the surgery, as was his
wont.  I was deeply immersed in a book on anatomy, when I heard a
tremendous double rap--as if made with the head of a stick--at the outer
door, and immediately after the question put in the gruff bass voice of
an Irishman, `Is the dactur within?'

"A tremendous growl of disappointment followed the reply.  Then, after a
pause, `Is the assistant within?'  This was followed by a heavy tread in
the passage and, next moment; an enormous man, in very ragged fustian,
with a bronzed hairy face, and a reaping-hook under his arm, stood in
the surgery, his head almost touching the ceiling.

"`Sure it's niver the dactur's assistant ye are?' he exclaimed, with a
look of surprise.

"I rose, drew myself up, and, endeavouring to look very solemn, said
that I was, and demanded to know if I could do anything for him.

"`Ah, then, it's a small assistant ye are, anyhow,' he remarked; but
stopped suddenly and his huge countenance was convulsed with pain, as he
clapped his hand to his face, and uttered a groan, which was at least
three parts composed of a growl.

"`Hooroo! whirr-r-hach! musha, but it's like the cratur o' Vesoovious
all alive-o--in me head.  Av it don't split up me jaw--there--ha--och!'

"The giant stamped his foot with such violence that all the glasses,
cups, and vials in the room rang again, and, clapping both hands over
his mouth, he bent himself double in a paroxysm of agony.

"I felt a strange mixture of wild delight and alarm shoot through me.
The chance had come in my way, but in anticipating it I had somehow
always contemplated operating on some poor boy or old woman.  My
thoughts had never depicted such a herculean and rude specimen of
humanity.  At first, he would not believe me capable of extracting a
tooth; but I spoke with such cool self-possession and assurance--though
far from feeling either--that he consented to submit to the operation.
For the sake of additional security, I seated him on the floor, and took
his head between my knees; and I confess that when seated thus, in such
close proximity to his rugged as well as massive head, gazing into the
cavern filled with elephantine tusks, my heart almost failed me.  Far
back, in the darkest corner of the cave, I saw the decayed tooth--a
massive lump of glistening ivory, with a black pit in the middle of it.
Screwing up my courage to the utmost, I applied the key.  The giant
winced at the touch, but clasped his hard hands together--evidently
prepared for the worst.  I began to twist with right good-will.  The man
roared furiously, and gave a convulsive heave that almost upset myself
and the big chair, and disengaged the key!

"`Oh, come,' said I, remonstratively, `you ought to stand it better than
that! why, the worst of it was almost over.'

"`Was it, though?' he inquired earnestly, with an upward glance, that
gave to his countenance in that position a hideous aspect.  `Sure it had
need be, for the worst baits all that iver I drained of.  Go at it
again, me boy.'

"Resolving to make sure work of it next time, I fixed the key again,
and, after getting it pretty tight--at which point he evidently fancied
the worst had been again reached--I put forth all my strength in one
tremendous twist.

"I failed for a moment to draw the tusk, but I drew forth a prolonged
roar, that can by no means be conceived or described.  The Irishman
struggled.  I held on tight to his head with my knees.  The chair
tottered on its legs.  Letting go the hair of his head, I clapped my
left hand to my right, and with both arms redoubled the strain.  The
roar rose into a terrible yowl.  There was a crash like the rending of a
forest tree.  I dropped the instrument, sprang up, turned the chair on
the top of the man, and cramming it down on him rushed to the door,
which I threw open, and then faced about.

"There was a huge iron pestle lying on a table near my hand.  Seizing
it, I swayed it gently to and fro, ready to knock him down with it if he
should rush at me, or to turn and fly, as should seem most advisable.  I
was terribly excited, and a good deal alarmed as to the possible
consequences, but managed with much difficulty to look collected.

"The big chair was hurled into a corner as he rose sputtering from the
floor, and holding his jaws with both hands.

"`Och! ye spalpeen, is that the way ye trait people?'

"`Yes,' I replied in a voice of forced calmness, `we usually put a
restraint on strong men like you, when they're likely to be violent.'

"I saw the corners of his eyes wrinkle a little, and felt more
confidence.

"`Arrah, but it's the jawbone ye've took out, ye goormacalluchscrowl!'

"`No, it isn't, it's only the tooth,' I replied, going forward and
picking it up from the floor.

"The amazement of the man is not to be described.  I gave him a tumbler
of water, and, pointing to a basin, told him to wash out his mouth,
which he did, looking at me all the time, however, and following me with
his astonished eyes, as I moved about the room.  He seemed to have been
bereft of the power of speech; for all that he could say after that was,
`Och! av yer small yer cliver!'

"On leaving he asked what was to pay.  I said that I'd ask nothing, as
he had stood it so well; and he left me with the same look of
astonishment in his eyes and words of commendation on his lips."

"Well, that _was_ a tremendous experience to begin with," said Mr
Durant, laughing; "and so it made you a doctor?"

"It helped.  When my father came home I presented him with the tooth,
and from that day to this I have been hard at work; but I feel a little
seedy just now from over-study, so I have resolved to try to get a berth
as surgeon on board a ship bound for India, Australia, China, or South
America, and, as you are a shipowner and old friend, I thought it just
possible you might be not only willing but able to help me to what I
want."

"And you thought right, Stanney, my boy," said the old gentleman
heartily; "I have a ship going to sail for India in a few weeks, and we
have not yet appointed a surgeon.  You shall have that berth if it suits
you."

At this point they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant maid
with the announcement that there was a man in the lobby who wished to
see Mr Durant.

"I'll be back shortly," said the old gentleman to Stanley as he rose;
"go to the drawing-room, girls, and give Mr Hall some music.  You'll
find that my Katie sings and plays very sweetly, although she won't let
me say so.  Fanny joins her with a fine contralto, I believe, and
Queeker, too, he sings--a--a what is it, Queeker?--a bass or a
baritone--eh?"

Without waiting for a reply, Mr Durant left the room, and found Morley
Jones standing in the lobby, hat in hand.

The old gentleman's expression changed instantly, and he said with much
severity--

"Well, Mr Jones, what do _you_ want?"

Morley begged the favour of a private interview for a few minutes.
After a moment's hesitation, Mr Durant led him into his study.

"Another loan, I suppose?" said the old gentleman, as he lit the gas.

"I had expected to have called to pay the last loan, sir," replied Mr
Jones somewhat boldly, "but one can't force the market.  I have my sloop
down here loaded with herrings, and if I chose to sell at a loss, could
pay my debt to you twice over; but surely it can scarcely be expected of
me to do that.  I hear there is a rise in France just now, and mean to
run over there with them.  I shall be sure to dispose of 'em to
advantage.  On my return, I'll pay your loan with interest."

Morley Jones paused, and Mr Durant looked at him attentively for a few
seconds.

"Is this all you came to tell me?"

"Why, no sir, not exactly," replied Jones, a little disconcerted by the
stern manner of the old gentleman.  "The sloop is not quite filled up,
she could stow a few more casks, but I have been cleaned out, and unless
I can get the loan of forty or fifty pounds--"

"Ha!  I thought so.  Are you aware, Mr Jones, that your character for
honesty has of late been called in question?"

"I am aware that I have got enemies," replied the fish-merchant coldly.
"If their false reports are to be believed to my disadvantage, of course
I cannot expect--"

"It is not my belief in their reports," replied Mr Durant, "that
creates suspicion in me, but I couple these reports with the fact that
you have again and again deceived me in regard to the repayment of the
loans which you have already received at various times from me."

"I can't help ill-luck, sir," said Morley with a downcast look.  "If
men's friends always deserted them at the same time with fortune there
would be an end of all trade."

"Mr Jones," said the other decidedly, "I tell you plainly that you are
presumptuous when you count me one of your _friends_.  Your deceased
brother, having been an old and faithful servant of mine, was considered
by me a friend, and it is out of regard to his memory alone that I have
assisted _you_.  Even now, I will lend you the sum you ask, but be
assured it is the last you shall ever get from me.  I distrust you, sir,
and I tell you so--flatly."

While he was speaking the old gentleman had opened a desk.  He now sat
down and wrote out a cheque, which he handed to his visitor, who
received it with a grim smile and a curt acknowledgment, and instantly
took his leave.

Mr Durant smoothed the frown from his brow, and returned to the
drawing-room, where Katie's sweet voice instantly charmed away the
memory of the evil spirit that had just left him.

The table was covered with beautiful pencil sketches and chalk-heads and
water-colour drawings in various stages of progression--all of which
were the production of the same fair, busy, and talented little hand
that copied the accounts for the Board of Trade, for love instead of
money, without a blot, and without defrauding of dot or stroke a single
_i_ or _t_!

Queeker was gazing at one of the sketches with an aspect so haggard and
savage that Mr Durant could not refrain from remarking it.

"Why, Queeker, you seem to be displeased with that drawing, eh?  What's
wrong with it?"

"Oh, ah!" exclaimed the youth, starting, and becoming very red in the
face--"no, not with the drawing, it is beautiful--_most_ beautiful, but
I--in--fact I was thinking, sir, that thought sometimes leads us into
regions of gloom in which--where--one can't see one's way, and _ignes
fatui_ mislead or--or--"

"Very true, Queeker," interrupted the old gentleman, good-humouredly;
"thought is a wonderful quality of the mind--transports us in a moment
from the Indies to the poles; fastens with equal facility on the
substantial and the impalpable; gropes among the vague generalities of
the abstract, and wriggles with ease through the thick obscurities of
the concrete--eh, Queeker?  Come, give us a song, like a good fellow."

"I never sing--I _cannot_ sing, sir," said the youth, hurriedly.

"No! why, I thought Katie said you were attending the singing-class."

The fat cousin was observed here to put her handkerchief to her mouth
and bend convulsively over a drawing.

Queeker explained that he had just begun to attend, but had not yet
attained sufficient confidence to sing in public.  Then, starting up he
suddenly pulled out his watch, exclaimed that he was quite ashamed of
having remained so late, shook hands nervously all round, and, rushing
from the house, left Stanley Hall in possession of the field!

Now, the poor youth's state of mind is not easily accounted for.
Stanley, being a close observer, had at an early part of the evening
detected the cause of Queeker's jealousy, and, being a kindly fellow,
sought, by devoting himself to Fanny Hennings, to relieve his young
friend; but, strange to say, Queeker was _not_ relieved!  This fact was
a matter of profound astonishment even to Queeker himself, who went home
that night in a state of mind which cannot be adequately described, sat
down before his desk, and, with his head buried in his hands, thought
intensely.

"Can it be," he murmured in a sepulchral voice, looking up with an
expression of horror, "that I love them _both_?  Impossible.  Horrible!
Perish the thought--yes."  Seizing a pen:--

  "Perish the thought
  Which never ought
  To be,
  Let not the thing."

"Thing--wing--bing--ping--jing--ring--ling--ting--cling--dear me! what a
lot of words with little or no meaning there are in the English
language!--what _will_ rhyme with--ah!  I have it--sting--"

  "Let not the thing
  Reveal its sting
  To me!"

Having penned these lines, Queeker heaved a deep sigh--cast one long
lingering gaze on the moon, and went to bed.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE SLOOP NORA--MR. JONES BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE, AND BILLY TOWLER, FOR
THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE, THOUGHTFUL.

A dead calm, with a soft, golden, half-transparent mist, had settled
down on Old Father Thames, when, early one morning, the sloop Nora
floated rather than sailed towards the mouth of that celebrated river,
bent, in the absence of wind, on creeping out to sea with the tide.

Jim Welton stood at the helm, which, in the circumstances, required only
attention from one of his legs, so that his hands rested idly in his
coat pockets.  Morley Jones stood beside him.

"So you managed the insurance, did you?" said Jim in a careless way, as
though he put the question more for the sake of saying something than
for any interest he had in the matter.

Mr Jones, whose eyes and manner betrayed the fact that even at that
early hour he had made application to the demon-spirit which led him
captive at its will, looked suspiciously at his questioner, and
replied--

"Well, yes, I've managed it."

"For how much?" inquired Jim.

"For 300 pounds."

Jim looked surprised.  "D'ye think the herring are worth that?" he
asked.

"No, they ain't, but there's some general cargo besides as'll make it up
to that, includin' the value o' the sloop, which I've put down at 100
pounds.  Moreover, Jim, I have named you as the skipper.  They required
his name, d'ye see, and as I'm not exactly a seafarin' man myself, an'
wanted to appear only as the owner, I named you."

"But that was wrong," said Jim, "for I'm _not_ the master."

"Yes, you are," replied Morley, with a laugh.  "I make you master now.
So, pray, Captain Welton, attend to your duty, and be civil to your
employer.  There's a breeze coming that will send you foul o' the Maplin
light if you don't look out."

"What's the name o' the passenger that came aboard at Gravesend, and
what makes him take a fancy to such a craft as this?" inquired Jim.

"I can answer these questions for myself," said the passenger referred
to, who happened at that moment to come on deck.  "My name is Stanley
Hall, and I have taken a fancy to the Nora chiefly because she somewhat
resembles in size and rig a yacht which belonged to my father, and in
which I have had many a pleasant cruise.  I am fond of the sea, and
prefer going to Ramsgate in this way rather than by rail.  I suppose you
will approve my preference of the sea?" he added, with a smile.

"I do, indeed," responded Jim.  "The sea is my native element.  I could
swim in it as soon a'most as I could walk, and I believe that--one way
or other, in or on it--I have had more to do with it than with the
land."

"You are a good swimmer, then, I doubt not?" said Stanley.

"Pretty fair," replied Jim, modestly.

"Pretty fair!" echoed Morley Jones, "why, he's the best swimmer, I'll be
bound, in Norfolk--ay, if he were brought to the test I do b'lieve he'd
turn out to be the best in the kingdom."

On the strength of this subject the two young men struck up an
acquaintance, which, before they had been long together, ripened into
what might almost be styled a friendship.  They had many sympathies in
common.  Both were athletic; both were mentally as well as physically
active, and, although Stanley Hall had the inestimable advantage of a
liberal education, Jim Welton possessed a naturally powerful intellect,
with a capacity for turning every scrap of knowledge to good use.

Their conversation was at that time, however, cut short by the springing
up of a breeze, which rendered it necessary that the closest attention
should be paid to the management of the vessel among the numerous shoals
which rendered the navigation there somewhat difficult.

It may be that many thousands of those who annually leave London on
voyages, short and long--of profit and pleasure--have very little idea
of the intricacy of the channels through which they pass, and the number
of obstructions which, in the shape of sandbanks, intersect the mouth of
the Thames at its junction with the ocean.  Without pilots, and an
elaborate well-considered system of lights, buoys, and beacons, a vessel
would be about as likely to reach London from the ocean, or _vice
versa_, in safety, as a man who should attempt to run through an old
timber-yard blindfold would be to escape with unbroken neck and shins.
Of shoals there are the East and West Barrows, the Nob, the Knock, the
John, the Sunk, the Girdler, and the Long sands, all lying like so many
ground-sharks, quiet, unobtrusive, but very deadly, waiting for ships to
devour, and getting them too, very frequently, despite the precautions
taken to rob them of their costly food.

These sand-sharks (if we may be allowed the expression) separate the
main channels, which are named respectively the Swin or King's channel,
on the north, and the Prince's, the Queen's, and the South channels, on
the south.  The channel through which the Nora passed was the Swin,
which, though not used by first-class ships, is perhaps the most
frequented by the greater portion of the coasting and colliery vessels,
and all the east country craft.  The traffic is so great as to be almost
continuous; innumerable vessels being seen in fine weather passing to
and fro as far as the eye can reach.  To mark this channel alone there
was, at the time we write of, the Mouse light-vessel, at the western
extremity of the Mouse sand; the Maplin lighthouse, on the sand of the
same name; the Swin middle light-vessel, at the western extremity of the
Middle and Heaps sand; the Whittaker beacon, and the Sunk light-vessel
on the Sunk sand--besides other beacons and numerous buoys.  When we add
that floating lights and beacons cost thousands and hundreds of pounds
to build, and that even buoys are valued in many cases at more than a
hundred pounds each, besides the cost of maintenance, it may be
conceived that the great work of lighting and buoying the channels of
the kingdom--apart from the _light-house_ system altogether--is one of
considerable expense, constant anxiety, and vast national importance.
It may also be conceived that the Elder Brethren of the Corporation of
Trinity House--by whom, from the time of Henry VIII down to the present
day, that arduous duty has been admirably performed--hold a position of
the highest responsibility.

It is not our intention, however, to trouble the reader with further
remarks on this subject at this point in our tale.  In a future chapter
we shall add a few facts regarding the Trinity Corporation, which will
doubtless prove interesting; meanwhile we have said sufficient to show
that there was good reason for Jim Welton to hold his tongue and mind
his helm.

When the dangerous navigation was past, Mr Jones took Billy Towler
apart, and, sitting down near the weather gangway, entered into a
private and confidential talk with that sprightly youngster.

"Billy, my boy," he said, with a leer that was meant to be at once
amiable and patronising, "you and I suit each other very well, don't
we?"

Billy, who had been uncommonly well treated by his new master, thrust
his hands into the waistband of his trousers, and, putting his head
meditatively on one side, said in a low voice--

"H'm--well, yes, you suit me pretty well."

The respectable fish-curer chuckled, and patted his protege on the back.
After which he proceeded to discuss, or rather to detail, some matters
which, had he been less affected by the contents of Square-Tom, he might
have hesitated to touch upon.

"Yes" he said, "you'll do very well, Billy.  You're a good boy and a
sharp one, which, you see, is exactly what I need.  There are a lot o'
small matters that I want you to do for me, and that couldn't be very
well done by anybody else; 'cause, d'ye see, there ain't many lads o'
your age who unite so many good qualities."

"Very true," remarked Billy, gravely nodding his head--which, by the
way, was now decorated with a small straw hat and blue ribbon, as was
his little body with a blue Guernsey shirt, and his small legs with
white duck trousers of approved sailor cut.

"Now, among other things," resumed Morley, "I want you to learn some
lessons."

Billy shook his head with much decision.

"That won't go down, Mister Jones.  I don't mean for to larn no more
lessons.  I've 'ad more than enough o' that.  Fact is I consider myself
edicated raither 'igher than usual.  Can't I read and write, and do a
bit o' cypherin'?  Moreover, I knows that the world goes round the sun,
w'ich is contrairy to the notions o' the haincients, wot wos rediklous
enough to suppose that the sun went round the world.  And don't I know
that the earth is like a orange, flattened at the poles? though I don't
b'lieve there _is_ no poles, an' don't care a button if there was.
That's enough o' jogrify for my money; w'en I wants more I'll ax for
it."

"But it ain't that sort o' lesson I mean, Billy," said Mr Jones, who
was somewhat amused at the indignant tone in which all this was said.
"The lesson I want you to learn is this: I want you to git off by heart
what you and I are doin', an' going to do, so that if you should ever
come to be questioned about it at different times by different people,
you might always give 'em the same intelligent answer,--d'ye
understand?"

"Whew!" whistled the boy, opening his eyes and showing his teeth; "beaks
an' maginstrates, eh?"

"Just so.  And remember, my boy, that you and I have been doin' one or
two things together of late that makes it best for both of us to be very
affectionate to, and careful about, each other.  D'ye understand that?"

Billy Towler pursed his little red lips as he nodded his small head and
winked one of his large blue eyes.  A slight deepening of the red on his
cheeks told eloquently enough that he _did_ understand that.

The tempter had gone a long way in his course by that time.  So many of
the folds of the thin net had been thrown over the little thoughtless
victim, that, light-hearted and defiant though he was by nature, he had
begun to experience a sense of restraint which was quite new to him.

"Now, Billy," continued Jones, "let me tell you that our prospects are
pretty bright just now.  I have effected an insurance on my sloop and
cargo for 300 pounds, which means that I've been to a certain great city
that you and I know of, and paid into a company--we shall call it the
Submarine Insurance Company--a small sum for a bit of paper, which they
call a policy, by which they bind themselves to pay me 300 pounds if I
should lose my ship and cargo.  You see, my lad, the risks of the sea
are very great, and there's no knowing what may happen between this and
the coast of France, to which we are bound after touching at Ramsgate.
D'ye understand?"

Billy shook his head, and with an air of perplexity said that he "wasn't
quite up to that dodge--didn't exactly see through it."

"Supposin'," said he, "you does lose the sloop an' cargo, why, wot
then?--the sloop an' cargo cost somethin', I dessay?"

"Ah, Billy, you're a smart boy--a knowing young rascal," replied Mr
Jones, nodding approval; "of course they cost something, but therein
lies the advantage.  The whole affair, sloop an' cargo, ain't worth more
than a few pounds; so, if I throw it all away, it will be only losing a
few pounds for the sake of gaining three hundred.  What think you of
that, lad?"

"I think the Submarine Insurance Company must be oncommon green to be
took in so easy," replied the youngster with a knowing smile.

"They ain't exactly green either, boy, but they know that if they made
much fuss and bother about insuring they would soon lose their
customers, so they often run the risk of a knowin' fellow like me, and
take the loss rather than scare people away.  You know, if a grocer was
in the habit of carefully weighing and testing with acid every sovereign
he got before he would sell a trifle over the counter,--if he called
every note in question, and sent up to the bank to see whether it wasn't
a forgery, why, his honest customers wouldn't be able to stand it.
They'd give him up.  So he just gives the sovereign a ring and the note
a glance an' takes his chance.  So it is in some respects with insurance
companies.  They look at the man and the papers, see that all's right,
as well as they can, and hope for the best.  That's how it is."

"Ha! they must be jolly companies to have to do with.  I'd like to
transact some business with them submarines," said the boy, gravely.

"And so you shall, my lad, so you shall," cried Mr Jones with a laugh;
"all in good time.  Well, as I was saying, the cargo ain't worth much;
it don't extend down to the keel, Billy, by no means; and as for the
sloop--she's not worth a rope's-end.  She's as rotten as an old coffin.
It's all I've been able to do to make her old timbers hold together for
this voyage."

Billy Towler opened his eyes very wide at this, and felt slightly
uncomfortable.

"If she goes down in mid-channel," said he, "it strikes me that the
submarines will get the best of it, 'cause it don't seem to me that
you're able to swim eight or ten miles at a stretch."

"We have a boat, Billy, we have a boat, my smart boy."

Mr Jones accompanied this remark with a wink and a slight poke with his
thumb in the smart boy's side, which, however, did not seem to have the
effect of reassuring Billy, for he continued to raise various
objections, such as the improbability of the sloop giving them time to
get into a boat when she took it into her head to go down, and the
likelihood of their reaching the land in the event of such a disaster
occurring during a gale or even a stiff breeze.  To all of which Mr
Jones replied that he might make his mind easy, because he (Jones) knew
well what he was about, and would manage the thing cleverly.

"Now, Billy, here's the lesson that you've got to learn.  Besides
remembering everything that I have told you, and only answering
questions in the way that I have partly explained, and will explain more
fully at another time, you will take particular note that we left the
Thames to-day all right with a full cargo--Jim Welton bein' master, and
one passenger bein' aboard, whom we agreed to put ashore at Ramsgate.
That you heard me say the vessel and cargo were insured for 300 pounds,
but were worth more, and that I said I hoped to make a quick voyage over
and back.  Besides all this, Billy, boy, you'll keep a sharp look-out,
and won't be surprised if I should teach you to steer, and get the
others on board to go below.  If you should observe me do anything while
you are steering, or should hear any noises, you'll be so busy with the
tiller and the compass that you'll forget all about _that_, and never be
able to answer any questions about such things at all.  Have I made all
that quite plain to you?"

"Yes, captain; hall right."

Billy had taken to styling his new employer captain, and Mr Jones did
not object.

"Well, go for'ard and take a nap.  I shall want you to-night perhaps; it
may be not till to-morrow night."

The small boy went forward, as he was bid, and, leaning over the bulwark
of the Nora, watched for a long time the rippling foam that curled from
her bows and slid quietly along her black hull, but Billy's thoughts
were not, like his eyes, fixed upon the foam.  For the first time in his
life, perhaps, the foundling outcast began to feel that he was running
in a dangerous road, and entertained some misgivings that he was an
uncommonly wild, if not wicked, fellow.  It is not to be supposed that
his perceptions on this subject were very clear, or his meditations
unusually profound, but it is certain that, during the short period of
his residence in the school of which mention has been made, his
conscience had been awakened and partially enlightened, so that his
precociously quick intelligence enabled him to arrive at a more just
apprehension of his condition than might have been expected,--
considering his years and early training.

We do not say that Billy's heart smote him.  That little organ was
susceptible only of impressions of jollity and mischief.  In other
respects--never having been appealed to by love--it was as hard as a
small millstone.  But the poor boy's anxieties were aroused, and the new
sensation appeared to add a dozen years to his life.  Up to this time he
had been accustomed to estimate his wickednesses by the number of days,
weeks, or months of incarceration that they involved--"a wipe," he would
say, "was so many weeks," a "silver sneezing-box," or a "gold ticker,"
in certain circumstances, so many more; while a "crack," i.e. a burglary
(to which, by the way, he had only aspired as yet) might cost something
like a trip over the sea at the Queen's expense; but it had never
entered into the head of the small transgressor of the law to meditate
such an awful deed as the sinking of a ship, involving as it did the
possibility of murder and suicide, or hanging if he should escape the
latter contingency.

Moreover, he now began to realise more clearly the fact that he had cast
in his lot with a desperate man, who would stick at nothing, and from
whose clutches he felt assured that it would be no easy matter to
escape.  He resolved, however, to make the attempt the first favourable
opportunity that should offer; and while the resolve was forming in his
small brain his little brows frowned sternly at the foam on the Nora's
cutwater.  When the resolve was fairly formed, fixed, and disposed of,
Billy's brow cleared, and his heart rose superior to its cares.  He
turned gaily round.  Observing that the seaman, who with himself and Jim
Welton composed the crew of the sloop, was sitting on the heel of the
bowsprit half asleep, he knocked his cap off, dived down the fore-hatch
with a merry laugh, flung himself into his berth, and instantly fell
asleep, to dream of the dearest joys that had as yet crossed his earthly
path--namely, his wayward wanderings, on long summer days, among the
sunny fields and hedgerows of Hampstead, Kensington, Finchley, and other
suburbs of London.



CHAPTER NINE.

MR. JONES TAKES STRONG MEASURES TO SECURE HIS ENDS, AND INTRODUCES BILLY
AND HIS FRIENDS TO SOME NEW SCENES AND MOMENTS.

Again we are in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin sands.  It is evening.
The sun has just gone down.  The air and sea are perfectly still.  The
stars are coming out one by one, and the floating lights have already
hoisted their never-failing signals.

The Nora lies becalmed not far from the Goodwin buoy, with her sails
hanging idly on the yards.  Bill Towler stands at the helm with all the
aspect and importance of a steersman, but without any other duty to
perform than the tiller could have performed for itself.  Morley Jones
stands beside him with his hands in his coat pockets, and Stanley Hall
sits on the cabin skylight gazing with interest at the innumerable
lights of the shipping in the roadstead, and the more distant houses on
shore.  Jim Welton, having been told that he will have to keep watch all
night, is down below taking a nap, and Grundy, having been ordered below
to attend to some trifling duty in the fore part of the vessel, is also
indulging in slumber.

Long and earnestly and anxiously had Morley Jones watched for an
opportunity to carry his plans into execution, but as yet without
success.  Either circumstances were against him, or his heart had failed
him at the push.  He walked up and down the deck with uncertain steps,
sat down and rose up frequently, and growled a good deal--all of which
symptoms were put down by Stanley to the fact that there was no wind.

At last Morley stopped in front of his passenger and said to him--

"I really think you'd better go below and have a nap, Mr Hall.  It's
quite clear that we are not goin' to have a breeze till night, and it
may be early morning when we call you to go ashore; so, if you want to
be fit for much work to-morrow, you'd better sleep while you may."

"Thank you, I don't require much sleep," replied Stanley; "in fact, I
can easily do without rest at any time for a single night, and be quite
able for work next day.  Besides, I have no particular work to do
to-morrow, and I delight to sit at this time of the night and watch the
shipping.  I'm not in your way, am I?"

"Oh, not at all, not at all," replied the fish-merchant, as he resumed
his irregular walk.

This question was prompted by the urgency with which the advice to go
below had been given.

Seeing that nothing was to be made of his passenger in this way, Morley
Jones cast about in his mind to hit upon another expedient to get rid of
him, and reproached himself for having been tempted by a good fare to
let him have a passage.

Suddenly his eye was attracted by a dark object floating in the sea a
considerable distance to the southward of them.

"That's lucky," muttered Jones, after examining it carefully with the
glass, while a gleam of satisfaction shot across his dark countenance;
"could not have come in better time.  Nothing could be better."

Shutting up the glass with decision, he turned round, and the look of
satisfaction gave place to one of impatience as his eye fell on Stanley
Hall, who still sat with folded arms on the skylight, looking as
composed and serene as if he had taken up his quarters there for the
night.  After one or two hasty turns on the deck, an idea appeared to
hit Mr Jones, for he smiled in a grim fashion, and muttered, "I'll try
that, if the breeze would only come."

The breeze appeared to have been waiting for an invitation, for one or
two "cat's-paws" ruffled the surface of the sea as he spoke.

"Mind your helm, boy," said Mr Jones suddenly; "let her away a point;
so, steady.  Keep her as she goes; and, harkee" (he stooped down and
whispered), "_when I open the skylight_ do you call down, `breeze
freshenin', sir, and has shifted a point to the west'ard.'"

"By the way, Mr Hall," said Jones, turning abruptly to his passenger,
"you take so much interest in navigation that I should like to show you
a new chart I've got of the channels on this part of the coast.  Will
you step below?"

"With pleasure," replied Stanley, rising and following Jones, who
immediately spread out on the cabin table one of his most intricate
charts,--which, as he had expected, the young student began to examine
with much interest,--at the same time plying the other with numerous
questions.

"Stay," said Jones, "I'll open the skylight--don't you find the cabin
close?"

No sooner was the skylight opened than the small voice of Billy Towler
was heard shouting--

"Breeze freshenin', sir, and has shifted a pint to the west'ard."

"All right," replied Jones;--"excuse me, sir, I'll take a look at the
sheets and braces and see that all's fast--be back in a few minutes."

He went on deck, leaving Stanley busy with the chart.

"You're a smart boy, Billy.  Now do as I tell 'ee, and keep your weather
eye open.  D'ye see that bit o' floating wreck a-head?  Well, keep
straight for that and _run right against it_.  I'll trust to 'ee, boy,
that ye don't miss it."

Billy said that he would be careful, but resolved in his heart that he
_would_ miss it!

Jones then went aft to a locker near the stern, whence he returned with
a mallet and chisel, and went below.  Immediately thereafter Billy heard
the regular though slight blows of the mallet, and pursed his red lips
and screwed up his small visage into a complicated sign of intelligence.

There was very little wind, and the sloop made slow progress towards the
piece of wreck although it was very near, and Billy steered as far from
it as he could without absolutely altering the course.

Presently Jones returned on deck and replaced the mallet and chisel in
the locker.  He was very warm and wiped the perspiration frequently from
his forehead.  Observing that the sloop was not so near the wreck as he
had expected, he suddenly seized the small steersman by the neck and
shook him as a terrier dog shakes a rat.

"Billy," said he, quickly, in a low but stern voice, "it's of no use.  I
see what you are up to.  Your steerin' clear o' that won't prevent this
sloop from bein' at the bottom in quarter of an hour, if not sooner!  If
you hit it you may save yourself and me a world of trouble.  It's so
much for your own interest, boy, to hit that bit of wreck, _that I'll
trust you again_."

So saying, Jones went down into the cabin, apologised for having kept
Stanley waiting so long, said that he could not leave the boy at the
helm alone for more than a few minutes at a time, and that he would have
to return on deck immediately after he had made an entry on the log
slate.

Had any one watched Morley Jones while he was making that entry on the
log slate, he would have perceived that the strong man's hand trembled
excessively, that perspiration stood in beads upon his brow, and that
the entry itself consisted of a number of unmeaning and wavering
strokes.

Meanwhile Billy Towler, left in sole possession of the sloop, felt
himself in a most unenviable state of mind.  He knew that the crisis had
arrived, and the decisive tone of his tyrant's last remark convinced him
that it would be expedient for himself to obey orders.  On the other
hand, he remembered that he had deliberately resolved to throw off his
allegiance, and as he drew near the piece of wreck, he reflected that he
was at that moment assisting in an act which might cost the lives of all
on board.

Driven to and fro between doubts and fears, the poor boy kept changing
the course of the sloop in a way that would have soon rendered the
hitting of the wreck an impossibility, when a sudden and rather sharp
puff of wind caused the Nora to bend over, and the foam to curl on her
bow as she slipped swiftly through the water.  Billy decided at that
moment to _miss_ the wreck when he was close upon it, and for that
purpose deliberately and smartly put the helm hard a-starboard.

Poor fellow, his seamanship was not equal to his courage!  So badly did
he steer, that the very act which was meant to carry him past the wreck,
thrust him right upon it!

The shock, although a comparatively slight one, was sufficiently severe
to arouse the sleepers, to whom the unwonted sensation and sound carried
the idea of sudden disaster.  Jim and Grundy rushed on deck, where they
found Morley Jones already on the bulwarks with a boat-hook, shouting
for aid, while Stanley Hall assisted him with an oar to push the sloop
off what appeared to be the topmast and cross-trees of a vessel, with
which she was entangled.

Jim and Grundy each seized an oar, and, exerting their strength, they
were soon clear of the wreck.

"Well," observed Jim, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat, "it's
lucky it was but a light topmast and a light breeze, it can't have done
us any damage worth speaking of."

"I don't know that," said Jones.  "There are often iron bolts and sharp
points about such wreckage that don't require much force to drive 'em
through a ship's bottom.  Take a look into the hold, Jim, and see that
all's right."

Jim descended into the hold, but immediately returned, exclaiming
wildly--

"Why, the sloop's sinkin'!  Lend a hand here if you don't want to go
down with her," he cried, leaping towards the boat.

Stanley Hall and Grundy at once lent a hand to get out the boat, while
the fish-merchant, uttering a wild oath, jumped into the hold as if to
convince himself of the truth of Jim's statement.  He returned quickly,
exclaiming--

"She must have started a plank.  It's rushing in like a sluice.  Look
alive, lads; out with her!"

The boat was shoved outside the bulwarks, and let go by the run; the
oars were flung hastily in, and all jumped into her as quickly as
possible, for the deck of the Nora was already nearly on a level with
the water.  They were not a minute too soon.  They had not pulled fifty
yards from their late home when she gave a sudden lurch to port and went
down stern foremost.

To say that the party looked aghast at this sudden catastrophe, would be
to give but a feeble idea of the state of their minds.  For some minutes
they could do nothing but stare in silence at the few feet of the Nora's
topmast which alone remained above water as a sort of tombstone to mark
her ocean grave.

When they did at length break silence, it was in short interjectional
remarks, as they resumed the oars.

Mr Jones, without making a remark of any kind, shipped the rudder; the
other four pulled.

"Shall we make for land?" asked Jim Welton, after a time.

"Not wi' the tide running like this," answered Jones; "we'll make the
Gull, and get 'em to take us aboard till morning.  At slack tide we can
go ashore."

In perfect silence they rowed towards the floating light, which was not
more than a mile distant from the scene of the disaster.  As the ebb
tide was running strong, Jim hailed before they were close
alongside--"Gull, ahoy! heave us a rope, will you?"

There was instant bustle on board the floating light, and as the boat
came sweeping past a growl of surprise was heard to issue from the
mate's throat as he shouted, "Look out!"

A rope came whirling down on their heads, which was caught and held on
to by Jim.

"All right, father," he said, looking up.

"All wrong, I think," replied the sire, looking down.  "Why.  Jim, you
always turn up like a bad shilling, and in bad company too.  Where ever
have you come from this time?"

"From the sea, father.  Don't keep jawin' there, but help us aboard, and
you'll hear all about it."

By this time Jones had gained the deck, followed by Stanley Hall and
Billy.  These quickly gave a brief outline of the disaster, and were
hospitably received on board, while Jim and Grundy made fast the tackles
to their boat, and had it hoisted inboard.

"You won't require to pull ashore to-morrow," said the elder Mr Welton,
as he shook his son's hand.  "The tender will come off to us in the
morning, and no doubt the captain will take you all ashore."

"So much the better," observed Stanley, "because it seems to me that our
boat is worthy of the rotten sloop to which she belonged, and might fail
to reach the shore after all!"

"Her owner is rather fond of ships and boats that have got the rot,"
said Mr Welton, senior, looking with a somewhat stern expression at
Morley Jones, who was in the act of stooping to wring the water out of
the legs of his trousers.

"If he is," said Jones, with an equally stern glance at the mate, "he is
the only loser--at all events the chief one--by his fondness."

"You're right," retorted Mr Welton sharply; "the loss of a kit may be
replaced, but there are _some things_ which cannot be replaced when
lost.  However, you know your own affairs best.  Come below, friends,
and have something to eat and drink."

After the wrecked party had been hospitably entertained in the cabin
with biscuit and tea, they returned to the deck, and, breaking up into
small parties, walked about or leaned over the bulwarks in earnest
conversation.  Jack Shales and Jerry MacGowl took possession of Jim
Welton, and, hurrying him forward to the windlass, made him there
undergo a severe examination and cross-questioning as to how the sloop
Nora had met with her disaster.  These were soon joined by Billy Towler,
to whom the gay manner of Shales and the rich brogue of MacGowl were
irresistibly attractive.

Jim, however, proved to be much more reticent than his friends deemed
either necessary or agreeable.  After a prolonged process of pumping, to
which he submitted with much good humour and an apparent readiness to be
pumped quite dry, Jerry MacGowl exclaimed--

"Och, it ain't of no use trying to git no daiper.  Sure we've sounded
'im to the bottom, an' found nothin' at all but mud."

"Ay, he's about as incomprehensible as that famous poet you're for ever
givin' us screeds of.  What's 'is name--somebody's _son_?"

"Tenny's son, av coorse," replied Jerry; "but he ain't incomprehensible,
Jack; he's only too daip for a man of or'nary intellick.  His thoughts
is so awful profound sometimes that the longest deep-sea lead line as
ever was spun can't reach the bottom of 'em.  It's only such oncommon
philosophers as Dick Moy there, or a boardin'-school miss (for extremes
meet, you know, Jack), that can rightly make him out."

"Wot's that you're sayin' about Dick Moy?" inquired that worthy, who had
just joined the group at the windlass.

"He said you was a philosopher," answered Shales.  "You're another,"
growled Dick, bluntly, to MacGowl.

"Faix, that's true," replied Jerry; "there's two philosophers aboord of
this here light, an' the luminous power of our united intellicks is so
strong that I've had it in my mind more than wance to suggest that if
they wos to hoist you and me to the masthead together, the Gull would
git on first-rate without any lantern at all."

"Not a bad notion that," said Jack Shales.  "I'll mention it to the
superintendent to-morrow, when the tender comes alongside.  P'raps he'll
report you to the Trinity House as being willin' to serve in that way
without pay, for the sake of economy."

"No, not for economy, mate," objected Dick Moy.  "We can't afford to do
dooty as lights without increased pay.  Just think of the intellektooal
force required for to keep the lights agoin' night after night."

"Ay, and the amount of the doctor's bill," broke in MacGowl, "for curin'
the extra cowlds caught at the mast-head in thick weather."

"But we wouldn't go up in thick weather, stoopid," said Moy,--"wot ud be
the use?  Ain't the gong enough at sich times?"

"Och, to be sure.  Didn't I misremember that?  What a thing it is to be
ready-witted, now!  And since we are makin' sich radical changes in the
floating-light system, what would ye say, boys, to advise the Boord to
use the head of Jack Shales instead of a gong?  It would sound
splendiferous, for there ain't no more in it than an empty cask.  The
last gong they sint us down was cracked, you know, so I fancy that's
considered the right sort; and if so, Jack's head is cracked enough in
all conscience."

"I suppose, Jerry," said Shales, "if my head was appointed gong, you'd
like that your fist should git the situation of drumstick."

"Stop your chaffin', boys, and let's catch some birds for to-morrow's
dinner," said one of the men who had been listening to the conversation.
"There's an uncommon lot of 'em about to-night, an' it seems to me if
the fog increases we shall have more of 'em."

"Ho-o-o!

  "`Sich a gittin' up stairs, and
  A playin' on the fiddle,'"

Sang Jack Shales, as he sprang up the wire-rope ladder that led to the
lantern, round which innumerable small birds were flitting, as if
desirous of launching themselves bodily into the bright light.

"What is that fellow about?" inquired Stanley Hall of the mate, as the
two stood conversing near the binnacle.

"He's catching small birds, sir.  We often get a number in that way
here.  But they ain't so numerous about the Gull as I've seen them in
some of the other lightships.  You may find it difficult to believe, but
I do assure you, sir, that I have caught as many as five hundred birds
with my own hand in the course of two hours."

"Indeed! what sort of birds?"

"Larks and starlings chiefly, but there were other kinds amongst 'em.
Why, sir, they flew about my head and round the lantern like clouds of
snowflakes.  I was sittin' on the lantern just as Shales is sittin' now,
and the birds came so thick that I had to pull my sou'-wester down over
my eyes, and hold up my hands sometimes before my face to protect
myself, for they hit me all over.  I snapped at 'em, and caught 'em as
fast as I could use my hands--gave their heads a screw, and crammed 'em
into my pockets.  In a short time the pockets were all as full as they
could hold--coat, vest, and trousers.  I had to do it so fast that many
of 'em wasn't properly killed, and some came alive agin, hopped out of
my pockets, and flew away."

At that moment there arose a laugh from the men as they watched their
comrade, who happened to be performing a feat somewhat similar to that
just described by the mate.

Jack Shales had seated himself on the roof of the lantern.  This roof
being opaque, he and the mast, which rose above him, and its distinctive
ball on the top, were enveloped in darkness.  Jack appeared like a man
of ebony pictured against the dark sky.  His form and motions could
therefore be distinctly seen, although his features were invisible.  He
appeared to be engaged in resisting an attack from a host of little
birds which seemed to have made up their minds to unite their powers for
his destruction; the fact being that the poor things, fascinated by the
brilliant light, flew over, under, and round it, with eyes so dazzled
that they did not observe the man until almost too late to sheer off and
avoid him.  Indeed, many of them failed in this attempt, and flew right
against his head, or into his bosom.  These he caught, killed, and
pocketed, as fast as possible, until his pockets were full, when he
descended to empty them.

"Hallo!  Jack, mind your eye," cried Dick Moy, as his friend set foot on
the deck, "there's one of 'em agoin' off with that crooked sixpence
you're so fond of."

Jack caught a starling which was in the act of wriggling out of his coat
pocket, and gave it a final twist.

"Hold your hats, boys," he cried, hauling forth the game.  "Talk of a
Scotch moor--there's nothin' equal to the top of the Gull lantern for
real sport!"

"I say, Jack," cried Mr Welton, who, with Stanley and the others, had
crowded round the successful sportsman, "there are some strange birds on
the ball.  Gulls or crows, or owls.  If you look sharp and get inside,
you may perhaps catch them by the legs."

Billy Towler heard this remark, and, looking up, saw the two birds
referred to, one seated on the ball at the mast-head, the other at that
moment sailing round it.  Now it must be told, and the reader will
easily believe it, that during all this scene Billy had looked on not
only with intense interest, but with a wildness of excitement peculiar
to himself, while his eyes flashed, and his small hands tingled with a
desire to have, not merely a finger, but, all his ten fingers, in the
pie.  Being only a visitor, however, and ignorant of everybody and
everything connected with a floating light, he had modestly held his
tongue and kept in the background.  But he could no longer withstand the
temptation to act.  Without uttering a word, he leaped upon the
rope-ladder of the lantern, and was half way up it before any one
observed him, determined to forestall Jack Shales.  Then there was a
shouting of "Hallo! what is that scamp up to?"  "Come down, you monkey!"
"He'll break his neck!"  "Serve him right!"  "Hi! come down, will 'ee?"
and similar urgent as well as complimentary expressions, to all of which
Billy turned a deaf ear.  Another minute and he stood on the roof of the
lantern, looking up at the ball and grasping the mast, which rose--a
bare pole--twelve or fifteen feet above him.

"Och! av the spalpeen tries that," exclaimed Jerry MacGowl, "it'll be
the ind of 'im intirely."

Billy Towler did try it.  Many a London lamp-post had he shinned up in
his day.  The difference did not seem to him very great.  The ball, he
observed, was made of light bands or lathes arranged somewhat in the
form of lattice-work.  It was full six feet in diameter, and had an
opening in the under part by which a man could enter it.  Through the
lozenge-shaped openings he could see two enormous ravens perched on the
top.  Pausing merely for a second or two to note these facts and recover
breath, he shinned up the bare pole like a monkey, and got inside the
ball.

The spectators on deck stood in breathless suspense and anxiety, unable
apparently to move; but when they saw Billy clamber up the side of the
ball like a mouse in a wire cage, put forth his hand, seize one of the
ravens by a leg and drag it through the bars to him, a ringing cheer
broke forth, which was mingled with shouts of uncontrollable laughter.

The operation of drawing the ill-omened bird through the somewhat narrow
opening against the feathers, had the double effect of ruffling it out
to a round and ragged shape, very much beyond its ordinary size, and of
rousing its spirit to ten times its wonted ferocity, insomuch that, when
once fairly inside, it attacked its captor with claw, beak, and wing
furiously.  It had to do battle, however, with an infant Hercules.
Billy held on tight to its leg, and managed to restrain its head and
wings with one arm, while with the other he embraced the mast and slid
down to the lantern; but not before the raven freed its head and one of
its wings, and renewed its violent resistance.

On the lantern he paused for a moment to make the captive more secure,
and then let his legs drop over the edge of the lantern, intending to
get on the rounds of the ladder, but his foot missed the first one.  In
his effort to regain it he slipped.  At that instant the bird freed his
head, and with a triumphant "caw!" gave Billy an awful peck on the nose.
The result was that the poor boy fell back.  He could not restrain a
shriek as he did so, but he still kept hold of the raven, and made a
wild grasp with his disengaged hand.  Fortunately he caught the ladder,
and remained swinging and making vain efforts to hook his leg round one
of the ropes.

"Let go the bird!" shouted the mate, rushing underneath the struggling
youth, resolved at all hazards to be ready to break his fall if he
should let go.

"Howld on!" yelled Jerry MacGowl, springing up the ladder--as Jack
Shales afterwards said--like a Chimpanzee maniac, and clutching Billy by
the neck.

"Ye may let go now, ye spalpeen," said Jerry, as he held the upper half
of Billy's shirt, vest, and jacket in his powerful and capacious grasp,
"I'll howld ye safe enough."

At that moment the raven managed to free its dishevelled wings, the
fierce flapping of which it added to its clamorous cries and struggles
of indignation.  Feeling himself safe, Billy let go his hold, and used
the freed hand to seize the raven's other leg.  Then the Irishman
descended, and thus, amid the riotous wriggles and screams of the
dishevelled bird, and the cheers, laughter, and congratulations of his
friends, our little hero reached the deck in safety.

But this was not the end of their bird-catching on that memorable
occasion.  It was, indeed, the grand incident of the night--the
culminating point, as it were, of the battle--but there was a good deal
of light skirmishing afterwards.  Billy's spirit, having been fairly
roused, was not easily allayed.  After having had a piece of plaister
stuck on the point of his nose, which soon swelled up to twice its
ordinary dimensions, and became bulbous in appearance, he would fain
have returned to the lantern to prosecute the war with renewed energy.
This, however, Mr Welton senior would by no means permit, so the
youngster was obliged to content himself with skirmishing on deck, in
which he was also successful.

One starling he found asleep in the fold of a tarpaulin.  Another he
discovered in a snug corner under the lee of one of the men's coats, and
both were captured easily.  Then Dick Moy showed him a plan whereby he
caught half a dozen birds in as many minutes.  He placed a small
hand-lantern on the deck, and spread a white handkerchief in front of
it.  The birds immediately swarmed round this so vigorously, that they
even overturned the lantern once or twice.  Finally, settling down on
the handkerchief, they went to sleep.  It was evident that the poor
things had not been flying about for mere pleasure.  They had been
undoubtedly fascinated by the ship's glaring light, and had kept flying
round it until nearly exhausted, insomuch that they fell asleep almost
immediately after settling down on the handkerchief, and were easily
laid hold of.

During the intervals of this warfare Mr George Welton related to Billy
Towler and Stanley Hall numerous anecdotes of his experience in
bird-catching on board the floating lights.  Mr Welton had been long in
the service, and had passed through all the grades; having commenced as
a seaman, and risen to be a lamplighter and a mate--the position he then
occupied.  His office might, perhaps, be more correctly described as
second master, because the two were _never_ on board at the same time,
each relieving the other month about, and thus each being in a precisely
similar position as to command, though not so in regard to pay.

"There was one occasion," said the mate, "when I had a tough set-to with
a bird, something like what you have had to-night, youngster.  I was
stationed at the time in the Newarp light-vessel, off the Norfolk coast.
It happened not long after the light had gone up.  I observed a very
large bird settle on the roof of the lantern, so I went cautiously up,
hopin' it would turn out a good one to eat, because you must know we
don't go catchin' these birds for mere pastime.  We're very glad to get
'em to eat; and I can assure you the larks make excellent pies.  Well, I
raised my head slowly above the lantern and pounced on it.  Instantly
its claws went deep into my hands.  I seized its neck, and tried to
choke it; but the harder I squeezed, the harder it nipped, until I was
forced to sing out for help.  Leavin' go the neck, in order to have one
hand free, I descended the ladder with the bird hanging to the other
hand by its claws.  I found I had no occasion to hold tight to _it_, for
it held tight to _me_!  Before I got down, however, it had recovered a
bit, let go, and flew away, but took refuge soon after in the
lantern-house on deck.  Here I caught it a second time, and once more
received the same punishment from its claws.  I killed it at last, and
then found, to my disgust, that it was a monster sparrow-hawk, and not
fit for food!"

"Somethink floatin' alongside, sir," said Dick Moy, running aft at that
moment and catching up a boat-hook, with which he made a dart at the
object in question, and struck, but failed to secure it.

"What is it, Moy?" asked Mr Welton.

"On'y a bit o' wreck, I think.  It looked like a corp at first."

Soon after this most of the people on board the Gull went below and
turned in, leaving the deck in charge of the regular watch, which, on
that occasion, consisted of Dick and his friend Jack Shales.  Jerry
MacGowl kept them company for a time, being, as he observed,
"sintimentally inclined" that night.

Stanley Hall, attracted by the fineness of the night, also remained on
deck a short time after the others were gone.

"Do you often see dead bodies floating past?" he asked of Dick Moy.

"Not wery often, sir, but occasionally we does.  You see, we're so nigh
the Goodwin sands, where wrecks take place in the winter months pritty
constant, that poor fellers are sometimes washed past us; but they ain't
always dead.  One night we heard loud cries not far off from us, but it
was blowin' a gale, and the night was so dark we could see nothin'.  We
could no more have launched our boat than we could 'ave gone over the
falls o' Niagary without capsizin'.  When next the relief comed off, we
heard that it was three poor fellers gone past on a piece of wreck."

"Were they lost?" inquired Stanley.

"No, sir, they warn't all of 'em lost.  A brig saw 'em at daylight, but
just as they wos being picked up, one wos so exhausted he slipped off
the wreck an wos drownded.  'Nother time," continued Moy, as he paced
slowly to and fro, "we seed a corp float past, and tried to 'ook it with
the boat-'ook, but missed it.  It wos on its face, and we could see it
'ad on a belt and sheath-knife.  There wos a bald spot on the 'ead, and
the gulls wos peckin' at it, so we know'd it wos dead--wery likely a
long time."

"There's a tight little craft," remarked Shales, pointing to a vessel
which floated at no great distance off.

"W'ich d'ye mean?" asked Dick; for there were so many vessels, some at
anchor and some floating past with the tide, like phantom ships, that it
was not easy to make out which vessel was referred to; "the one wi' the
shoulder-o'-mutton mains'l?"

"No; that schooner with the raking masts an' topsail?"

"Ah, that's a purty little thing from owld Ireland," returned Jerry
MacGowl.  "I'd know her anywhere by the cut of her jib.  Av she would
only spaik, she'd let ye hear the brogue."

"Since ye know her so well, Paddy, p'raps you can tell us what's her
cargo?" said Jack Shales.

"Of coorse I can--it's fruit an' timber," replied Jerry.

"Fruit and timber!" exclaimed Stanley with a laugh; "I was not aware
that such articles were exported from Ireland."

"Ah, sure they are, yer honour," replied Jerry.  "No doubt the English,
with that low spirit of jealousy that's pecooliar to 'em, would say it
was brooms an' taties, but _we_ calls it fruit and timber!"

"After that, Jerry, I think it is time for me to turn in, so I wish you
both a good-night, lads."

"Good-night, sir, good-night," replied the men, as Stanley descended to
his berth, leaving the watch to spin yarns and perambulate the deck
until the bright beams of the floating light should be rendered
unnecessary by the brighter beams of the rising sun.



CHAPTER TEN.

TREATS OF TENDER SUBJECTS OF A PECULIAR KIND, AND SHOWS HOW BILLY TOWLER
GOT INTO SCRAPES AND OUT OF THEM.

The fact that we know not what a day may bring forth, receives frequent,
and sometimes very striking, illustration in the experience of most
people.  That the day may begin with calm and sunshine, yet end in
clouds and tempest--or _vice versa_--is a truism which need not be
enforced.  Nevertheless, it is a truism which men are none the worse of
being reminded of now and then.  Poor Billy Towler was very powerfully
reminded of it on the day following his night-adventure with the ravens;
and his master was taught that the best-laid plans of men, as well as
mice, are apt to get disordered, as the sequel will show.

Next morning the look-out on board the Gull lightship reported the
Trinity steam-tender in sight, off the mouth of Ramsgate harbour, and
the ensign was at once hoisted as an intimation that she had been
observed.

This arrangement, by the way, of hoisting a signal on board the floating
lights when any of the Trinity yachts chance to heave in sight, is a
clever device, whereby the vigilance of light-ship crews is secured,
because the time of the appearing of these yachts is irregular, and,
therefore, a matter of uncertainty.  Every one knows the natural and
almost irresistible tendency of the human mind to relax in vigilance
when the demand on attention is continual--that the act, by becoming a
mere matter of daily routine, loses much of its intensity.  The crews of
floating lights are, more than most men, required to be perpetually on
the alert, because, besides the danger that would threaten innumerable
ships should their vessels drift from their stations, or any part of
their management be neglected, there is great danger to themselves of
being run into during dark stormy nights or foggy days.  Constant
vigilance is partly secured, no doubt, by a sense of duty in the men; it
is increased by the feeling of personal risk that would result from
carelessness; and it is almost perfected by the order for the hoisting
of a flag as above referred to.

The superintendent of the district of which Ramsgate is head-quarters,
goes out regularly once every month in the tender to effect what is
styled "the relief,"--that is, to change the men, each of whom passes
two months aboard and one month on shore, while the masters and mates
alternately have a month on shore and a month on board.  At the same
time he puts on board of the four vessels of which he has charge--
namely, the _Goodwin_, the _Gull_, the _South-sandhead_, and the _Varne_
light-ships,--water, coal, provisions, and oil for the month, and such
stores as may be required; returning with the men relieved and the empty
casks and cans, etcetera, to Ramsgate harbour.  Besides this, the tender
is constantly obliged to go out at irregular intervals--it may be even
several times in a week--for the purpose of replacing buoys that have
been shifted by storms--marking, with small green buoys, the spot where
a vessel may have gone down, and become a dangerous obstruction in the
"fair way"--taking up old chains and sinkers, and placing new ones--
painting the buoys--and visiting the North and South Foreland
lighthouses, which are also under the district superintendent's care.

On all of these occasions the men on duty in the floating lights are
bound to hoist their flag whenever the tender chances to pass them
within sight, on pain of a severe reprimand if the duty be neglected,
and something worse if such neglect be of frequent occurrence.  In
addition to this, some of the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House make
periodical visits of inspection to all the floating lights round the
coasts of England; and this they do purposely at irregular times, in
order, if possible, to catch the guardians of the coast napping; and woe
betide "the watch" on duty if these inspecting Brethren should manage to
get pretty close to any light-ship without having received the salute of
recognition!  Hence the men of the floating lights are kept ever on the
alert, and the safety of the navigation, as far as human wisdom can do
it, is secured.  Hence also, at whatever time any of our floating lights
should chance to be visited by strangers, they, like our lighthouses,
will invariably be found in perfect working order, and as clean as new
pins, except, of course, during periods of general cleaning up or
painting.

Begging pardon for this digression, we return to Billy Towler, whose
delight with the novelty of his recent experiences was only equalled by
his joyous anticipations of the stirring sea-life that yet lay before
him.

The satisfaction of Mr Jones, however, at the success of his late
venture, was somewhat damped by the information that he would have to
spend the whole day on board the tender.  The district superintendent,
whose arduous and multifarious duties required him to be so often afloat
that he seemed to be more at home in the tender than in his own house
ashore, was a man whose agreeable manners, and kind, hearty, yet firm
disposition, had made him a favourite with every one in the service.
Immediately on his boarding the Gull, he informed the uninvited and
unfortunate guests of that floating light that he would be very glad to
take them ashore, but that he could not do so until evening, as, besides
effecting "the relief," he meant to take advantage of the calm weather
to give a fresh coat of paint to one or two buoys, and renew their
chains and sinkers, and expressed a hope that the delay would not put
them to much inconvenience.

Stanley Hall, between whom and the superintendent there sprang up an
intimate and sympathetic friendship almost at first sight, assured him
that so far from putting him to inconvenience it would afford him the
greatest pleasure to spend the day on board.  Billy Towler heard this
arrangement come to with an amount of satisfaction which was by no means
shared by his employer, who was anxious to report the loss of the Nora
without delay, and to claim the insurance money as soon as possible.  He
judged it expedient, however, to keep his thoughts and anxieties to
himself, and only vented his feelings in a few deep growls, which,
breaking on the ears of Billy Towler, filled the heart of that youthful
sinner with additional joy.

"Wot a savage he is!" said Dick Moy, looking at Jones, and addressing
himself to Billy.

"Ah, ain't he just!" replied the urchin.

"Has he not bin good to 'ee?" asked the big seaman, looking down with a
kindly expression at the small boy.

"Middlin'," was Billy's cautious reply.  "I say, Neptune," he added,
looking up into Dick's face, "wot's yer name?"

"It ain't Neptune, anyhow," replied Dick.  "That's wot we've called the
big black Noofoundland dog you sees over there a-jumping about Jim
Welton as if he had falled in love with him."

"Why is it so fond of him?" asked Billy.

Dick replied to this question by relating the incident of the dog's
rescue by Jim.

"Werry interestin'.  Well, but wot _is_ your name?" said Billy,
returning to the point.

"Dick."

"Of course I know that; I've heerd 'em all call ye that often enough,
but I 'spose you've got another?"

"Moy," said the big seaman.

"Moy, eh?" cried Billy, with a grin, "that _is_ a funny name, but there
ain't enough of it for my taste."

The conversation was interrupted at this point by the superintendent,
who, having been for many years in command of an East Indiaman, was
styled "Captain."  He ordered the mate and men whose turn it was to be
"relieved" to get into the tender along with the strangers.  Soon
afterwards the vessel steamed away over the glassy water, and Billy, who
had taken a fancy to the big lamplighter, went up to him and said--

"Well, Dick Moy, where are we agoin' to just now?"

Dick pointed to a black speck on the water, a considerable distance
ahead of them.

"We're agoin' to that there buoy, to lift it and put down a noo un."

"Oh, that's a boy, is it? and are them there boys too?" asked Billy,
looking round at the curious oval and conical cask-like things, of
gigantic proportions, which lumbered the deck and filled the hold of the
tender.

"Ay, they're all buoys."

"None of 'em girls?" inquired the urchin gravely.

"No, none of 'em," replied Dick with equal gravity, for to him the joke
was a very stale one.

"No? that's stoopid now; I'd 'ave 'ad some of 'em girls for variety's
sake--wot's the use of 'em?" asked the imp, who pretended ignorance, in
order to draw out his burly companion.

"To mark the channels," replied Dick.  "We puts a red buoy on one side
and a checkered buoy on t'other, and if the vessels keeps atween 'em
they goes all right--if not, they goes ashore."

"H'm, that's just where it is now," said Billy.  "If _I_ had had the
markin' o' them there channels I'd 'ave put boys on one side an' girls
on t'other all the way up to London--made a sort o' country dance of it,
an' all the ships would 'ave gone up the middle an' down agin, d'ye
see?"

"Port, port a little," said the captain at that moment.

"Port it is, sir," answered Mr Welton, senior, who stood at the wheel.

The tender was now bearing down on one of the numerous buoys which mark
off the channels around the Goodwin sands, and it required careful
steering in order to avoid missing it on the one hand, or running into
it on the other.  A number of men stood on the bow of the vessel, with
ropes and boat-hooks, in readiness to catch and make fast to it.  These
men, with the exception of two or three who formed the permanent crew of
the tender, were either going off to "relieve" their comrades and take
their turn on board the floating lights, or were on their way to land,
having been "relieved"--such as George Welton the mate, Dick Moy, and
Jerry MacGowl.  Among them were several masters and mates belonging to
the light-vessels of that district--sedate, grave, cheerful, and
trustworthy men, all of them--who had spent the greater part of their
lives in the service, and were by that time middle-aged or elderly, but
still, with few exceptions, as strong and hardy as young men.

Jerry, being an unusually active and powerful fellow, took a prominent
part in all the duties that devolved on the men at that time.

That these duties were not light might have been evident to the most
superficial observer, for the buoys and their respective chains and
sinkers were of the most ponderous and unwieldy description.

Referring to this, Stanley Hall said, as he stood watching the progress
of the work, "Why, captain, up to this day I have been in the habit of
regarding buoys as trifling affairs, not much bigger or more valuable
than huge barrels or washing-tubs, but now that I see them close at
hand, and hear all you tell me about them, my respect increases
wonderfully."

"It will be increased still more, perhaps," replied the captain, "when I
tell you the cost of some of them.  Now, then, MacGowl, look out--are
you ready?"

"All ready, sir."

"Port a little--steady."

"Steady!" replied Mr Welton.

"Arrah! howld on--och! stiddy--heave--hooray!" cried the anxious
Irishman as he made a plunge at the buoy which was floating alongside
like a huge iron balloon, bumping its big forehead gently, yet heavily,
against the side of the tender, and, in that simple way conveying to the
mind of Stanley an idea of the great difficulty that must attend the
shifting of buoys in rough weather.

The buoy having been secured, an iron hook and chain of great strength
were then attached to the ring in its head.  The chain communicated with
a powerful crane rigged up on the foremast, and was wrought by a steam
windlass on deck.

"You see we require stronger tackle," said the captain to Stanley, while
the buoy was being slowly raised.  "That buoy weighs fully
three-quarters of a ton, and cost not less, along with its chain and
sinker, than 150 pounds, yet it is not one of our largest.  We have what
we call monster buoys, weighing considerably more than a ton, which cost
about 300 pounds apiece, including a 60-fathom chain and a
30-hundred-weight sinker.  Those medium-sized ones, made of wood and
hooped like casks, cost from 80 pounds to 100 pounds apiece without
appendages.  Even that small green fellow lying there, with which I
intend to mark the Nora, if necessary, is worth 25 pounds, and as there
are many hundreds of such buoys all round the kingdom, you can easily
believe that the guarding of our shores is somewhat costly."

"Indeed it must be," answered Stanley; "and if such
insignificant-looking things cost so much, what must be the expense of
maintaining floating lights and lighthouses?"

"I can give you some idea of that too," said the captain--

"Look out!" exclaimed the men at that moment.

"Och! be aisy," cried Jerry, ducking as he spoke, and thus escaping a
blow from the buoy, which would have cracked his head against the
vessel's side like a walnut.

"Heave away, lad!"

The man at the windlass obeyed.  The irresistible steam-winch caused the
huge chain to grind and jerk in its iron pulley, and the enormous
globular iron buoy came quietly over the side, black here and brown
there, and red-rusted elsewhere; its green beard of sea-weed dripping
with brine, and its sides grizzled with a six-months' growth of
barnacles and other shell-fish.

It must not be supposed that, although the engine did all the heavy
lifting, the men had merely to stand by and look on.  In the mere
processes of capturing the buoy and making fast the chains and hooks,
and fending off, etcetera, there was an amount of physical effort--
straining and energising--on the part of the men, that could scarcely be
believed unless seen.  Do not fancy, good reader, that we are attempting
to make much of a trifle in this description.  Our object is rather to
show that what might very naturally be supposed to be trifling and easy
work, is, in truth, very much the reverse.

The buoy having been lifted, another of the same size and shape, but
freshly painted, was attached to the chain, tumbled over the side, and
left in its place.  In this case the chain and sinker did not require
renewing, but at the next [one] visited it was found that buoy, chain,
and sinker had to be lifted and renewed.

And here again, to a landsman like Stanley, there was much to interest
and surprise.  If a man, ignorant of such matters, were asked what he
would do in the event of his having to go and shift one of those buoys,
he might probably reply, "Well, I suppose I would first get hold of the
buoy and hoist it on board, and then throw over another in its place;"
but it is not probable that he would reflect that this process involved
the violent upturning of a mass of wood or metal so heavy that all the
strength of the dozen men who had to struggle with it was scarce
sufficient to move gently even in the water; that, being upturned, an
inch chain had to be unshackled--a process rendered troublesome, owing
to the ponderosity of the links which had to be dealt with, and the
constrained position of the man who wrought,--and that the chain and
sinker had to be hauled out of the sand or mud into which they had sunk
so much, that the donkey-engine had to strain until the massive chains
seemed about to give way, and the men stood in peril of having their
heads suddenly cut open.

Not to be too prolix on this subject, it may be said, shortly, that when
the chain and sinker of the next buoy were being hauled in, a three-inch
rope snapped and grazed the finger of a man, fortunately taking no more
than a little of the skin off, though it probably had force enough to
have taken his hand off if it had struck him differently.  Again they
tried, but the sinker had got so far down into the mud that it would not
let go.  The engine went at last very slowly, for it was applying almost
the greatest strain that the chains could bear, and the bow of the
tender was hauled considerably down into the sea.  The men drew back a
little, but, after a few moments of suspense, the motion of the vessel
gradually loosened the sinker and eased the strain.

"There she goes, handsomely," cried the men, as the engine again resumed
work at reasonable speed.

"We sometimes lose chains and sinkers altogether in that way," remarked
Dick Moy to Billy, who stood looking on with heightened colour and
glowing eyes, and wishing with all the fervour of his small heart that
the whole affair would give way, in order that he might enjoy the
_tremendous_ crash which he thought would be sure to follow.

"Would it be a great loss?" he asked.

"It would, a wery great un," said Dick; "that there chain an' sinker is
worth nigh fifty or sixty pound."

While this work was being done, the captain was busy with his telescope,
taking the exact bearings of the buoy, to ascertain whether or not it
had shifted its position during the six months' conflict with tide and
tempest that it had undergone since last being overhauled.  Certain
buildings on shore coming into line with other prominent buildings, such
as steeples, chimneys, and windmills, were his infallible guides, and
these declared that the buoy had not shifted more than a few feet.  He
therefore gave the order to have the fresh buoy, with its chain and
sinker, ready to let go.

The buoy in question,--a medium one about eight feet high, five feet in
diameter, and conical in shape--stood at the edge of the vessel, like an
extinguisher for the biggest candle that ever was conceived in the
wildest brain at Rome.  Its sinker, a square mass of cast-iron nearly a
ton in weight, lay beside it, and its two-inch chain, every link whereof
was eight or ten inches long, and made of the toughest malleable iron,
was coiled carefully on the main-hatch, so that nothing should impede
its running out.

"All ready?" cried the captain, taking a final glance through the
telescope.

"All ready, sir," replied the men, several of whom stood beside the
buoy, prepared to lay violent hands on it, while two stood with iron
levers under the sinker, ready to heave.

"Stand here, Billy, an' you'll see it better," said Dick Moy, with a sly
look, for Dick had by this time learned to appreciate the mischievous
spirit of the urchin.

"Let go!" cried the captain.

"Let go!" echoed the men.

The levers were raised; the thrust was given.  Away went the sinker;
overboard went the buoy; out went the chain with a clanging roar and a
furious rush, and up sprang a column of white spray, part of which fell
in-board, and drenched Billy Towler to the skin!

As well might Dick Moy have attempted to punish a pig by throwing it
into the mud as to distress Billy by sousing him with water!  It was to
him all but a native element.  In fact, he said that he believed himself
to be a hamphiberous hanimal by nature, and was of the opinion that he
should have been born a merman.

"Hooray! shower-baths free, gratis, for nothink!" he yelled, as soon as
he had re-caught his breath.  "Any more o' that sort comin'?" he cried,
as he pulled off his shirt and wrung it.

"Plenty more wery like it," said Dick, chuckling, "and to be had wery
much on the same terms."

"Ah, if you'd only jine me--it would make it so much more pleasant,"
retorted the boy; "but it would take a deal more water to kiver yer huge
carcase."

"That boy will either make a first-rate man, or an out-and-out villain,"
observed the captain to Stanley, as they stood listening to his chaffing
remarks.

"He'll require a deal of taming," said Jim Welton, who was standing by;
"but he's a smart, well-disposed little fellow as far as I know him."

Morley Jones, who was seated on the starboard bulwarks not far off;
confided his opinion to no one, but he was observed to indulge in a
sardonic grin, and to heave his shoulders as if he were agitated with
suppressed laughter when this last remark was made.

The steamer meanwhile had been making towards another of the floating
lights, alongside of which some time was spent in transferring the full
water-casks, receiving the "empties," etcetera, and in changing the men.
The same process was gone through with the other vessels, and then, in
the afternoon, they returned towards Ramsgate harbour.  On the way they
stopped at one of the large buoys which required to be painted.  The
weather being suitable for that purpose, a boat was lowered, black and
white paint-pots and brushes were put into her, and Jack Shales, Dick
Moy, and Jerry MacGowl were told off to perform the duty.  Stanley Hall
also went for pastime, and Billy Towler slid into the boat like an eel,
without leave, just as it pushed off.

"Get out, ye small varmint!" shouted Jerry; but the boy did not obey;
the boat was already a few feet off from the vessel, and as the captain
either did not see or did not care, Billy was allowed to go.

"You'll only be in the way, an' git tired of yer life before we're half
done," said Dick Moy.

"Never mind, he shall keep me company," said Stanley, laughing.  "We
will sit in judgment on the work as it proceeds--won't we, Billy?"

"Well, sir," replied the boy, with intense gravity, "that depends on
whether yer fine-hart edication has bin sufficiently attended to; but
I've no objection to give you the benefit o' my adwice if you gits into
difficulties."

A loud laugh greeted this remark, and Billy, smiling with condescension,
said he was gratified by their approval.

A few minutes sufficed to bring them alongside the buoy, which was one
of the largest size, shaped like a cone, and painted in alternate
stripes of white and black.  It rose high above the heads of the men
when they stood up beside it in the boat.  It was made of timber, had a
wooden ring round it near the water, and bore evidence of having
received many a rude buffet from ships passing in the dark.

"A nice little buoy this," said Billy, looking at it with the eye and
air of a connoisseur; "wot's its name?"

"The North Goodwin; can't 'ee read? don't 'ee see its name up there on
its side, in letters as long as yerself?" said Jack Shales, as he
stirred up the paint in one of the pots.

"Ah, to be sure; well, it might have bin named the Uncommon Good-win,"
said Billy, "for it seems to have seen rough service, and to have stood
it well.  Come, boys, look alive, mix yer colours an' go to work;
England expecks every man, you know, for to do his dooty."

"Wot a bag of impudence it is!" said Dick Moy, catching the ring-bolt on
the top of the buoy with the boat-hook, and holding the boat as close to
it as possible, while his mates dipped their brushes in the black and
white paint respectively, and began to work with the energy of men who
know that their opportunity may be cut short at any moment by a sudden
squall or increasing swell.

Indeed, calm though the water was, there was enough of undulation to
render the process of painting one of some difficulty, for, besides the
impossibility of keeping the boat steady, Dick Moy found that all his
strength could not avail to prevent the artists being drawn suddenly
away beyond reach of their object, and as suddenly thrown against it, so
that their hands and faces came frequently into contact with the wet
paint, and gave them a piebald appearance.

For some time Billy contented himself with looking on and chaffing the
men, diversifying the amusement by an occasional skirmish with Stanley,
who had armed himself with a brush, and was busy helping.

"It's raither heavy work, sir, to do all the judgment business by
myself;" he said.  "There's that feller Shales, as don't know how a
straight line should be draw'd.  Couldn't ye lend me your brush, Jack?
or p'raps Dick Moy will lend me his beard, as he don't seem to be usin'
it just now."

"Here, Dick," cried Stanley, giving up his brush, "you've had enough of
the holding-on business; come, I'll relieve you."

"Ay, that's your sort," said Billy; "muscle to the boat-'ook, an' brains
to the brush."

"Hold on tight, sir," cried Shales, as the boat gave a heavy lurch away
from the buoy, while the three painters stood leaning as far over the
gunwale as was consistent with safety, and stretching their arms and
brushes towards the object of their solicitude.

Stanley exerted himself powerfully; a reactionary swell helped him too
much, and next moment the three men went, heads, hands, and brushes,
plunging against the buoy!

"Och! morther!" cried Jerry, one of whose black hands had been forced
against a white stripe, and left its imprint there.  "Look at that,
now!"

"All right," cried Shales, dashing a streak of white over the spot.

"There's no preventing it," said Stanley, apologetically, yet laughing
in spite of himself.

"I say, Jack, this is 'igh art, this is," observed Moy, as he drew back
to take another dip, "but I'm free to confess that I'd raither go
courtin' the girls than painting the buoys."

"Oh!  Dick, you borrowed that from me," cried Billy; "for shame, sir!"

"Well, well," observed Jerry, "it's many a time I've held on to a
painter, but I niver thought to become wan.  What would ye call this
now--a landscape or a portrait?"

"I would call it a marine piece," said Stanley.

"How much, sir?" asked Dick Moy, who had got upon the wooden ring of the
buoy, and was standing thereon attempting, but not very successfully, to
paint in that position.

"A mareeny-piece, you noodle," cried Billy; "don't ye onderstand the
genel'm'n wot's a sittin' on judgment on 'ee?  A mareeny-piece is a
piece o' mareeny or striped kaliko, w'ich is all the same, and wery poor
stuff it is too.  Come, I'll stand it no longer.  I hold ye in sich
contempt that I _must_ look down on 'ee."

So saying, the active little fellow seized the boat-hook, and swung
himself lightly on the buoy, the top of which he gained after a severe
scramble, amid the indignant shouts of the men.

"Well, since you have gone up there, we'll keep you there till we are
done."

"All right, my hearties," retorted Billy, in great delight and
excitement, as the men went on with their work.

Just then another heave of the swell drew the boat away, obliging the
painters to lean far over the side as before, pointing towards their
"pictur," as Jerry called it, but unable to touch it, though expecting
every moment to swing within reach again.  Suddenly Billy Towler--while
engaged, no doubt, in some refined piece of mischief--slipped and fell
backwards with a loud cry.  His head struck the side of the boat in
passing, as he plunged into the sea.

"Ah, the poor craitur!" cried Jerry MacGowl, immediately plunging after
him.

Now, it happened that Jerry could not swim a stroke, but his liking for
the boy, and the suddenness of the accident, combined with his reckless
disposition, rendered him either forgetful of or oblivious to that fact.
Instead of doing any good, therefore, to Billy, he rendered it
necessary for the men to give their undivided attention to hauling his
unwieldy carcase into the boat.

The tide was running strong at the time.  Billy rose to the surface, but
showed no sign of life.  He was sinking again, when Stanley Hall plunged
into the water like an arrow, and caught him by the hair.

Stanley was a powerful swimmer, but he could make no headway against the
tide that was running to the southward at the time, and before the men
had succeeded in dragging their enthusiastic but reckless comrade into
the boat, Billy and his friend had been swept to a considerable
distance.  As soon as the oars were shipped, however, they were quickly
overtaken and rescued.

Stanley was none the worse for his ducking, but poor Billy was
unconscious, and had a large cut in his head, which looked serious.
When he was taken on board the tender, and restored to consciousness, he
was incapable of talking coherently.  In this state he was taken back to
Ramsgate and conveyed to the hospital.

There, in a small bed, the small boy lay for many weeks, with ample
leisure to reflect upon the impropriety of coupling fun--which is
right--with mischief--which is emphatically wrong, and generally leads
to disaster.  But Billy could not reflect, because he had received a
slight injury to the brain, it was supposed, which confused him much,
and induced him, as his attentive nurse said, to talk "nothing but
nonsense."

The poor boy's recently-made friends paid him all the attention they
could, but most of them had duties to attend to which called them away,
so that, ere long, with the exception of an occasional visit from Mr
Welton of the Gull light, he was left entirely to the care of the nurses
and house-surgeons, who were extremely kind to him.

Mr Morley Jones, who might have been expected to take an interest in
his _protege_, left him to his fate, after having ascertained that he
was in a somewhat critical condition, and, in any case, not likely to be
abroad again for many weeks.

There was one person, however, who found out and took an apparently deep
interest in the boy.  This was a stout, hale gentleman, of middle age,
with a bald head, a stern countenance, and keen grey eyes.  He came to
the hospital, apparently as a philanthropic visitor, inquired for the
boy, introduced himself as Mr Larks, and, sitting down at his bedside,
sought to ingratiate himself with the patient.  At first he found the
boy in a condition which induced him to indulge chiefly in talking
nonsense, but Mr Larks appeared to be peculiarly interested in this
nonsense, especially when it had reference, as it frequently had, to a
man named Jones!  After a time, when Billy became sane again, Mr Larks
pressed him to converse more freely about this Mr Jones, but with
returning health came Billy's sharp wit and caution.  He began to be
more circumspect in his replies to Mr Larks, and to put questions, in
his turn, which soon induced that gentleman to discontinue his visits,
so that Billy Towler again found himself in what might with propriety
have been styled his normal condition--absolutely destitute of friends.

But Billy was not so destitute as he supposed himself to be--as we shall
see.

Meanwhile Morley Jones went about his special business.  He reported the
loss of the sloop Nora; had it advertised in the _Gazette_; took the
necessary steps to prove the fact; called at the office of the Submarine
Insurance Company, and at the end of three weeks walked away, chuckling,
with 300 pounds in his pocket!

In the satisfaction which the success of this piece of business induced,
he opened his heart and mind pretty freely to his daughter Nora, and
revealed not only the fact of Billy Towler's illness, but the place
where he then lay.  Until the money had been secured he had kept this a
secret from her, and had sent Jim Welton on special business to
Gravesend in order that he might be out of the way for a time, but, the
motive being past, he made no more secret of the matter.

Nora, who had become deeply interested in the boy, resolved to have him
brought up from Ramsgate to Yarmouth by means of love, not being
possessed of money.  The moment, therefore, that Jim Welton returned,
she issued her commands that he should go straight off to Ramsgate, find
the boy, and, by hook or crook, bring him to the "Garden of Eden," on
pain of her utmost displeasure.

"But the thing an't possible," said Jim, "I haven't got money enough to
do it."

"Then you must find money somehow, or make it," said Nora, firmly.
"That dear boy _must_ be saved.  When he was stopping here I wormed all
his secrets out of his little heart, bless it--"

"I don't wonder!" interrupted Jim, with a look of admiration.

"And what do you think?" continued the girl, not noticing the
interruption, "he confessed to me that he had been a regular London
thief!  Now I am quite sure that God will enable me to win him back, if
I get him here--for I know that he is fond of me--and I am equally sure
that he will be lost if he is again cast loose on the world."

"God bless you, Nora; I'll do my best to fetch him to 'ee, even if I
should have to walk to Ramsgate and carry him here on my shoulders; but
don't you think it would be as well also to keep him--forgive me, dear
Nora, I _must_ say it--to keep him out of your father's way?  He might
teach him to drink, you know, if he taught him no worse, and that's bad
enough."

Nora's face grew pale as she said--

"Oh, Jim, are you _sure_ there is nothing worse that he is likely to
teach him?  My father has a great deal of money just now, I--I hope
that--"

"Why, Nora, you need not think he stole it," said Jim hurriedly, and
with a somewhat confused look; "he got it in the regular way from the
Insurance Company, and I couldn't say that there's anything absolutely
wrong in the business; but--"

The young sailor stopped short and sighed deeply.  Nora's countenance
became still more pale, and she cast down her eyes, but spoke not a word
for some moments.

"You _must_ bring the boy to me, Jim," she resumed, with a sudden start.
"He may be in danger here, but there is almost certain ruin before him
if he is left to fall back into his old way of life."

We need not trouble the reader with a detailed account of the means by
which Jim Welton accomplished his object.  Love prevailed--as it always
did, always does, and always will--and ere many days had passed Billy
Towler was once more a member of the drunkard's family, with the sweet
presence of Nora ever near him, like an angel's wing overshadowing and
protecting him from evil.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE ANCIENT CORPORATION OF TRINITY HOUSE OF DEPTFORD STROND.

As landmarks--because of their affording variety, among other reasons--
are pleasant objects of contemplation to the weary traveller on a long
and dusty road, so landmarks in a tale are useful as resting-places.  We
purpose, therefore, to relieve the reader, for a very brief period, from
the strain of mingled fact and fiction in which we have hitherto
indulged--turn into a siding, as it were--and, before getting on the
main line again, devote a short chapter to pure and unmitigated fact.

So much has been said in previous chapters, and so much has yet to be
said, about the lights, and buoys, and beacons which guard the shores of
Old England, that it would be unpardonable as well as ungracious were we
to omit making special reference to the ancient CORPORATION OF TRINITY
HOUSE OF DEPTFORD STROND, under the able management of which the whole
of the important work has been devised and carried into operation, and
is now most efficiently maintained.

It cannot be too urgently pressed upon un-nautical--especially young--
readers, that the work which this Corporation does, and the duties which
it performs, constitute what we may term _vital service_.

It would be too much, perhaps, to say that the life of the nation
depends on the faithful and wise conduct of that service, but assuredly
our national prosperity is intimately bound up with it.  The annual list
of ships wrecked and lives lost on the shores of the kingdom is
appalling enough already, as every observant reader of the newspapers
must know, but if the work of the Trinity House--the labours of the
Elder Brethren--were suspended for a single year--if the lights, fixed
and floating, were extinguished, and the buoys and beacons removed, the
writer could not express, nor could the reader conceive, the awful crash
of ruin, and the terrific cry of anguish that would sweep over the land
from end to end, like the besom of destruction.

We leave to hard-headed politicians to say what, or whether,
improvements of any kind might be made in connection with the Trinity
Corporation.  We do not pretend to be competent to judge whether or not
that work might be _better_ done.  All that we pretend to is a certain
amount of competency to judge, and right to assert, that it is _well_
done, and one of the easiest ways to assure one's-self of that fact is,
to go visit the lighthouses and light-vessels on the coast, and note
their perfect management; the splendid adaptation of scientific
discoveries to the ends they are designed to serve; the thoroughness,
the cleanliness, the beauty of everything connected with the _materiel_
employed; the massive solidity and apparent indestructibility of the
various structures erected and afloat; the method everywhere observable;
the perfect organisation and the steady respectability of the
light-keepers--observe and note all these things, we say, and it will be
impossible to return from the investigation without a feeling that the
management of this department of our coast service is in pre-eminently
able hands.

Nor is this to be wondered at, when we reflect that the Corporation of
Trinity House is composed chiefly (the acting part of it entirely) of
nautical men--men who have spent their youth and manhood on the sea, and
have had constantly to watch and guard against those very rocks and
shoals, and traverse those channels which it is now their duty to light
and buoy.  [See note 1.]

It has been sagely remarked by some philosopher, we believe--at least it
might have been if it has not--that everything must have a beginning.
We agree with the proposition, and therefore conclude that the
Corporation of Trinity House must have had a beginning, but that
beginning would appear to be involved in those celebrated "mists of
antiquity" which unhappily obscure so much that men would give their
ears to know now-a-days.

Fire--which has probably been the cause of more destruction and
confusion than all of the other elements put together--was the cause of
the difficulty that now exists in tracing this ancient Corporation to
its origin, as will be seen from the following quotation from a little
"Memoir, drawn up the present Deputy-Master, and printed for private
distribution," which was kindly lent to us by the present secretary of
the House, and from which most of our information has been derived.

"The printed information hitherto extant [in regard to the Corporation
of Trinity House] is limited to the charter of confirmation granted by
James the Second (with the minor concession, by Charles the Second, of
Thames Ballastage) and a compilation from the records of the Corporation
down to 1746, by its then secretary, Mr Whormby, supplemented by a
memoir drawn up, in 1822, by Captain Joseph Cotton, then Deputy-master.
But the _data_ of these latter are necessarily imperfect, as the
destruction by fire, in 1714, of the house in Water Lane had already
involved a disastrous loss of documentary evidence, leaving much to be
inferentially traced from collateral records of Admiralty and Navy
Boards.  These, however, sufficiently attest administrative powers and
protective influence scarcely inferior to the scope of those
departments."

More than a hundred years before the date of its original charter (1514)
the Corporation existed in the form of a voluntary association of the
"shipmen and mariners of England," to which reference is made in the
charter as being an influential body of long standing even at that time,
which protected maritime interests, and relieved the aged and indigent
among the seafaring community, for which latter purpose they had erected
an almshouse at Deptford, in Kent, where also were their headquarters.
This society had inspired confidence and acquired authority to establish
regulations for the navigation of ships and the government of seamen,
which, by general consent, had been adopted throughout the service.  It
was, therefore, of tested and approved capacity, which at length
resulted in the granting to it of a charter by Henry VIII in 1514.

From this date the history proper of the Corporation of Trinity House of
Deptford Strond begins.  In the charter referred to it is first so
named, and is described as "The Guild or Fraternity of the most glorious
and undividable Trinity of Saint Clement."  The subsequent charter of
James I, and all later charters, are granted to "The Master, Wardens,
and Assistants of the Guild, Fraternity, or Brotherhood of the most
glorious and undivided Trinity, and of Saint Clement, in the parish of
Deptford, in the county of Kent."  The grant of Arms to the Corporation
is dated 1573, and includes the motto, _Trinitas in Unitate_.

No reason can now be assigned for the application of its distinctive
title.  The mere fact that the constitution of the guild included
provision for the maintenance of a chaplain, and for the conduct of
divine service in the parish church, is not, we think, sufficient to
account for it.

In the house or hall at Deptford, adjoining the almshouses, the business
of the Corporation was first conducted.  Afterwards, for the sake of
convenient intercourse with shipowners and others, in a house in
Ratcliffe; next at Stepney, and then in Water Lane, Tower Street.  The
tenement there falling into decay--after having been twice burnt and
restored--was forsaken, and an estate was purchased on Tower Hill, on
which the present Trinity House was built, from designs by Wyatt, in
1798.

A good idea of the _relative_ antiquity of the Corporation may be
gathered from the fact that about the year 1520--six years after the
date of the first charter--the formation of the Admiralty and Navy
Boards was begun, and "on the consequent establishment of dockyards and
arsenals, the Deptford building-yard was confided to the direction of
the Trinity House, together with the superintendence of all navy stores
and provisions.  So closely, indeed, were the services related, that the
first Master of the Corporation, under the charter, was Sir Thomas
Spert, commander of the `Henry Grace-a-Dieu,' (our first man-of-war),
and sometime Controller of the Navy.  The Corporation thus became, as it
were, the civil branch of the English Maritime Service, with a naval
element which it preserves to this day."

Government records show that the Trinity Brethren exercised considerable
powers, at an early period, in manning and outfitting the navy; that
they reported on ships to be purchased, regulated the dimensions of
those to be built, and determined the proper complement of sailors for
each, as well as the armament and stores.  Besides performing its
peaceful duties, the Corporation was bound to render service at sea if
required, but, in consideration of such liability, the Brethren and
their subordinates were exempted from land service of every kind.  They
have been frequently called upon to render service afloat, "and notably
upon two occasions--during the mutiny at the Nore in 1797, when the
Elder Brethren, almost in view of the mutinous fleet, removed or
destroyed every beacon and buoy that could guide its passage out to sea;
and again in 1803, when a French invasion was imminent, they undertook
and carried out the defences of the entrance to the Thames by manning
and personally officering a cordon of fully-armed ships, moored across
the river below Gravesend, with an adequate force of trustworthy seamen,
for destruction, if necessary, of all channel marks that might guide an
approaching enemy."

We cannot afford space to enter fully into the history of the Trinity
Corporation.  Suffice it to say that it has naturally been the object of
a good deal of jealousy, and has undergone many searching
investigations, from all of which it has emerged triumphantly.  Its
usefulness having steadily advanced with all its opportunities for
extension, it received in 1836 "the culminating recognition of an Act of
Parliament, empowering its executive to purchase of the Crown, and to
redeem from private proprietors, their interests in all the coast-lights
of England, thus bringing all within its own control.  By Crown patents,
granted from time to time, the Corporation was enabled to raise, through
levy of tolls, the funds necessary for erection and maintenance of these
national blessings; ... and all surplus of revenue over expenditure was
applied to the relief of indigent and aged mariners, their wives,
widows, and orphans."  About 1853, the allowance to out-pensioners alone
amounted to upwards of 30,000 pounds per annum, and nearly half as much
more of income, derived from property held in trust for charitable
purposes, was applied to the maintenance of the almshouses at Deptford
and Mile-end, and to other charitable uses for the benefit of the
maritime community.

The court or governing body of the Corporation is now composed of
thirty-one members, namely, the Master, four Wardens, eight Assistants,
and eighteen Elder Brethren.  The latter are elected out of those of the
class of younger Brethren who volunteer, and are approved as candidates
for the office.  Eleven members of this court of thirty-one are men of
distinction--members of the Royal Family, Ministers of State, naval
officers of high rank, and the like.  The remainder--called Acting
Brethren--are chiefly officers of the mercantile marine, with a very
few--usually three--officers of Her Majesty's navy.  The younger
Brethren--whose number is unlimited--are admissible at the pleasure of
the court.  They have no share in the management, but are entitled to
vote in the election of Master and Wardens.

The duties of the Corporation, as described in their charters generally,
were to "treat and conclude upon all and singular articles anywise
concerning the science or art of mariners."  A pretty wide and somewhat
indefinite range!  At the present time these duties are, as follows:--

To maintain in perfect working order all the lighthouses, floating
lights, and fog-signal stations on the coasts of England; and to lay
down, maintain, renew, and modify all the buoys, beacons, and
sea-signals; to regulate the supply of stores, the appointment of
keepers, and constantly to inspect the stations--a service which entails
unremitting attention upon the members, some of whom are always on duty,
either afloat in the steam-vessels or on land journeys.

To examine and license pilots for a large portion of our coasts; and to
investigate generally into all matters relative to pilotage.

To act as nautical advisers with the Judge of the High Court of
Admiralty, a duty which frequently engages some of the Brethren for
considerable periods of time on intricate causes of the greatest
importance.

To survey and inspect the channels of the Thames and the shoals of the
North Sea, and other points of the coast at which shifting, scouring,
growth or waste of sand may affect the navigation, and require to be
watched and notified.

To supply shipping in the Thames with ballast.

The Elder Brethren have also to perform the duty of attending the
Sovereign on sea-voyages.

In addition to all this, it has to superintend the distribution of its
extensive charities, founded on various munificent gifts and legacies,
nearly all given or left for the benefit of "poor Jack" and his
relatives; and to manage the almshouses; also the affairs of the House
on Tower Hill, and the engineering department, with its superintendence
of new works, plans, drawings, lanterns, optical apparatus, etcetera--
the whole involving, as will be obvious to men who are acquainted with
"business," a mass of detail which must be almost as varied as it is
enormous.

The good influence of the operations of the Trinity louse might be shown
by many interesting instances.  Here is one specimen; it has reference
to ballast-heaving:--

"Formerly the ballast, when laid in barge or lighter alongside the ship
to be supplied, was heaved on board by men who were hired and paid by
various waterside contractors, and subjected to great hardships, not
only from the greed of their employers, but from a demoralising system
of payment through publicans and local harpies.  These evils were
altogether removed by the establishment of a Heavers' Office under
control of the Trinity House, where men could attend for employment, and
where their wages could be paid with regularity, and free from
extortionate deduction."

Many more examples might be given, but were we to indulge in this strain
our chapter would far exceed its proper limits.

The light-vessels belonging to the Corporation are 43 in number: 38 in
position and 5 in reserve to meet casualties.  [See note 2.] Of
lighthouses there are 76; sixty-one of which, built of brick, stone, or
timber, are on shore; eleven, of granite, are on outlying rocks; and
four, on iron piles, are on sandbanks.  There are 452 buoys of all
shapes and sizes on the coast, and half as many more in reserve, besides
about 60 beacons of various kinds, and 21 storehouses in connection with
them.  Also 6 steam-vessels and 7 sailing tenders maintained for
effecting the periodical relief of crews and keepers, shifting and
laying buoys, etcetera.

The working staff which keeps the whole complex machinery in order,
consists of 7 district superintendents, 11 local agents, 8 buoy-keepers,
21 storekeepers, watchmen, etcetera; 177 lighthouse-keepers, 427 crews
of floating lights, 143 crews of steam and sailing vessels, and 6
fog-signal attendants--a total of 800 men.

Among the great and royal personages who have filled the office of
Master of the Corporation of Trinity House, we find, besides a goodly
list of dukes and earls--the names of (in 1837) the Duke of Wellington,
(1852) H.R.H. Prince Albert, (1862) Viscount Palmerston, and (1866)
H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh.  The last still holds office, and H.R.H.
the Prince of Wales heads the list of a long roll of titled and
celebrated honorary Brethren of the Corporation.

We make no apology for the interpolation of this chapter, because if the
reader has skipped it no apology is due, and if he has not skipped it,
we are confident that no apology will be required.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The service which the Corporation of Trinity House renders to
the coasts of England, is rendered to those of Scotland by the
Commissioners of Northern Lights, and to those of Ireland by the
Commissioners of Irish Lights--both, to some extent, under the
supervision of the Trinity House.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The floating lights of England are illuminated by means of lamps with
metallic reflectors, on what is styled the catoptric system.  The
dioptric system, in which the rays of light are transmitted through
glass, has been introduced into the floating lights of India by the
Messrs. Stevenson, C.E., of Edinburgh.  The first floating light on this
system in India was shown on the Hoogly in 1865.  Since then, several
more dioptric lights have been sent to the same region, and also to
Japan in 1869, and all reports agree in describing these lights as being
eminently successful.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

STRANGE SIGHTS AND SCENES ON LAND AND SEA.

The river Hoogly.  Off Calcutta.  Tropical vegetation on the shore.
Glittering sunshine on the water.  Blue sky and fleecy clouds overhead.
Equally blue sky and fleecy clouds down below.  A world of sky and
water, with ships and boats, resting on their own inverted images, in
the midst.  Sweltering heat everywhere.  Black men revelling in the
sunshine.  White men melting in the shade.  The general impression such,
that one might almost entertain the belief that the world has become
white-hot, and the end of time is about to be ushered in with a general
conflagration.

Such is the scene, reader, to which we purpose to convey you.

The day was yet young when a large vessel shook out her topsails, and
made other nautical demonstrations of an intention to quit the solid
land ere long, and escape if possible from the threatened conflagration.

"I wonder when those brutes will be sent off," said the first mate of
the ship to the surgeon, who stood on the poop beside him.

"What brutes do you refer to?" asked the surgeon, who was no other than
our young friend Stanley Hall.

"Why, the wild beasts, to be sure.  Have you not heard that we are to
have as passengers on the voyage home two leopards, an elephant, and a
rhinoceros?"

"Pleasant company!  I wonder what Neptune will say to that?" said
Stanley, with a laugh, as he walked forward to ask the opinion of the
owner of the said Neptune.  "I say, Welton, we are to have an elephant,
a rhinoceros, and two leopards, on this voyage."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, what will Neptune say to it?"

"Oh, he won't mind, sir," replied Jim, patting the head of the large
Newfoundland dog with grey paws which stood beside him.

Jim and Stanley had taken a fancy to each other when on board the Nora.
The former had carried out a plan of going to sea, in order to be out of
the way if he should happen to be wanted as a witness at the trial of
Morley Jones, which event he felt certain must take place soon.  He had
made application to Stanley, who spoke to Mr Durant about him,--the
result being that Jim obtained a berth on board the ship Wellington,
which stood A1 at Lloyds.  Hence we find him in the Hoogly.

"Neptune is a wise dog, sir," continued Jim; "he don't feel much put out
by curious company, and is first-rate at taking care of himself.
Besides, there is no jealousy in his nature.  I suppose he feels that
nobody can cut him out when he has once fairly established a friendship.
I don't grudge the dive off the bulwarks of the old Gull, when I saved
Neptune, I assure you."

"He was worth saving," remarked Stanley, stooping to pat the meek head
of the dog.

"Yes, I heard last night of the expected passengers," pursued Jim, "and
am now rigging up tackle to hoist 'em on board.  I meant to have told
you of 'em last night, but we got into that stiff argument about
teetotalism, which put it completely out of my head."

"Ah, Welton, you'll never convince me that teetotalism is right," said
Stanley, with a good-humoured laugh.  "Not that I care much about wine
or spirits myself, but as long as a man uses them in moderation they can
do him no harm."

"So I thought once, sir," returned Jim, "but I have seen cause to change
my mind.  A healthy man can't use them in moderation, because _use_ is
_abuse_.  Stimulants are only fit for weaklings and sick folk.  As well
might a stout man use crutches to help him to walk, as beer or brandy to
help him to work; yet there are some strong young men so helpless that
they can't get on at all without their beer or grog!"

"Come, I'll join issue with you on that point," said Stanley, eagerly,
for he was very fond of an argument with Jim, who never lost his temper,
and who always paid his opponent the compliment of listening attentively
to what he had to say.

"Not just now," replied Jim, pointing towards the shore; "for yonder
comes a boat with some of the passengers we were talking of."

"Is that tackle rigged, Welton?" shouted the mate.

"It is, sir," replied Jim.

"Then stand by, some of you, to hoist these leopards aboard."

When the little boat or dinghy came alongside, it was observed that the
animals were confined in a large wooden cage, through the bars of which
they glared savagely at the half-dozen black fellows who conveyed them
away from their native land.  They seemed to be uncommonly irate.
Perhaps the injustice done them in thus removing them against their will
had something to do with it.  Possibly the motion of the boat had
deranged their systems.  Whatever the cause, they glared and growled
tremendously.

"Are you sure that cage is strong enough?" asked the mate, casting a
dubious look over the side.

"Oh yes, massa--plenty strong.  Hould a Bengal tiger," said one of the
black fellows, looking up with a grin which displayed a splendid double
row of glittering teeth.

"Very well, get the slings on, Welton, and look sharp, bo's'n, for more
company of the same kind is expected," said the mate.

The bo's'n--a broad, short, burly man, as a boatswain always is and
always ought to be, with, of course, a terrific bass voice, a body
outrageously long, and legs ridiculously short--replied, "Ay, ay, sir,"
and gave some directions to his mates, who stood by the hoisting
tackles.

At the first hoist the appearance of the cage justified the mate's
suspicions, for the slings bent it in so much that some of the bars
dropped out.

"Avast heaving," roared the boatswain.  "Lower!"  Down went the cage
into the dinghy.  The bars were promptly replaced, and the slings
fastened in better position.

"Try it again, bo's'n," said the mate.

The order to hoist was repeated, and up went the cage a second time, but
it bent as before, so that several bars again slipped out, leaving the
leopards sufficient space to jump through if they chose.

"Lower!" yelled the mate.

The men obeyed promptly--rather too promptly!  The cage went down by the
run into the boat, and with a crash fell asunder.

"Cut the rope!" cried the mate.

Jim Welton jumped into the chains, cut the painter, and the boat was
swept away by the tide, which was running strong past the ship.  At the
same moment the black fellows went over the sides into the water like
six black eels radiating from a centre, and away went the dinghy with
the leopards in possession, mounted on the debris of their prison,
lashing their sides with their tails, and looking round in proud
defiance of all mankind!

The crew of the boat, each of whom could swim like a frog, were soon
picked up.  Meanwhile, all on board the Wellington who had telescopes
applied them to their eyes, and watched the progress of the dinghy.

It chanced that the current set with considerable force towards the
opposite side of the river, where lay an island on which was a public
garden.  There ladies and gentlemen in gay costume, as well as many
natives and children, were promenading the shady walks, chatting
pleasantly, listening to the sweet strains of music, enjoying the
fragrance of scented flowers, with the jungle and its inhabitants very
far indeed from their thoughts--except, perchance, in the case of a
group surrounding a young officer, who was, no doubt, recounting the
manner in which he had potted a tiger on the occasion of his last day
out with the Rajah of Bangalore, or some such dignitary!

Straight to the shores of this Eden-like spot the dinghy drifted, and
quietly did the leopards abide the result--so also did the deeply
interested crew of the Wellington, who, of course, were quite unable to
give any note of warning.

The little boat was seen to touch the shore, and the leopards were
observed to land leisurely without opposition from the enemy.
Immediately after, something resembling a sensation was apparent in the
garden.  The distance was too great to permit of sound travelling to the
observers, but it lent enchantment to the view to the extent of
rendering the human beings there like moving flowers of varied hue.
Presently there was a motion, as if a tornado had suddenly burst upon
the flower-beds and scattered them right and left in dire confusion--not
a few appearing to have been blown up into the trees!

That same day the crack shots and sportsmen of Calcutta went down to the
usually peaceful islet and engaged in all the wild work of a regular
hunt, and at eve the two leopards were seen, by interested observers in
the Wellington, being conveyed away in triumph on a litter.

But, long before this happy consummation of the day's sport in the
garden, the remainder of the expected company had arrived alongside the
Wellington, and the undaunted bo's'n--who declared himself ready on the
shortest notice to hoist any living creature on board, from a sperm
whale to a megatherium--tackled the elephant.  The ponderous brute
allowed itself to be manipulated with the utmost good-humour, and when
carefully lowered on the deck it alighted with as much softness as if it
had been shod with India-rubber, and walked quietly forward, casting a
leer out of its small eyes at the mate, as if it were aware of its
powers, but magnanimously forbore to use them to the disadvantage of its
human masters.  In passing it knocked off the bo's'n's hat, but whether
this was done by accident or design has never been ascertained.  At all
events the creature made no apology.

If this passenger was easy-going and polite, the rhinoceros, which came
next, was very much the reverse.  That savage individual displayed a
degree of perverse obstinacy and bad feeling which would have been
deemed altogether inexcusable even in a small street-boy.

In the whites of its very small grey eyes wickedness sat enthroned.  The
end of its horns--for it had two on its nose--appeared to be sharpened
with malignity, its thick lips quivered with anger, and its ridiculously
small tail wriggled with passionate emotion, as if that appendage felt
its insignificance, yet sought to obtrude itself on public notice.

To restrain this passenger was a matter of the utmost difficulty.  To
get him into the slings might have perplexed Hercules himself, but
nothing could appal the bo's'n.  The slings were affixed, the order to
hoist was given by the mate, who had descended from the poop, and stood
near the gangway.  Up went the monster with a grunt, and a peculiar
rigidity of body, which evidently betokened horror at his situation.

Being fully five tons in weight, this passenger had to be received on
board with caution.

"Lower away," was given.

"Hold on," was added.

Both orders were obeyed, and the huge animal hung within three inches of
the deck.

"Stand clear there, lads."

There was no occasion for that order.  It had been anticipated.

"Lower," was again given.

The moment the feet of the creature touched the deck he dashed forward
with ungovernable fury, broke the slings, overturned the bo's'n, who
fortunately rolled into the port scuppers, and took possession of the
ship, driving the men into the chains and up the rigging.

"Jump up!" shouted Jim Welton to the bo's'n.

"Here he comes aft!" yelled several of the men.

There was no need to warn the boatswain.  He heard the thunder of the
monster's feet, and sprang into the main rigging with an amount of
agility that could hardly have been excelled by a monkey.

"Why, what are you all afraid of?" asked the captain of the ship, who
had come on board with a number of passengers just before the occurrence
of this incident.

"Come down here, sir, and you'll see," replied the mate, who was in the
main-chains.

The captain declined with a smile, and advised the use of a lasso.

Immediately every man of the ship's crew became for the nonce a Mexican
wild-horse tamer!  Running nooses were made, and Jack, albeit unused to
taking wild cattle on the prairies of America, was, nevertheless, such
an adept at casting a coil of rope that he succeeded beyond the most
sanguine expectation.  The bo's'n was the first to throw a loop over the
creature's front horn--cast a hitch over its foremast as he styled it--
amid a deafening cheer.  He was immediately pulled out of the rigging,
and a second time lay wallowing in the port scuppers; but he cared
nothing for that, being upheld by the glory of having succeeded in
fixing the first noose.  Soon after that Stanley Hall threw a noose over
the creature's head, and Jim Welton fixed one on its second horn--or, as
the bo's'n said, round his mizzen.  In the course of half-an-hour the
rhinoceros was so completely entangled in the twisted ropes that he
seemed as though he were involved in a net.  He was finally captured,
and led to a ponderous stall that had been prepared for him between the
fore and main masts.

Soon afterwards the last of the human passengers came on board.  There
were many of them.  Officers and their wives and children--some in
health, some in sickness.  Old warriors returning home to repose on
their laurels.  Young warriors returning home to recruit their health,
or to die.  Women who went out as wives returning as widows, and women
who went out as widows returning as wives.  Some returning with fortunes
made, a few returning with fortunes broken; but all, old and young,
healthy and sick, rich and poor, hopeful and hopeless, glad at the
prospect of leaving the burning skies of India behind, and getting out
among the fresh breezes of the open sea.  Then the sails were set, and
with a light evening breeze the Wellington began her voyage--homeward
bound...

Once again the scene changes.  Blue skies are gone.  Grey clouds
preponderate.  In the Atlantic, tossed by the angry billows, a large
ship scuds before the wind as though she were fleeing from the pursuit
of a relentless enemy.  She has evidently seen rough and long service.
Her decks have been swept by many a heavy sea; her spars have been
broken and spliced.  The foremast is sprung, the main-topgallant mast is
gone, and the mizzen has been snapped off close by the deck.  Her
bulwarks are patched here and there, and her general appearance bears
evidence of the tremendous power of Ocean.

It would be difficult in that weatherworn hull to recognise the trim
full-rigged ship that left the Hoogly many months before.

It was not a recent gale that had caused all this damage.  In the South
Atlantic, several weeks before, she had encountered one of those
terrific but short-lived squalls which so frequently send many of man's
stoutest floating palaces to the bottom.  Hence her half-wrecked
condition.

The passengers on board the Wellington did not, however, seem to be much
depressed by their altered circumstances.  The fact was, they had become
so used to rough weather, and had weathered so many gales, and reached
their damaged condition by such slow degrees, that they did not realise
it as we do, turning thus abruptly from one page to another.  Besides
this, although still some weeks' sail from the white cliffs of old
England, they already began to consider the voyage as good as over, and
not a few of the impatient among them had begun to pack up so as to be
ready for going ashore.  And how carefully were those preparations for
landing made!  With what interest the sandal-wood fans, and inlaid ivory
boxes and elaborately carved chess-men and curious Indian toys, and
costly Indian shawls were re-examined and repacked in more secure and
carefully-to-be-remembered corners, in order that they might be got at
quickly when eager little hands "at home--" Well, well, it is of no use
to dwell on what was meant to be, for not one of those love-tokens ever
reached its destination.  All were swallowed up by the insatiable sea.

But let us not forestall.  The elephant and rhinoceros were the only
members of the community that had perished on the voyage.  At first the
elephant had been dreaded by many, but by degrees it won the confidence
and affection of all.  Houses innumerable had been built for it on deck,
but the sagacious animal had a rooted antipathy to restraint.  No sort
of den, however strongly formed, could hold him long.  The first
structures were so ridiculously disproportioned to his strength as to be
demolished at once.  On being put into the first "house that Jack
built," he looked at it demurely for at least five minutes, as if he
were meditating on the probable intentions of the silly people who put
him there, but neither by look nor otherwise did he reveal the
conclusions to which he came.  His intentions, however, were not long of
being made known.  He placed his great side against the den; there was a
slow but steady rending of timbers, as if the good ship herself were
breaking up, a burst of laughter from the men followed, and "Sambo" was
free.  When the succeeding houses were built so strong that his side
availed not, he brought his wonderful patience and his remarkable trunk
to bear on them, and picked them to pieces bit by bit.  Then ropes were
tried, but he snapped weak ropes and untied strong ones.

At last he was permitted to roam the decks at perfect liberty, and it
was a point of the greatest interest to observe the neat way in which he
picked his steps over the lumbered decks, without treading upon
anything--ay, even during nights when these decks in the tropical
regions were covered with sleeping men!

Everybody was fond of Sambo.  Neptune doted on him, and the children--
who fed him to such an extent with biscuits that the bo's'n said he
would be sartin' sure to die of appleplexy--absolutely adored him.  Even
the gruff, grumpy, unsociable rhinoceros amiably allowed him to stroke
its head with his trunk.

Sambo troubled no one except the cook, but that luxurious individual was
so constantly surrounded by a halo, so to speak, of delicious and
suggestive odours that the elephant could not resist the temptation to
pay him frequent visits, especially when dinner was being prepared.  One
of his favourite proceedings at such times was to put his trunk into the
galley, take the lid off the coppers, make a small coil of the end of
his proboscis, and therewith at one sweep spoon out a supply of potatoes
sufficient for half-a-dozen men!  Of course the cook sought to
counteract such tendencies, but he had to be very circumspect, for Sambo
resented insults fiercely.

One day the cook caught his enemy in the very act of clearing out the
potato copper.  Enraged beyond endurance, he stuck his "tormentors" into
the animal's trunk.  With a shriek of rage Sambo dashed the potatoes in
the man's face, and made a rush at him.  The cook fled to his sanctum
and shut the door.  There the elephant watched him for an hour or more.
The united efforts, mental and physical, of the ship's crew failed to
remove the indignant creature, so they advised the cook to remain where
he was for some time.  He hit on the plan, however, of re-winning the
elephant's friendship.  He opened his door a little and gave him a piece
of biscuit.  Sambo took it.  What his feelings were no one could tell,
but he remained at his post.  Another piece of biscuit was handed out.
Then the end of the injured proboscis was smoothed and patted by the
cook.  Another large piece of biscuit was administered, and by degrees
the cure was affected.  Thus successfully was applied that grand
principle which has accomplished so much in this wicked world, even
among higher animals than elephants--the overcoming of evil with good!

Eventually Sambo sickened.  Either the cold of the north told too
severely on a frame which had been delicately nurtured in sunny climes,
or Sambo had surreptitiously helped himself during the hours of night to
something deleterious out of the paint or pitch pots.  At all events he
died, to the sincere regret of all on board--cook not excepted--and was
launched overboard to glut the sharks with an unwonted meal, and
astonish them with a new sensation.

Very dissimilar was the end of the rhinoceros.  That bumptious animal
retained its unamiable spirit to the last.  Fortunately it did not
possess the powers or sagacity of the elephant.  It could not untie
knots or pick its cage to pieces, so that it was effectually restrained
during the greater part of the voyage; but there came a tempest at last,
which assisted him in becoming free--free, not only from durance vile,
but from the restraints of this life altogether.  On the occasion
referred to, the rudder was damaged, and for a time rendered useless, so
that the good ship Wellington rolled to an extent that almost tore the
masts out of her.  Everything not firmly secured about the decks was
washed overboard.  Among other things, the rhinoceros was knocked so
heavily against the bars of his crib that they began to give way.

At last the vessel gave a plunge and roll which seemed to many of those
on board as though it must certainly be her last.  The rhinoceros was
sent crashing through the dislocated bars; the ropes that held his legs
were snapped like the cords wherewith Samson was bound in days of old,
and away he went with the lurch of a tipsy man against the long-boat,
which he stove in.

"Hold on!" roared the bo's'n.

Whether this was advice to the luckless animal, or a general adjuration
to everybody and everything to be prepared for the worst, we know not;
but instead of holding on, every one let go what he or she chanced to be
holding on to at the moment, and made for a place of safety with
reckless haste.  The rhinoceros alone obeyed the order.  It held on for
a second or two in a most remarkable manner to the mainmast, but another
lurch of the vessel cast it loose again; a huge billow rolled under the
stern; down went the bow, and the brute slid on its haunches, with its
fore legs rigid in front, at an incredible pace towards the galley.
Just as a smash became imminent, the bow rose, the stern dropt, and away
he went back again with equal speed, but in a more sidling attitude,
towards the quarter-deck.

Before that point was reached, a roll diverted him out of course and he
was brought up by the main hatch, from which he rebounded like a
billiard ball towards the starboard gangway.  At this point he lost his
balance, and went rolling to leeward like an empty cask.  There was
something particularly awful and impressive in the sight of this
unwieldy monster being thus knocked about like a pea in a rattle, and
sometimes getting into attitudes that would have been worthy of a dancer
on the tightrope, but the consummation of the event was not far off.  An
unusually violent roll of the ship sent him scrambling to starboard; a
still more vicious roll checked and reversed the rush and dashed him
against the cabin skylight.  He carried away part of this, continued his
career, went tail-foremost through the port bulwarks like a cannon-shot
into the sea.  He rose once, but, as if to make sure of her victory, the
ship relentlessly fell on him with a weight that must have split his
skull, and sent him finally to the bottom.

Strange to say, the dog Neptune was the only one on board that appeared
to mourn the loss of this passenger.  He howled a good deal that night
in an unusually sad tone, and appeared to court sympathy and caresses
more than was his wont from Jim Welton and the young people who were
specially attached to him, but he soon became reconciled, alas! to the
loss of his crusty friend.

The storms ceased as they neared the shores of England.  The carpenter
and crew were so energetic in repairing damages that the battered vessel
began to wear once more something of her former trim aspect, and the
groups of passengers assembled each evening on the poop, began to talk
with ever-deepening interest of home, while the children played beside
them, or asked innumerable questions about brothers, sisters, and
cousins, whose names were as familiar as household words, though their
voices and forms were still unknown.

The weather was fine, the sky was clear; warm summer breezes filled the
sails, and all nature seemed to have sunk into a condition so peaceful
as to suggest the idea that storms were past and gone for ever, when the
homeward-bound ship neared the land.  One evening the captain remarked
to the passengers, that if the wind would hold as it was a little
longer, they should soon pass through the Downs, and say good-bye to the
sea breezes and the roll of the ocean wave.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

BOB QUEEKER COMES OUT VERY STRONG INDEED.

It is both curious and interesting to observe the multitude of unlikely
ways in which the ends of justice are ofttimes temporarily defeated.
Who would have imagined that an old pump would be the cause of extending
Morley Jones's term of villainy, of disarranging the deep-laid plans of
Mr Larks, of effecting the deliverance of Billy Towler, and of at once
agonising the body and ecstatifying the soul of Robert Queeker?  Yet so
it was.  If the old pump had not existed--if its fabricator had never
been born--there is every probability that Mr Jones's career would have
been cut short at an earlier period.  That he would, in his then state
of mind, have implicated Billy, who would have been transported along
with him and almost certainly ruined; that Mr Queeker would--but hold.
Let us present the matter in order.

Messrs. Merryheart and Dashope were men of the law, and Mr Robert
Queeker was a man of their office--in other words, a clerk--not a
"confidential" one, but a clerk, nevertheless, in whose simple-minded
integrity they had much confidence.  Bob, as his fellow-clerks styled
him, was sent on a secret mission to Ramsgate.  The reader will observe
how fortunate it was that his mission was _secret_, because it frees us
from the necessity of setting down here an elaborate and tedious
explanation as to how, when, and where the various threads of his
mission became interwoven with the fabric of our tale.  Suffice it to
say that the only part of his mission with which we are acquainted is
that which had reference to two men--one of whom was named Mr Larks,
the other Morley Jones.

Now, it so happened that Queeker's acquaintance, Mr Durant, had an
intimate friend who dwelt near a beautiful village in Kent.  When
Queeker mentioned the circumstance of the secret mission which called
him to Ramsgate, he discovered that the old gentleman was on the point
of starting for this village, in company with his daughter and her
cousin Fanny.

"You'll travel with us, I hope, Queeker; our roads lie in the same
direction, at least a part of the way, you know," said the hearty little
old gentleman, with good-nature beaming in every wrinkle, from the crown
of his bald head to the last fold of his treble chin; "it will be such a
comfort to have you to help me take care of the girls.  And if you can
spare time to turn aside for a day or two, I promise you a hearty
welcome from my friend--whose residence, named Jenkinsjoy, is an antique
paradise, and his hospitality unbounded.  He has splendid horses, too,
and will give you a gallop over as fine a country as exists between this
and the British Channel.  You ride, of course?"

Queeker admitted that he could ride a little.

"At least," he added, after a pause, "I used frequently to get rides on
a cart-horse when I was a very little boy."

So it was arranged that Queeker should travel with them.  Moreover, he
succeeded in obtaining from his employers permission to delay for three
days the prosecution of the mission--which, although secret, was not
immediately pressing--in order that he might visit Jenkinsjoy.  It was
fortunate that, when he went to ask this brief holiday, he found Mr
Merryheart in the office.  Had it been his mischance to fall upon
Dashope, he would have received a blunt refusal and prompt dismissal--so
thoroughly were the joys of that gentleman identified with the woes of
other people.

But, great though Queeker's delight undoubtedly was on this occasion, it
was tempered by a soul-harassing care, which drew forth whole quires of
poetical effusions to the moon and other celestial bodies.  This secret
sorrow was caused by the dreadful and astonishing fact, that, do what he
would to the contrary, the weather-cock of his affections was veering
slowly but steadily away from Katie, and pointing more and more
decidedly towards Fanny Hennings!  It is but simple justice to the poor
youth to state that he loathed and abhorred himself in consequence.

"There am I," he soliloquised, on the evening before the journey began,
"a monster, a brute, a lower animal almost, who have sought with all my
strength to gain--perchance _have_ gained--the innocent, trusting heart
of Katie Durant, and yet, without really meaning it, but, somehow,
without being able to help it, I am--_not_ falling in love; oh! no,
perish the thought! but, but--falling into something strangely,
mysteriously, incomprehensibly, similar to--Oh! base ingrate that I am,
is there no way; no back-door by which--?"

Starting up, and seizing a pen, at this point of irrepressible
inspiration, he wrote, reading aloud as he set down the burning
thoughts--

  Oh for a postern in the rear,
  Where wretched man might disappear;
  And never more should seek her!

  Fly, fly to earth's extremest bounds,--

Bounds, mounds, lounds, founds, kounds, downds, rounds, pounds,
zounds!--hounds--ha! hounds--I have it--

  "Fly, fly to earth's extremest bounds,
  With huntsmen, horses, horns, and hounds
  And die!--dejected Queeker.

"I wonder," thought Queeker, as he sat biting the end of his quill--his
usual method of courting inspiration, "I wonder if there is anything
prophetic in these lines!  Durant said that his friend has splendid
horses.  They may, perhaps, be hunters!  Ha! my early ambition,
perchance, youth's fond dream, may yet be realised!  But let me not
hope.  Hope always tells a false as well as flattering tale _to me_.
She has ever been, in my experience" (he was bitter at this point) "an
incorrigible li--ahem! story-teller."

Striking his clenched fist heavily on the table, Queeker rose, put on
his hat, and went round to Mr Durant's merely to inquire whether he
could be of any service--not that he could venture to offer assistance
in the way of packing, but there _might_ be something such as roping
trunks, or writing and affixing addresses, in regard to which he might
perhaps render himself useful.

"Why, Miss Durant," he said, on entering, "you are _always_ busy."

"Am I?" said Katie, with a smile, as she rose and shook hands.

"Yes, I--I--assure you, Miss Durant," said Queeker, bowing to Fanny, on
whose fat pretty face there was a scarlet flush, the result either of
the suddenness of Queeker's entry, or of the suppression of her
inveterate desire to laugh, "I assure you that it quite rouses my
admiration to observe the ease with which you can turn your hand to
anything.  You can write out accounts better than any fellow in our
office.  Then you play and sing with so much ease, and I often find you
making clothes for poor people, with pounds of tea and sugar in your
pockets, besides many other things, and now, here you are painting
like--like--one of the old masters!"

This was quite an unusual burst on the part of Queeker, who felt as
though he were making some amends for his unfaithfulness in thus
recalling and emphatically asserting the unquestionably good qualities
of his lady-love.  He felt as if he were honestly attempting to win
himself back to his allegiance.

"You are very complimentary," said Katie, with a glance at her cousin,
which threw that young lady into silent convulsions.

"Not at all," cried Queeker, forcing his enthusiasm up to white heat,
and seizing a drawing, which he held up before him, in the vain attempt
to shut Fanny out of his sight.

"Now, I call this most beautiful," he said, in tones of genuine
admiration.  "I _never_ saw anything so sweet before."

"Indeed!" said Katie, who observed that the youth was gazing over the
top of the drawing at her cousin.  "I am _so_ glad you like it, for, to
say truth, I have felt disappointed with it myself, and papa says it is
only so-so.  Do point out to me its faults, Mr Queeker, and the parts
you like best."

She rose and looked over Queeker's shoulder with much interest, and took
hold of the drawing to keep it firmly in its position.

There was an excessively merry twinkle in Katie's eyes as she watched
the expression of Queeker's face when he exclaimed--

"Faults, Miss Durant, there are no--eh! why, what--"

"Oh you wicked, deceptive man, you've got it upside down!" said Katie,
shaking her finger at the unhappy youth, who stammered, tried to
explain--to apologise--failed, broke down, and talked unutterable
nonsense, to the infinite delight of his fair tormentor.

As for Fanny, that Hebe bent her head suddenly over her work-basket, and
thrust her face into it as if searching with microscopic intensity for
something that positively refused to be found.  All that we can safely
affirm in regard to her is, that if her face bore any resemblance to the
scarlet of her neck, the fact that her workbox did not take fire is
little short of a miracle!

Fortunately for all parties Queeker inadvertently trod on the cat's
tail, which resulted in a spurt so violent as to justify a total change
of subject.  Before the storm thus raised had calmed down, Mr Durant
entered the room.

At Jenkinsjoy Queeker certainly did meet with a reception even more
hearty than he had been led to expect.  Mr Durant's friend, Stoutheart,
his amiable wife and daughters and strapping sons, received the youthful
limb of the law with that frank hospitality which we are taught to
attribute "to Merrie England in the olden time."  The mansion was
old-fashioned and low-roofed, trellis-worked and creeper-loved; addicted
to oak panelling, balustrades, and tapestried walls, and highly suitable
to ghosts of a humorous and agreeable tendency.  Indeed it was said that
one of the rooms actually _was_ haunted at that very time; but Queeker
did not see any ghosts, although he afterwards freely confessed to
having seen all the rooms in the house more or less haunted by fairy
spirits of the fair sex, and masculine ghosts in buckskins and
top-boots!  The whole air and aspect of the neighbourhood was such that
Queeker half expected to find a May-pole in the neighbouring village,
sweet shepherdesses in straw hats, pink ribbons, and short kirtles in
the fields, and gentle shepherds with long crooks, playing antique
flageolets on green banks, with innocent-looking dogs beside them, and
humble-minded sheep reposing in Arcadian felicity at their feet.

"Where does the meet take place to-day, Tom?" asked Mr Stoutheart
senior of Mr Stoutheart junior, while seated at breakfast the first
morning after their arrival at Jenkinsjoy.

"At Curmersfield," replied young Stoutheart.

"Ah, not a bad piece of country to cross.  You remember when you and I
went over it together, Amy?"

"We have gone over it so often together, papa," replied Amy, "that I
really don't know to which occasion you refer."

"Why, that time when we met the hounds unexpectedly; when you were
mounted on your favourite Wildfire, and appeared to have imbibed some of
his spirit, for you went off at a tangent, crying out, `Come along,
papa!' and cleared the hedge at the roadside, crossed Slapperton's farm,
galloped up the lane leading to Curmersfield, took the ditch, with the
low fence beyond at Cumitstrong's turnip-field, in a flying leap--
obliging me to go quarter of a mile round by the gate--and overtook the
hounds just as they broke away on a false scent in the direction of the
Neckornothing ditch."

"Oh yes, I remember," replied Amy with a gentle smile; "it was a
charming gallop.  I wished to continue it, but you thought the ground
would be too much for me, though I have gone over it twice since then in
perfect safety.  You are far too timid, papa."

Queeker gazed and listened in open-mouthed amazement, for the young girl
who acknowledged in an offhand way that she had performed such
tremendous feats of horsemanship was modest, pretty, unaffected, and
feminine.

"I wonder," thought Queeker, "if Fan--ah, I mean Katie--could do that
sort of thing?"

He looked loyally at Katie, but thought, disloyally, of her cousin,
accused himself of base unfaithfulness, and, seizing a hot roll, began
to eat violently.

"Would you like to see the meet, Mr Queeker?" said Mr Stoutheart
senior; "I can give you a good mount.  My own horse, Slapover, is
neither so elegant nor so high-spirited as Wildfire, but he can go over
anything, and is quite safe."

A sensitive spring had been touched in the bosom of Queeker, which
opened a floodgate that set loose an astonishing and unprecedented flow
of enthusiastic eloquence.

"I shall like it of all things," he cried, with sparkling eyes and
heightened colour.  "It has been my ambition ever since I was a little
boy to mount a thoroughbred and follow the hounds.  I assure you the
idea of `crossing country,' as it is called, I believe, and taking
hedges, ditches, five-barred gates and everything as we go, has a charm
for me which is absolutely inexpressible--"

Queeker stopped abruptly, because he observed a slight flush on Fanny's
cheeks and a pursed expression on Fanny's lips, and felt uncertain as to
whether or not she was laughing at him internally.

"Well said, Queeker," cried Mr Stoutheart enthusiastically; "it's a
pity you are a town-bred man.  Such spirit as yours can find vent only
in the free air of the country!"

"Amy, dear," said Katie, with an extremely innocent look at her friend,
"do huntsmen in this part of England usually take `everything as they
go?'  I think Mr Queeker used that expression."

"N-not exactly," replied Amy, with a smile and glance of uncertainty, as
if she did not quite see the drift of the question.

"Ah!  I thought not," returned Katie with much gravity.  "I had always
been under the impression that huntsmen were in the habit of going
_round_ stackyards, and houses, and such things--not _over_ them."

Queeker was stabbed--stabbed to the heart!  It availed not that the
company laughed lightly at the joke, and that Mr Stoutheart said that
he (Queeker) should realise his young dream, and reiterated the
assurance that his horse would carry him over _anything_ if he only held
tightly on and let him go.  He had been stabbed by Katie--the gentle
Katie--the girl whom he had adored so long--ha! there was comfort in the
word _had_; it belonged to the past; it referred to things gone by; it
rhymed with sad, bad, mad; it suggested a period of remote antiquity,
and pointed to a hazy future.  As the latter thought rushed through his
heated brain, he turned his eyes on Fanny, with that bold look of
dreadful determination that marks the traitor when, having fully made up
his mind, he turns his back on his queen and flag for ever!  But poor
Queeker found little comfort in the new prospect, for Fanny had been
gently touched on the elbow by Katie when she committed her savage
attack; and when Queeker looked at the fair, fat cousin, she was
involved in the agonies of a suppressed but tremendous giggle.

After breakfast two horses were brought to the door.  Wildfire, a sleek,
powerful roan of large size, was a fit steed for the stalwart Tom, who,
in neatly-fitting costume and Hessian boots, got into the saddle like a
man accustomed to it.  The other horse, Slapover, was a large,
strong-boned, somewhat heavy steed, suitable for a man who weighed
sixteen stone, and stood six feet in his socks.

"Now then, jump up, Queeker," said Mr Stoutheart, holding the stirrup.

If Queeker had been advised to vault upon the ridge-pole of the house,
he could not have looked more perplexed than he did as he stood looking
up at the towering mass of horse-flesh, to the summit of which he was
expected to climb.  However, being extremely light, and Mr Stoutheart
senior very strong, he was got into the saddle somehow.

"Where _are_ the stirrups?" said Queeker, with a perplexed air, trying
to look over the side of his steed.

"Why, they've forgot to shorten 'em," said Mr Stoutheart with a laugh,
observing that the irons were dangling six inches below the rider's
toes.

This was soon rectified.  Queeker's glazed leather leggings--which were
too large for him, and had a tendency to turn round--were put straight;
the reins were gathered up, and the huntsman rode away.

"All you've to do is to hold on," shouted Mr Stoutheart, as they rode
through the gate.  "He is usually a little skittish at the start, but
quiet as a lamb afterwards."

Queeker made no reply.  His mind was brooding on his wrongs and sorrows;
for Katie had quietly whispered him to take care and not fall off, and
Fanny had giggled again.

"I _must_ cure him of his foolish fancy," thought Katie as she
re-entered the house, "for Fanny's sake, if for nothing else; though I
cannot conceive what she can see to like in him.  There is no accounting
for taste!"

"I can at all events _die_;"--thought Queeker, as he rode along, shaking
the reins and pressing his little legs against the horse as if with the
savage intention of squeezing the animal's ribs together.

"There _was_ prophetic inspiration in the lines!--yes," he continued,
repeating them--

  "Fly, fly, to earth's extremest bounds,
  With huntsmen, horses, horn, and hounds,
  And die--dejected Queeker!

"I'll change that--it shall be rejected Queeker _now_."

For some time Tom Stoutheart and Queeker rode over "hill and dale"--that
is to say, they traversed four miles of beautiful undulating and
diversified country at a leisurely pace, having started in good time.

"Your father," observed Queeker, as they rode side by side down a green
lane, "said, I think, when we started, that this horse was apt to be
skittish at the start.  Is he difficult to hold in?"

"Oh no," replied Tom, with a reassuring smile.  "He is as quiet and
manageable as any man could wish.  He does indeed bounce about a little
when we burst away at first, and is apt then to get the bit in his
teeth; but you've only to keep a tight rein and he'll go all right.  His
only fault is a habit of tossing his head, which is a little awkward
until you get used to it."

"Yes, I have discovered that fault already," replied Queeker, as the
horse gave a practical illustration of it by tossing his enormous head
back until it reached to within an inch of the point of his rider's
nose.  "Twice he has just touched my forehead.  Had I been bending a
little forward I suppose he would have given me an unpleasant blow."

"Rather," said Stoutheart junior.  "I knew one poor fellow who was
struck in that way by his horse and knocked off insensible.  I think he
was killed, but don't feel quite sure as to that."

"He has no other faults, I hope?" asked Queeker.

"None.  As for refusing his leaps--he refuses nothing.  He carries my
father over anything he chooses to run him at, so it's not likely that
he'll stick with a light-weight."

This was so self-evident that Queeker felt a reply to be unnecessary; he
rode on, therefore, in silence for a few minutes, comforting himself
with the thought that, at all events, he could die!

"I don't intend," said Queeker, after a few minutes' consideration, "to
attempt to leap everything.  I think that would be foolhardy.  I must
tell you, Mr Stoutheart, before we get to the place of meeting, that I
can only ride a very little, and have never attempted to leap a fence of
any kind.  Indeed I never bestrode a real hunter before.  I shall
therefore content myself with following the hounds as far as it is safe
to do so, and will then give it up."

Young Stoutheart was a little surprised at the modest and prudent tone
of this speech, but he good-naturedly replied--

"Very well, I'll guide you through the gates and gaps.  You just follow
me, and you shall be all right, and when you've had enough of it, let me
know."

Queeker and his friend were first in the field, but they had not been
there many minutes when one and another and another red-coat came
cantering over the country, and ere long a large cavalcade assembled in
front of a mansion, the lawn of which formed the rendezvous.  There were
men of all sorts and sizes, on steeds of all kinds and shapes--little
men on big horses, and big men on little horses; men who looked like
"bloated aristocrats" before the bloating process had begun, and men in
whom the bloating process was pretty far advanced, but who had no touch
of aristocracy to soften it.  Men who looked healthy and happy, others
who looked reckless and depraved.  Some wore red-coats, cords, and
tops--others, to the surprise and no small comfort of Queeker, who
fancied that _all_ huntsmen wore red coats, were habited in modest
tweeds of brown and grey.  Many of the horses were sleek, glossy, and
fine-limbed, like racers; others were strong-boned and rough.  Some few
were of gigantic size and rugged aspect, to suit the massive men who
bestrode them.  One of these in particular, a hearty, jovial farmer--and
a relative of Tom's--appeared to the admiring Queeker to be big and
powerful enough to have charged a whole troop of light dragoons
single-handed with some hope of a successful issue.  Ladies were there
to witness the start, and two of the fair sex appeared ready to join the
hunt and follow the hounds, while here and there little boys might be
seen bent on trying their metal on the backs of Shetland ponies.

It was a stirring scene of meeting, and chatting, and laughing, and
rearing, and curvetting, and fresh air, and sunshine.

Presently the master of the hounds came up with the pack at his heels.
A footman of the mansion supplied all who desired it with a tumbler of
beer.

"Have some beer?" said young Stoutheart, pointing to the footman
referred to.

"No, thank you," said Queeker.  "Will you?"

"No.  I have quite enough of spirit within me.  Don't require artificial
stimulant," said the youth with a laugh.  "Come now--we're off."

Queeker's heart gave a bound as he observed the master of the hounds
ride off at a brisk pace followed by the whole field.

"I won't die yet.  It's too soon," he thought, as he shook the reins and
chirped to his steed.

Slapover did not require chirping.  He shook his head, executed a mild
pirouette on his left hind leg, and made a plunge which threatened first
to leave his rider behind, and then to shoot him over his head.  Queeker
had been taken unawares, but he pressed his knees together, knitted his
brows, and resolved not to be so taken again.

Whew! what a rush there was as the two or three hundred excited steeds
and enthusiastic riders crossed the lawn, galloped through an open gate,
and made towards a piece of rough ground covered with low bushes and
bracken, through which the hounds were seen actively running as if in
search of something.  The bodies of the hounds were almost hidden, and
Queeker, whose chief attention was devoted to his horse, had only time
to receive the vague impression, as he galloped up, that the place was
alive with white and pointed tails.

That first rush scattered Queeker's depression to the winds.  What cared
he for love, either successful or unrequited, now?  Katie was forgotten.
Fanny was to him little better than a mere abstraction.  He was on a
hunter!  He was following the hounds!  He had heard, or imagined he had
heard, something like a horn.  He was surprised a little that no one
cried out "Tally-ho!" and in the wild excitement of his feelings thought
of venturing on it himself, but the necessity of holding in Slapover
with all the power of his arms, fortunately induced him to restrain his
ardour.

Soon after he heard a shout of some sort, which he tried to believe was
"Tally-ho!" and the scattered huntsmen, who had been galloping about in
all directions, converged into a stream.  Following, he knew not and
cared not what or whom, he swept round the margin of a little pond, and
dashed over a neighbouring field.

From that point Queeker's recollection of events became a train of
general confusion, with lucid points at intervals, where incidents of
unusual interest or force arrested his attention.

The first of these lucid points was when, at the end of a heavy burst
over a ploughed field, he came to what may be styled his first leap.
His hat by that time had threatened so frequently to come off, that he
had thrust it desperately down on his head, until the rim behind rested
on the back of his neck.  Trotting through a gap in a hedge into a road,
young Stoutheart sought about for a place by which they might clamber up
into the next field without going round by the gate towards which most
of the field had headed.

"D'you think you could manage that?" said Tom, pointing with the handle
of his whip to a gap in the hedge, where there was a mound and a hollow
with a _chevaux-de-frise_ of cut stumps around, and a mass of thorn
branches sufficiently thin to be broken through.

Queeker never looked at it, but gazing steadily in the face of his
friend, said--

"I'll follow!"

Stoutheart at once pushed his horse at it.  It could not be called a
leap.  It was a mere scramble, done at the slowest possible pace.
Wildfire gave one or two little bounds, and appeared to walk up
perpendicularly on his hind legs, while Tom looked as if he were
plastered against him with some adhesive substance; then he appeared to
drop perpendicularly down on the other side, his tail alone being
visible.

"All right, come along," shouted Tom.

Queeker rode up to the gap, shut his eyes, gave a chirp, and committed
himself to fate and Slapover.  He felt a succession of shocks, and then
a pause.  Venturing to open his eyes, he saw young Stoutheart, still on
the other side of the fence, laughing at him.

"You shouldn't hold so tight by the reins," he cried; "you've pulled him
back into the road.  Try it again."

Queeker once more shut his eyes, slacked the reins, and, seizing the
pommel of the saddle, gave another chirp.  Again there was a shock,
which appeared to drive his body up against his head; another which
seemed to have all but snapped him off at the waist; then a sensation
about his hat, as if a few wild-cats were attempting to tear it off,
followed by a drop and a plunge, which threw him forward on his
charger's neck.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed, panting, as he opened his eyes, "I had no idea
the shock would have been so--so--shocking!"

Tom laughed; cried "Well done!" and galloped on.  Queeker followed, his
cheeks on fire, and perspiration streaming from his brow.

"Now, then, here is an easy fence," cried Stoutheart, looking back and
pointing to a part of the field where most of the huntsmen were popping
over a low hedge, "will you try it?"

Queeker's spirit was fairly up.

"I'll try it!" he said, sternly.

"Come on then."

Stoutheart led the way gallantly, at full speed, and went over like an
india-rubber ball.  Queeker brought the handle of his riding-whip whack
down on the flank of his astonished horse, and flew at the fence.
Slapover took it with a magnificent bound.  Queeker was all but left
behind!  He tottered, as it were, in the saddle; rose entirely out of
it; came down with a crash that almost sent him over the horse's head,
and gave him the probable sensations of a telescope on being forcibly
shut up; but he held on bravely, and galloped up alongside of his
companion, with a tendency to cheer despite his increased surprise at
the extreme violence of the shocks to which his unaccustomed frame was
being exposed.

After this our enthusiastic Nimrod went at everything, and feared
nothing!  Well was it for him that he had arranged to follow Tom
Stoutheart, else assuredly he would have run Slapover at fences which
would have taxed the temerity even of that quadruped, and insured his
destruction.  Tom, seeing his condition, considerately kept him out of
danger, and yet, being thoroughly acquainted with the country, managed
to keep him well up with the hounds.

Towards the afternoon Queeker's fire began to abate.  His aspect had
become dishevelled.  His hat had got so severely thrust down on his
head, that the brim in front reposed on the bridge of his nose, as did
the brim behind on the nape of his neck.  His trousers were collected in
folds chiefly about his knees, and the glazed leggings had turned
completely round, presenting the calves to the front.  But these were
matters of small moment compared with the desperate desire he had to
bring his legs together, if even for a moment of time!  Sensations in
various parts of his frame, which in the earlier part of the day had
merely served to remind him that he was mortal, had now culminated into
unquestionable aches and pains, and his desire to get off the back of
Slapover became so intense, that he would certainly have given way to it
had he not felt that in the event of his doing so there would be no
possibility of his getting on again!

"Where are they all away to?" he asked in surprise, as the whole field
went suddenly off helter-skelter in a new direction.

"I think they've seen the fox," replied Stoutheart.

"Seen the fox! why, I forgot all about the fox!  But--but haven't we
seen it before? haven't we been after it _all day_?"

"No, we've only got scent of if once or twice."

"Well, well," exclaimed Queeker, turning up his eyes, "I declare we have
had as good fun as if we had been after the fox in full sight all the
time!"

"Here is a somewhat peculiar leap," said Stoutheart, reining up as they
approached a fence, on the other side of which was a high-road, "I'll go
first, to show you the way."

The peculiarity of the leap lay in the fact that it was a drop of about
four feet into the road, which was lower, to that extent, than the
field, and that the side of the road into which the riders had to drop
was covered with scrubby bushes.  To men accustomed to it this was a
trifle.  Most of the field had already taken it, though a few cautious
riders had gone round by a gate.

When Queeker came to try it he felt uneasy--sitting as he did so high,
and looking down such a precipice as it seemed to him.  However, he shut
his eyes, and courageously gave the accustomed chirp, and Slapover
plunged down.  Queeker held tight to the saddle, and although much
shaken, would have come out of the ordeal all right, had not Slapover
taken it into his head to make a second spring over a low bush which
stood in front of him.  On the other side of this bush there was an old
pump.  Queeker lost his balance, threw out his arms, fell off, was
hurled violently against the old pump, and his right leg was broken!

A cart was quickly procured, and on trusses of straw the poor huntsman
was driven sadly and slowly, back to Jenkinsjoy, where he was tenderly
put to bed and carefully nursed for several weeks by his hospitable and
sympathising friends.

Queeker bore his misfortune like a Stoic, chiefly because it developed
the great fact that Fanny Hennings wept a whole night and a day after
its occurrence, insomuch that her fair face became so swollen as to have
lost much of its identity and all its beauty--a fact which filled
Queeker with hopes so high that his recovery was greatly hastened by the
contented, almost joyous, manner in which he submitted to his fate.

Of course Queeker's secret mission was, for the _time_ being, at an
end;--and thus it came to pass that an old pump, as we said at the
beginning of this chapter, was the cause of the failure of several
deep-laid plans, and of much bodily anguish and mental felicity to the
youthful Nimrod.

Queeker's last observation before falling into a feverish slumber on the
first night after his accident, was to the effect that fox-hunting was
splendid sport--magnificent sport,--but that it appeared to him there
was no occasion whatever for a fox.  And ever after that he was wont to
boast that his first and last day of fox-hunting, which was an unusually
exciting one, had been got though charmingly without any fox at all.  It
is even said that Queeker, descending from poetry,--his proper sphere,--
to prose, wrote an elaborate and interesting paper on that subject,
which was refused by all the sporting papers and journals to which he
sent it;--but, this not being certified, we do not record it as a fact.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE LAMPLIGHTER AT HOME, AND THREATENING APPEARANCES.

We turn now to a very different scene--the pier and harbour of Ramsgate.
The storm-fiend is abroad.  Thick clouds of a dark leaden hue drive
athwart a sky of dingy grey, ever varying their edges, and rolling out
limbs and branches in random fashion, as if they were fleeing before the
wind in abject terror.  The wind, however, is chiefly in the sky as yet.
Down below there are only fitful puffs now and then, telling of
something else in store.  The sea is black, with sufficient swell on it
to cause a few crested waves here and there to gleam intensely white by
contrast.  It is early in the day, nevertheless there is a peculiar
darkness in the atmosphere which suggests the approach of night.
Numerous vessels in the offing are making with all speed for Ramsgate
harbour, which is truly and deservedly named a "harbour of refuge," for
already some two dozen ships of considerable size, and a large fleet of
small craft, have sought and found shelter on a coast which in certain
conditions of the wind is fraught with danger.  About the stores near
the piers, Trinity men are busy with buoys, anchors, and cables;
elsewhere labourers are toiling, idlers are loafing, and lifeboat--men
are lounging about, leaning on the parapets, looking wistfully out to
sea, with and without telescopes, from the sheer force of habit, and
commenting on the weather.  The broad, bronzed, storm-battered coxswain
of the celebrated Ramsgate lifeboat, who seems to possess the power of
feeding and growing strong on hardship and exposure, is walking about at
the end of the east pier, contemplating the horizon in the direction of
the Goodwin Sands with the serious air of a man who expects ere long to
be called into action.

The harbour-master--who is, and certainly had need be, a man of brain as
well as muscle and energy, to keep the conflicting elements around him
in order--moves about actively, making preparation for the expected
gale.

Early on the morning of the day referred to, Nora Jones threaded her way
among the stalls of the marketplace under the town-hall, as if she were
in search of some one.  Not succeeding in her search, she walked briskly
along one of the main thoroughfares of the town, and diverged into a
narrow street, which appeared to have retired modestly into a corner in
order to escape observation.  At the farther end of this little street,
she knocked at the door of a house, the cleanly appearance of which
attested the fact that its owner was well-doing and orderly.

Nora knocked gently; she did everything gently!

"Is Mrs Moy at home?" she asked, as a very bright little girl's head
appeared.

No sooner was Nora's voice heard than the door was flung wide open, and
the little girl exclaimed, "Yes, she's at 'ome, and daddy too."  She
followed up this assurance with a laugh of glee, and, seizing the
visitor's hand, dragged her into the house by main force.

"Hallo, Nora, 'ow are 'ee, gal?" cried a deep bass voice from the
neighbourhood of the floor, where its owner appeared to be smothered
with children, for he was not to be seen.

Nora looked down and beheld the legs and boots of a big man, but his
body and head were invisible, being completely covered and held down by
four daughters and five sons, one of the former being a baby, and one of
the latter an infant.

Dick Moy, who was enjoying his month on shore, rose as a man might rise
from a long dive, flung out his great right arm, scattered the children
like flecks of foam, and sat up with a beaming countenance, holding the
infant tenderly in his left arm.  The baby had been cast under the
table, where it lay, helpless apparently, and howling.  It had passed
the most tender period of life, and had entered on that stage when
knocks, cuts, yells, and bruises are the order of the day.

"Glad to see you, Nora," said the man of the floating light, extending
his huge hand, which the girl grasped and shook warmly.  "You'll excuse
me not bein' more purlite.  I'm oppressed with child'n, as you see.  It
seems to me as if I'd gone an' got spliced to that there 'ooman in the
story-book wot lived in the shoe, an' had so many child'n she didn't
know wot to do.  If so, she knows wot to do now.  She's only got to hand
'em over to poor Dick Moy, an' leave him to suffer the consickences.--
Ah, 'ere she comes."

Dick rose as he spoke, and handed a chair to Nora at the moment that his
better, but lesser, half entered.

It must not be supposed that Dick said all this without interruption.
On the contrary, he bawled it out in the voice of a bo's'n's mate, while
the four daughters and five sons, including the baby and the infant,
crawled up his legs and clung to his pockets, and enacted Babel on a
small scale.

Mrs Moy was a very pretty, tidy, cheerful little woman, of the fat,
fair, and forty description, save that she was nearer thirty-five than
forty.  It was clear at a glance that she and Dick had been made for
each other, and that, had either married anybody else, each would have
done irreparable damage to the other.

"Sit down, Nora.  I'm so glad to see you.  Come to breakfast, I hope?
we're just going to have it."

Mrs Moy said this as if she really meant it, and would be terribly
disappointed if she met with a refusal.  Nora tried to speak, but Babel
was too much for her.

"Silence!" burst from Dick, as if a small cannon had gone off in the
room.

Babel was hushed.

"Mum's the word for _three minutes_," said Dick, pointing to a huge
Yankee clock which stood on the chimney-piece, with a model frigate in a
glass case, and a painted sea and sky on one side of it, and a model
light-vessel in a glass case, and a painted sea and sky on the other.

There was profound wisdom in this arrangement.  If Dick had ordered
silence for an indefinite space of time, there would have been
discontent, approximating to despair, in Babel's bosom, and, therefore,
strong temptation to rebellion.  But three minutes embraced a fixed and
known period of time.  The result was a desperate effort at restraint,
mingled with gleeful anticipation.  The elder children who could read
the clock stared eagerly at the Yankee time-piece; the younger ones who
couldn't read the clock, but who knew that the others could, stared
intently at their seniors, and awaited the signal.  With the exception
of hard breathing, the silence was complete; the baby being spell-bound
by example, and the feeble remarks of the infant--which had been
transferred to the arms of the eldest girl--making no impression worth
speaking of.

"You are very kind," said Nora, "I'll stay for breakfast with pleasure.
Grandmother won't be up for an hour yet, and father's not at home just
now."

"Werry good," said Dick, taking a short black pipe out of his
coat-pocket, "that's all right.  And 'ow do 'ee like Ramsgate, Nora, now
you've had a fair trial of it?"

"I think I like it better than Yarmouth; but perhaps that is because we
live in a more airy and cheerful street.  I would not have troubled you
so early, Mr Moy"--("'Tain't no trouble at all, Nora; werry much the
reverse")--"but that I am anxious to hear how you got on with poor
Billy--"

At this point Babel burst forth with redoubled fury.  Dick was attacked
and carried by storm; the short black pipe was seized, and an old hat
was clapped on his head and thrust down over his eyes!  He gave in at
once, and submitted with resignation.  He struck his colours, so to
speak, without firing a shot, and for full five minutes breasted the
billows of a sea of children manfully, while smart Mrs Moy spread the
breakfast-table as quietly as if nothing were going on, and Nora sat and
smiled at them.

Suddenly Dick rose for the second time from his dive, flung off the
foam, tossed aside the baby, rescued the infant from impending
destruction, and thundered "Silence! mum's the word for three minutes
more."

"That's six, daddy!" cried the eldest boy, whose spirit of opposition
was growing so strong that he could not help indulging it, even against
his own interests.

"No," said Dick sternly.

"It was three minutes last time," urged the boy; "an' you said three
minutes _more_ this time; three minutes more than three minutes is six
minutes, ain't it?"

"Three minutes," repeated Dick, holding up a warning finger.

Babel ceased; the nine pair of eyes (excepting those of the infant)
became fixed, and Nora proceeded--

"I wanted to hear how you got on with Billy.  Did they take him in at
once? and what sort of place is the Grotto?  You see I am naturally
anxious to know, because it was a terrible thing to send a poor boy away
from his only friend among strangers at such an age, and just after
recovering from a bad illness; but you know I could not do otherwise.
It would have been his ruin to have--"

She paused.

"To have stopped where he was, I s'pose you would say?" observed Dick.
"Well, I ain't sure o' that, Nora.  It's quite true that the bad company
he'd 'ave seen would 'ave bin against 'im; but to 'ave you for his
guardian hangel might 'ave counteracted that.  It would 'ave bin like
the soda to the hacid, a fizz at first and all square arterwards.
Hows'ever, that don't signify now, cos he's all right.  I tuk him to the
Grotto, the werry first thing arter I'd bin to the Trinity 'Ouse, and
seed him cast anchor there all right, and--"

Again Babel burst forth, and riot reigned supreme for five minutes more.
At the end of that time silence was proclaimed as before.

"Now then," said Dick, "breakfast bein' ready, place the chairs."

The three elder children obeyed this order.  Each member of this
peculiar household had been "told off," as Dick expressed it, to a
special duty, which was performed with all the precision of discipline
characteristic of a man-of-war.

"That's all right; now go in and win," said Dick.  There was no occasion
to appeal to the Yankee clock now.  Tongues and throats as well as teeth
and jaws were too fully occupied.  Babel succumbed for full quarter of
an hour, during which period Dick Moy related to Nora the circumstances
connected with a recent visit to London, whither he had been summoned as
a witness in a criminal trial, and to which, at Nora's earnest entreaty,
and with the boy's unwilling consent, he had conveyed Billy Towler.  We
say unwilling, because Billy, during his long period of convalescence,
had been so won by the kindness of Nora, that the last thing in the
world he would have consented to bear was separation from her; but, on
thinking over it, he was met by this insurmountable difficulty--that the
last thing in the world he would consent to do was to disobey her!
Between these two influences he went unwillingly to London--for the sake
of his education, as Nora said to him--for the sake of being freed from
the evil influence of her father's example, as poor Nora was compelled
to admit to herself.

"The Grotto," said Dick, speaking as well as he could through an immense
mouthful of bacon and bread, "is an institootion which I 'ave reason for
to believe desarves well of its country.  It is an institootion sitooate
in Paddington Street, Marylebone, where homeless child'n, as would
otherwise come to the gallows, is took in an' saved--saved not only from
sin an' misery themselves, but saved from inflictin' the same on
society.  I do assure _you_," said Dick, striking the table with his
fist in his enthusiasm, so that the crockery jumped, and some of the
children almost choked by reason of their food going down what they
styled their "wrong throats"--"I do assure _you_, that it would 'ave
done yer 'art good to 'ave seed 'm, as I did the day I went there, so
clean and comf'r'able and 'appy--no mistake about that.  Their 'appiness
was genoo_ine_.  Wot made it come 'ome to me was, that I seed there a
little boy as I 'appened to know was one o' the dirtiest, wickedest,
sharpest little willains in London--a mere spider to look at, but with
mischief enough to fill a six-fut man to bu'stin'--an' there 'ee was,
clean an' jolly, larnin' his lessons like a good un--an' no sham
neither, cos 'e'd got a good spice o' the mischief left, as was pretty
clear from the way 'ee gave a sly pinch or pull o' the hair now an'
again to the boys next him, an' drawed monkey-faces on his slate.  But
that spider, I wos told, could do figurin' like one o'clock, an' could
spell like Johnson's Dictionairy.

"Well," continued Dick, after a few moments' devotion to a bowl of
coffee, "I 'anded Billy Towler over to the superintendent, tellin' 'im
'ee wos a 'omeless boy as 'adn't got no parients nor relations, an wos
werry much in need o' bein' looked arter.  So 'ee took 'im in, an' I
bade him good-bye."

Dick Moy then went on to tell how that the superintendent of the Grotto
showed him all over the place, and told him numerous anecdotes regarding
the boys who had been trained there; that one had gone into the army and
become a sergeant, and had written many long interesting letters to the
institution, which he still loved as being his early and only "home;"
that another had become an artilleryman; another a man-of-war's man; and
another a city missionary, who commended the blessed gospel of Jesus
Christ to those very outcasts from among whom he had himself been
plucked.  The superintendent also explained to his rugged but much
interested and intelligent visitor that they had a flourishing Ragged
School in connection with the institution; also a Sunday-school and a
"Band of Hope"--which latter had been thought particularly necessary,
because they found that many of the neglected young creatures that came
to them had already been tempted and taught by their parents and by
publicans to drink, so that the foundation of that dreadful craving
disease had been laid, and those desires had begun to grow which, if not
checked, would certainly end in swift and awful destruction.  One
blessed result of this was that the children had not only themselves
joined, but had in some instances induced their drunken parents to
attend the weekly addresses.

All this, and a great deal more, was related by Dick Moy with the wonted
enthusiasm and energy of his big nature, and with much gesticulation of
his tremendous fist--to the evident anxiety of Nora, who, like an
economical housewife as she was, had a feeling of tenderness for the
crockery, even although it was not her own.  Dick wound up by saying
that if _he_ was a rich man, "'ee'd give some of 'is superfloous cash to
that there Grotto, he would."

"Perhaps you wouldn't," said Nora.  "I've heard one rich man say that
the applications made to him for money were so numerous that he was
quite annoyed, and felt as if he was goin' to become bankrupt!"

"Nora," said Dick, smiting the table emphatically, "I'm not a rich man
myself, an' wot's more, I never 'xpect to be, so I can't be said to 'ave
no personal notions at all, d'ye see, about wot they feels; but I've
also heerd a rich man give 'is opinion on that pint, and I've no manner
of doubt that _my_ rich man is as good as your'n--better for the matter
of that; anyway he knowed wot was wot.  Well, says 'ee to me, w'en I
went an' begged parding for axin' 'im for a subscription to this 'ere
werry Grotto--which, by the way, is supported by woluntary
contribootions--'ee says, `Dick Moy,' says 'ee, `you've no occasion for
to ax my parding,' says 'ee.  `'Ere's 'ow it is.  I've got _so_ much
cash to spare out of my hincome.  Werry good; I goes an' writes down a
list of all the charities.  First of all comes the church--which ain't a
charity, by the way, but a debt owin' to the Lord--an' the missionary
societies, an the Lifeboat Institootion, an' the Shipwrecked Mariners'
Society, and such like, which are the great _National_ institootions of
the country that _every_ Christian ought to give a helpin' 'and to.
Then there's the poor among one's own relations and friends; then the
hospitals an' various charities o' the city or town in which one dwells,
and the poor of the same.  Well, arter that's all down,' says 'ee, `I
consider w'ich o' them ere desarves an' _needs_ most support from me;
an' so I claps down somethin' to each, an' adds it all up, an' wot is
left over I holds ready for chance applicants.  If their causes are good
I give to 'em heartily; if not, I bow 'em politely out o' the 'ouse.
That's w'ere it is,' says 'ee.  `An' do you know, Dick Moy,' says 'ee,
`the first time I tried that plan, and put down wot I thought a fair
liberal sum to each, I wos amazed--I wos stunned for to find that the
total wos so small and left so werry much of my spare cash yet to be
disposed of, so I went over it all again, and had to double and treble
the amount to be given to each.  Ah, Dick,' says _my_ rich man, `if
people who don't keep cashbooks would only mark down wot they _think_
they can afford to give away in a year, an' wot they _do_ give away,
they would be surprised.  It's not always unwillingness to give that's
the evil.  Often it's ignorance o' what is actooally given--no account
bein' kep'.'

"`Wot d'ye think, Dick,' _my_ rich man goes on to say, `there are some
churches in this country which are dependent on the people for support,
an' the contents o' the plates at the doors o' these churches on Sundays
is used partly for cleanin' and lightin' of 'em; partly for payin' their
precentors, and partly for repairs to the buildins, and partly for
helpin' out the small incomes of their ministers; an' wot d'ye think
most o' the people--not many but _most_ of 'em--gives a week, Dick, for
such important purposes?'

"`I don' know, sir,' says I.

"`One penny, Dick,' says 'ee, `which comes exactly to four shillins and
fourpence a year,' says 'ee.  `An' they ain't paupers; Dick!  If they
wos paupers, it wouldn't be a big sum for 'em to give out o' any
pocket-money they might chance to git from their pauper friends, but
they're well-dressed people, Dick, and they seems to be well off!  Four
an' fourpence a year! think o' that--not to mention the deduction w'en
they goes for a month or two to the country each summer.  Four an'
fourpence a year, Dick!  Some of 'em even goes so low as a halfpenny,
which makes two an' twopence a year--7 pounds, 11 shillings, 8 pence in
a seventy-year _lifetime_, Dick, supposin' their liberality began to
flow the day they wos born!'

"At this _my_ rich man fell to laughing till I thought 'ee'd a busted
hisself; but he pulled up sudden, an' axed me all about the Grotto, and
said it was a first-rate institootion, an' gave me a ten-pun' note on
the spot.  Now, Nora, _my_ rich man is a friend o' yours--Mr Durant, of
Yarmouth, who came to Ramsgate a short time ago for to spend the autumn,
an' I got introdooced to him through knowin' Jim Welton, who got aboord
of one of his ships through knowin' young Mr Stanley Hall, d'ye see?
That's where it is."

After this somewhat lengthened speech, Dick Moy swallowed a slop-bowlful
of coffee at a draught--he always used a slop-bowl--and applied himself
with renewed zest to a Norfolk dumpling, in the making of which delicacy
his wife had no equal.

"I believe that Mr Durant is a kind good man," said Nora, feeding the
infant with a crust dipped in milk, "and I am quite sure that he has got
the sweetest daughter that ever a man was blessed with--Miss Katie; you
know her, I suppose?"

"'Aven't seed 'er yet," was Dick's curt reply.

"She's a dear creature," continued Nora--still doing her best to choke
the infant--"she found out where I lived while she was in search of a
sick boy in Yarmouth, who, she said, was the brother of a poor ragged
boy named Billy Towler, she had once met with.  Of course I had to tell
her that Billy had been deceiving her and had no brother.  Oh! you
should have seen her kind face, Dick, when I told her this.  I do think
that up to that time she had lived under the belief that a young boy
with a good-looking face and an honest look could not be a deceiver."

"Poor thing," said Dick, with a sad shake of the head, as if pitying her
ignorance.

"Yes," continued Nora--still attempting to choke the infant--"she could
not say a word at that time, but went away with her eyes full of tears.
I saw her often afterwards, and tried to convince her there might be
some good in Billy after all, but she was not easily encouraged, for her
belief in appearances had got a shake that she seemed to find it
difficult to get over.  That was when Billy was lying ill in hospital.
I have not seen much of her since then, she and her father having been
away in London."

"H'm, I'm raither inclined to jine her in thinkin' that no good'll come
o' that young scamp.  He's too sharp by half," said Dick with a frown.
"Depend upon it, Nora, w'en a boy 'as gone a great length in wickedness
there's no chance o' reclaimin' him."

"Dick," exclaimed Nora, with sudden energy, "depend upon it that
_that's_ not true, for it does not correspond with the Bible, which says
that our Lord came not to call the righteous but _sinners_ to
repentance."

"There's truth in _that_, anyhow," replied Dick, gazing thoughtfully
into Nora's countenance, as if the truth had come home to him for the
first time.  What his further observations on the point might have been
we know not, as at that moment the door opened and one of his mates
entered, saying that he had come to go down with him to the buoy-store,
as the superintendent had given orders that he and Moy should overhaul
the old North Goodwin buoy, and give her a fresh coat of paint.  Dick
therefore rose, wiped his mouth, kissed the entire family, beginning
with the infant and ending with "the missis," after which he shook hands
with Nora and went out.

The storm which had for some time past been brewing, had fairly brewed
itself up at last, and the wild sea was covered with foam.  Although
only an early autumn storm, it was, like many a thing out of season, not
the less violent on that account.  It was one of the few autumn storms
that might have been transferred to winter with perfect propriety.  It
performed its work of devastation as effectively as though it had come
forth at its proper season.  On land chimney stacks and trees were
levelled.  At sea vessels great and small were dismasted and destroyed,
and the east coast of the kingdom was strewn with wreckage and dead
bodies.  Full many a noble ship went down that night!  Wealth that might
have supported all the charities in London for a twelvemonth was sent to
the bottom of the sea that night and lost for ever.  Lives that had
scarce begun and lives that were all but done, were cut abruptly short,
leaving broken hearts and darkened lives in many a home, not only on the
sea-coast but inland, where the sound of the great sea's roar is never
heard.  Deeds of daring were done that night,--by men of the lifeboat
service and the coast-guard,--which seemed almost beyond the might of
human skill and courage--resulting in lives saved from that same great
sea--lives young and lives old--the salvation of which caused many a
heart in the land, from that night forward, to bless God and sing for
joy.

But of all the wide-spread and far-reaching turmoil; the wreck and
rescue, the rending and relieving of hearts, the desperate daring, and
dread disasters of that night we shall say nothing at all, save in
regard to that which occurred on and in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin
Sands.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A NIGHT OF WRECK AND DISASTER--THE GULL "COMES TO GRIEF."

When the storm began to brew that night, George Welton, the mate of the
floating light, walked the deck of his boiled-lobster-like vessel, and
examined the sky and sea with that critical expression peculiar to
seafaring men, which conveys to landsmen the reassuring impression that
they know exactly what is coming, precisely what ought to be done, and
certainly what will be the result of whatever happens!

After some minutes spent in profound meditation, during which Mr Welton
frowned inquiringly at the dark driving clouds above him, he said,
"It'll be pretty stiff."

This remark was made to himself, or to the clouds, but, happening to be
overheard by Jerry MacGowl, who was at his elbow, it was answered by
that excellent man.

"True for ye; it'll blow great guns before midnight.  The sands is
showin' their teeth already."

The latter part of this remark had reference to brilliant white lines
and dots on the seaward horizon, which indicated breakers on the Goodwin
sands.

"Luk at that now," said Jerry, pointing to one of those huge clumsy
vessels that are so frequently met with at sea, even in the present day,
as to lead one to imagine that some of the shipbuilders in the time of
Noah must have come alive again and gone to work at their old trade on
the old plans and drawings.  "Luk at that, now.  Did iver ye see sitch a
tub--straight up and down the side, and as big at the bow as the stern."

"She's not clipper built," answered the mate; "they make that sort o'
ship by the mile and sell her by the fathom,--cuttin' off from the piece
just what is required.  It don't take long to plaster up the ends and
stick a mast or two into 'em."

"It's in luck she is to git into the Downs before the gale breaks, and
it's to be hoped she has good ground-tackle," said Jerry.

The mate hoped so too in a careless way, and, remarking that he would go
and see that all was made snug, went forward.

At that moment there came up the fore-hatch a yell, as if from the
throat of a North American savage.  It terminated in the couplet,
tunefully sung--

  "Oh my! oh my!
  O mammy, don't you let the baby cry!"

Jack Shales, following his voice, immediately after came on deck.

"Have 'ee got that work-box done?" asked Jerry as his mate joined him.

"Not quite done yet, boy, but I'll get it finished after the lights are
up.  Duty first, pleasure afterwards, you know."

"Come now, Jack, confess that you're makin' it for a pretty girl."

"Well, so I am, but it ain't for my own pretty girl.  It's for that
sweet little Nora Jones, who came lately to live in Ramsgate.  You see I
know she's goin' to be spliced to Jim Welton, and as Jim is a good sort
of fellow, I want to make this little gift to his future bride."

The gift referred to was a well-made work-box, such as the men of the
floating light were at that time, and doubtless still are, in the habit
of constructing in leisure hours.  It was beautifully inlaid with wood
of various kinds and colours, and possessed a mark peculiarly
characteristic of floating-light boxes and desks, namely, two flags
inlaid on the lid--one of these being the Union Jack.  Most of the men
on board displayed much skill and taste in the making of those boxes and
desks, although they were all self-taught, and wrought with very simple
tools in a not very commodious workshop.

"A great change from yesterday in the look o' things, Jerry," observed
Shales, surveying the Downs, where, despite the stiff and ever
increasing breeze amounting almost to a gale, numerous little
pilot-boats were seen dancing on the waves, showing a mere shred of
canvas, and looking out for a job.  "Yesterday was all sunshine and
calm, with pleasure-boats round us, and visitors heaving noospapers
aboard.  To-day it's all gloom, with gales brewin' and pilots bobbin'
about like Mother Cary's chickens."

"That's true, Jack," replied Jerry, whose poetic soul was fired by the
thought:--

  "`Timpest an' turmoil to-day,
  With lots a' salt-wather an' sorrow.
  Blue little waves on the say,
  An' sunny contintment to-morrow.'

"That's how it is, Jack, me boy, all the world over--even in owld
Ireland hersilf; an' sure if there's pace to be found on earth it's
there it's to be diskivered."

"Right, Jerry, peace is _to be_ discovered there, but I'm afraid it's in
a very distant future as yet," said Jack with a laugh.

"All in good time," retorted Jerry.

"Up lights!" called the mate down the hatchway.

"Ay, ay, sir," came in chorus from below.

Desks and boxes were thrust aside, the winch was manned, and the weighty
lantern mounted slowly to its nocturnal watch-tower.

Its red eye flashed upon a dark scene.  The gloom of approaching night
was deepened by the inky clouds that obscured the sky.  Thick fog banks
came sweeping past at intervals; a cold north-easterly gale conveyed a
wintry feeling to the air.  Small thick rain fell in abundance, and
everything attested the appropriateness of Jerry MacGowl's observation,
that it was "dirty weather intirely."

The floating light was made snug--in other words, prepared for action--
by having a good many more fathoms of her chain veered out, in order
that she might strain less and swing more freely.  Loose articles were
secured or stowed away.  Hatches were battened down, and many other
little nautical arrangements made which it would require a seaman to
understand as well as to describe in detail.

As the evening advanced the gale increased in violence tenfold, and
darkness settled down like an impenetrable pall over land and sea.  The
roar of breakers on the Goodwin Sands became so loud that it was
sometimes heard on board the Gull-light above the howling of the
tempest.  The sea rose so much and ran so violently among the
conflicting currents caused by wind, tide, and sand-banks, that the Gull
plunged, swooped, and tore at her cable so that the holding of it might
have appeared to a landsman little short of miraculous.  Hissing and
seething at the opposition she offered, the larger waves burst over her
bows, and swept the deck from stem to stern; but her ample scuppers
discharged it quickly, and up she rose again, dripping from the flood,
to face and fight and foil each succeeding billow.

High on the mast, swaying wildly to and fro, yet always hanging
perpendicular by reason of a simple mechanism, the lantern threw out its
bright beams, involving the vessel and the foam-clad boiling sea in a
circle of light which ended in darkness profound, forming, as it were, a
bright but ghostly chamber shut in with walls of ebony, and revealing,
in all its appalling reality, the fury of the sea.  What horrors lay
concealed in the darkness beyond no one could certainly know; but the
watch on board the Gull could form from past experience a pretty good
conception of them, as they cowered under the lee of the bulwarks and
looked anxiously out to windward.

Anxiously!  Ay, there was cause for anxiety that night.  The risk of
parting from their cable was something, though not very great; but the
risk of being run down by passing or driving ships during intervals of
fog was much greater, and the necessity of looking out for signals of
distress was urgent.

It was a night of warfare, and the battle had begun early.  Mr Welton's
record of the earlier part of that day in the log ran thus:--

"At 4 a.m. calm, with misty rain; at 8, wind south-east, light breeze.
At noon, west-south-west, fresh breeze and rain.  At 4 p.m., wind
south-west, fresh gale and heavy rain.  A large fleet anchored in the
Downs.  A schooner was seen to anchor in a bad place about this time.
At 7, wind still increasing.  The watch observed several vessels part
from their 7 anchors and proceed to Margate Roads.  At 7:30 the wind
flew into the nor'-nor'-west, and blew a hurricane."

These were the first mutterings of the fight that had begun.

It was now about a quarter to eight p.m. Jerry and his friend Shales
were cowering behind the bulwark on the starboard bow, gazing to
windward, but scarce able to keep their eyes open owing to wind and
spray.  Suddenly a large object was seen looming into the circle of
light.

"Stand by!" roared Jerry and Jack, with startling vigour, as the one
leaped towards the tiller, the other to the companion-hatch; "a vessel
bearing down on our hawse!"

The mate and men rushed on deck in time to see a large ship pass close
to the bow of the Gull.  Jack had cast loose the tiller, because,
although in ordinary circumstances the helm of a light-vessel is of no
use, this was one of the few occasions in which it could be of service.
The rush of the tide past a ship at anchor confers upon it at all times,
except during "slack water" (i.e., when the tide is on the turn), the
power of steering, so that she can be made to sheer swiftly to port or
starboard, as may be required.  But for this power, floating lights
would undoubtedly be run into more frequently than they are.

The danger being over, the helm was again made fast amidships, but as
several vessels were soon after seen sweeping past--two or three of them
burning tar-barrels and "flare-lights" for assistance, it became evident
that there would be little or no rest for any one on board that night.
The mate put on his oiled coat, trousers, boots, and sou'wester, and
remained on deck.

Between eight and nine o'clock a schooner was seen approaching.  She
came out of surrounding darkness like a dim phantom, and was apparently
making the attempt to go to windward of the floating light.  She failed,
and in a moment was bearing down with terrible speed right upon them.

"Starboard your helm!" shouted the mate, at the same moment springing to
the tiller of his own vessel.

The steersman of the driving vessel fortunately heard and obeyed the
order, and she passed--but shaved the bow of the Gull so closely that
one of the men declared he could easily have jumped aboard of her.

Again, at nine o'clock, there was a stir on board the floating light,
for another vessel was seen driving towards her.  This one was a brig.
The foremast was gone, and the remains of a tar-barrel were still
burning on her deck, but as none of the crew could be seen, it was
conjectured that some other ship must have run foul of her, and they had
escaped on board of it.  All hands were again called, the tiller was
cast loose, a wide sheer given to the Gull, and the brig went past them
at about the distance of a ship-length.  She went slowly by, owing, it
was afterwards ascertained, to the fact that she had ninety fathoms of
cable trailing from her bows.  She was laden with coal, and when the
Deal boatmen picked her up next day, they found the leg of a man on her
deck, terribly mutilated, as if it had got jambed somehow, and been
wrenched off!  But no one ever appeared to tell the fate of that
vessel's crew.

Shortly before ten, two tar-barrels were observed burning in a
north-easterly direction.  These proved to be the signals of distress
from a ship and a barque, which were dragging their anchors.  They
gradually drove down on the north part of the sands; the barque struck
on a part named the Goodwin Knoll, the ship went on the North sandhead.

Now the time for action had come.  The Goodwin light-vessel, being
nearest to the wrecks, fired a signal-gun and sent up a rocket.

"There goes the _Goodwin_!" cried the mate; "load the starboard gun,
Jack."

He ran down himself for a rocket as he spoke, and Jerry ran to the cabin
for the red-hot poker, which had been heating for some time past in
readiness for such an event.

"A gun and a flare to the south-east'ard, sir, close to us," shouted
Shales, who had just finished loading, as the mate returned with the
rocket and fixed it in position.

"Where away, Jack?" asked the mate hastily, for it now became his duty
to send the rocket in the direction of the new signals, so as to point
out the position of the wreck to the lifeboat-men on shore.

"Due south-east, sir; there they go again," said Jack, "not so close as
I thought.  South sandhead vessel signalling now, sir."

There was no further need for questions.  The flash of the gun was
distinctly seen, though the sound was not heard, owing to the howling of
the hurricane, and the bright flare of a second tar-barrel told its own
tale, while a gun and rocket from the floating light at the South
sandhead showed that the vessel in distress had been observed by her.

"Fire!" cried the mate.

Jerry applied the poker to the gun, and the scene which we have
described in a former chapter was re-enacted;--the blinding flash, the
roar, and the curved line of light across the black sky; but there was
no occasion that night to repeat the signals.  Everywhere along the
coast the salvors of life and property were on the alert--many of them
already in action, out battling in midnight darkness with the raging
sea.  The signal was at once replied to from Ramsgate.

Truly it was a dreadful night; one of those tremendous hurricanes which
visit our shores three or four times it may be in a century, seeming to
shake the world to its foundations, and to proclaim with unwonted
significance the dread power of Him who created and curbs the forces of
nature.

But the human beings who were involved in the perils of that night had
scant leisure, and little inclination, perchance, to contemplate its
sublimity.  The crew of the Gull light were surrounded by signals of
disaster and distress.  In whichever direction they turned their eyes
burning tar-barrels and other flaring lights were seen, telling their
dismal tale of human beings in urgent need of assistance or in dire
extremity.

Little more than an hour before midnight another craft was observed
driving down on the hawse of the Gull.  There was greater danger now,
because it happened to be near the turn of the tide, or "slack water,"
so that the rudder could not be used to advantage.  All hands were once
more turned out, and as the vessel drew near Mr Welton hailed her, but
got no reply.

"Let go the rudder-pendants!" cried the mate as he shipped the tiller.

The order was promptly obeyed, and the helm shoved hard a-port, but
there was no responsive sheer.  The sea was at the time currentless.
Another moment and the vessel, which was a large deserted brig, struck
the floating light on the port-bow, and her fore shrouds caught the
fluke of the spare anchor which projected from the side.

"An axe, Jerry; look alive!"

Jerry required no spur; he bounded forward, caught up an axe, and leaped
with it into the chains of the vessel, which had already smashed part of
the Gull's bulwarks and wrenched the iron band off the cat-head.

"Cut away everything," cried the mate, who observed that the decks of
the brig were full of water, and feared that she might be in a sinking
condition.

The other men of the Gull were busy with boat-hooks, oars, and fenders,
straining every nerve to get clear of this unwelcome visitor, while
Jerry dealt the shrouds a few telling blows which quickly cut them
through, but, in sweeping past, the main-topsail yard-arm of the brig
went crashing into the lantern.  Instantly the lamps were extinguished,
and the bright beams of the floating light were gone!  The brig then
dropt astern and was soon lost to view.

This was a disaster of the most serious nature--involving as it did the
absence of a light, on the faithful glow of which the fate of hundreds
of vessels might depend.  Fortunately, however, the extreme fury of the
gale had begun to abate; it was therefore probable that all the vessels
which had not already been wrecked had found ports of shelter, or would
now be able to hold on to their anchors and weather the storm.

But floating-lights are not left without resource in a catastrophe such
as this.  In the book of Regulations for the Service it is ordered that,
in circumstances of this kind, two red lights are to be shown, one at
the end of the davit forward, the other on a stanchion beside the ensign
staff aft, and likewise a red flare light is to be shown every quarter
of an hour.  Accordingly, while some of the men lit and fixed up the red
lanterns, Jerry MacGowl was told off to the duty of showing the red
flares, or, as he himself expressed it, "settin' off a succession o'
fireworks, which wos mightily purty, no doubt, an' would have bin highly
entertainin' if it had been foin weather, and a time of rejoycin'!"

Meanwhile the lantern was lowered, and it was found that the only damage
done had been the shattering of one of its large panes of glass.  The
lamps, although blown out, had not been injured.  The men therefore set
vigorously to work to put in a spare pane, and get the light once more
into working order.

Leaving them, then, at this important piece of work, let us turn aside
awhile and follow the fortunes of the good ship Wellington on that
terrible night of storm and disaster.

When the storm was brewing she was not far from the Downs, but the
baffling winds retarded her progress, and it was pitch dark when she
reached the neighbourhood of the Goodwin sands.  Nevertheless those on
board of her did not feel much uneasiness, because a good pilot had been
secured in the channel.

The Wellington came bowling along under close-reefed topsails.  Stanley
Hall and Jim Welton stood leaning over the taffrail, looking down into
the black foam-streaked water.  Both were silent, save that now and then
Jim put down his hand to pat a black muzzle that was raised lovingly to
meet it, and whispered, "We shall be home to-morrow, Neptune,--cheer up,
old boy!"

But Jim's words did not express all his thoughts.  If he had revealed
them fully he would have described a bright fireside in a small and
humble but very comfortable room, with a smiling face that rendered
sunshine unnecessary, and a pair of eyes that made gaslight a paltry
flame as well as an absolute extravagance.  That the name of this cheap,
yet dear, luminary began with an _N_ and ended with an _a_, is a piece
of information with which we think it unnecessary to trouble the reader.

Stanley Hall's thoughts were somewhat on the same line of rail, if we
may be allowed the expression; the chief difference being that _his_
luminary beamed in a drawing-room, and sang and played and painted
beautifully--which accomplishments, however, Stanley thought, would have
been sorry trifles in themselves had they not been coupled with a taste
for housekeeping and domestic economy, and relieving as well as visiting
the poor, and Sabbath-school teaching; in short, every sort of "good
work," besides an unaccountable as well as admirable _penchant_ for
pitching into the Board of Trade, and for keeping sundry account-books
in such a neat and methodical way that there remains a lasting blot on
that Board in the fact of their not having been bound in cloth of gold!

Ever since his first visit to Yarmouth, Stanley had felt an increasing
admiration for Katie Durant's sprightly character and sterling
qualities, and also increasing pity for poor Bob Queeker, who, he
thought, without being guilty of very egregious vanity, had no chance
whatever of winning such a prize.  The reader now knows that the pity
thus bestowed upon that pitiful fox-hunting turncoat was utterly thrown
away.

"I don't like these fogs in such dangerous neighbourhood," observed Jim
Welton, as a fresh squall burst upon the ship and laid it over so much
that many of the passengers thought she was going to capsize.  "We
should be getting near the floating lights of the Goodwin sands by this
time."

"Don't these lights sometimes break adrift?" asked Stanley, "and thus
become the cause of ships going headlong to destruction?"

"Not often," replied Jim.  "Considering the constancy of their exposure
to all sorts of weather, and the number of light-vessels afloat, it is
amazin' how few accidents take place.  There has been nothing of the
kind as long as I can remember anything about the service, but my father
has told me of a case where one of the light-vessels that marked a
channel at the mouth of the Thames once broke adrift in a heavy gale.
She managed to bring up again with her spare anchor, but did not dare to
show her light, being out of her proper place, and therefore, a false
guide.  The consequence was that eight vessels, which were making for
the channel, and counted on seeing her, went on the sands and were lost
with nearly all hands."

"If that be so it were better to have lighthouses, I think, than
lightships," said Stanley.

"No doubt it would, where it is possible to build 'em," replied Jim,
"but in some places it is supposed to be impossible to place a
lighthouse, so we must be content with a vessel.  But even lighthouses
are are not perfectly secure.  I know of one, built on piles on a
sand-bank, that was run into by a schooner and carried bodily away.
Accidents will happen, you know, in the best regulated families; but it
seems to me that we don't hear of a floating-light breakin' adrift once
in half a century--while, on the other hand, the good that is done by
them is beyond all calculation."

The young men relapsed into silence, for at that moment another fierce
gust of wind threw the ship over almost on her beam-ends.  Several of
the male passengers came rushing on deck in alarm, but the captain
quieted them, and induced them to return to the cabin to reassure the
ladies, who, with the children, were up and dressed, being too anxious
to think of seeking repose.

It takes courts of inquiry,--formed of competent men, who examine
competent witnesses and have the counsel of competent seamen,--many days
of anxious investigation to arrive at the precise knowledge of the when,
how, and wherefore of a wreck.  We do not, therefore, pretend to be able
to say whether it was the fault of the captain, the pilot, the man at
the lead, the steersman, the look-out, or the weather, that the good
ship Wellington met her doom.  All that we know for certain is, that she
sighted the southern light-vessel some time before midnight during the
great gale, that she steered what was supposed to be her true course,
and that, shortly after, she struck on the tail of the sands.

Instantly the foremast went by the board, and the furious sea swept over
the hull in blinding cataracts, creating terrible dismay and confusion
amongst nearly all on board.

The captain and first mate, however, retained their coolness and
self-possession.  Stanley and Jim also, with several of the officers on
board, were cool and self-possessed, and able to render good service.
While Stanley loaded a small carronade, young Welton got up blue lights
and an empty tar-barrel.  These were quickly fired.  The South sandhead
vessels immediately replied, the Gull, as we have seen, was not slow to
answer, and thus the alarm was transmitted to the shore while the
breakers that rushed over the Goodwins like great walls of snow, lifted
the huge vessel like a cork and sent it crashing down, again and again,
upon the fatal sands.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

GETTING READY FOR ACTION.

Let us turn back a little at this point, and see how the watchers on
Ramsgate pier behaved themselves on that night of storm and turmoil.  At
the end of the east pier of Ramsgate harbour there stands a very small
house, a sort of big sentry-box in fact, of solid stone, which is part
and parcel of the pier itself--built not only _on_ it but _into_ it, and
partially sheltered from the full fury of wind and sea by the low
parapet-wall of the pier.  This is the east pier watch-house; the marine
residence, if we may so express it, of the coxswain of the lifeboat and
his men.  It is their place of shelter and their watch-tower; their
nightly resort, where they smoke the pipe of peace and good fellowship,
and spin yarns, or take such repose as the nature of their calling will
admit of.  This little stone house had need be strong, like its inmates,
for, like them, it is frequently called upon to brave the utmost fury of
the elements--receiving the blast fresh and unbroken from the North Sea,
as well as the towering billows from the same.

This nocturnal watch-tower for muscular men and stout hearts, small
though it be, is divided into two parts, the outer portion being the
sleeping-place of the lifeboat men.  It is a curious little box, full of
oilskin coats and sou'wester caps and sea-boots, and bears the general
aspect of a house which had been originally intended for pigmies, but
had got inhabited by giants, somehow, by mistake.  Its very diminutive
stove stands near to its extremely small door, which is in close
proximity to its unusually little window.  A little library with a
scanty supply of books hangs near the stove-pipe, as if the owners
thereof thought the contents had become somewhat stale, and required
warming up to make them more palatable.  A locker runs along two sides
of the apartment, on the coverings of which stand several lanterns, an
oil-can, and a stone jar, besides sundry articles with an extremely
seafaring aspect, among which are several pairs of the gigantic boots
before referred to--the property of the coxswain and his mates.  The
cork lifebelt, or jacket of the coxswain, hangs near the door.  The
belts for use by the other men are kept in an outhouse down among the
recesses of the pier near the spot to which the lifeboat is usually
brought to embark her crew.  Only five of the lifeboat men, called
harbour boatmen, keep watch in and around the little stone house at
nights.  The rest are taken from among the hardy coast boatmen of the
place, and the rule is--"first come first served"--when the boat is
called out.  There is never any lack of able and willing hands to man
the Ramsgate lifeboat.

Near the low ceiling of the watch-house several hammocks are slung,
obliging men to stoop a little as they move about.  It is altogether a
snug and cozy place, but cannot boast much of the state of its
atmosphere when the fire is going, the door shut, and the men smoking!

On the night of the storm that has already been described in our last
chapter, the coxswain entered the watch-house, clad in his black oilskin
garments, and glittering with salt-water from top to toe.

"There will be more work for us before long, Pike," he said, flinging
off his coat and sou'-wester, and taking up a pipe, which he began to
fill; "it looks blacker than ever in the nor'-east."

Pike, the bowman of the boat, who was a quiet man, vigorous in action,
but of few words, admitted that there was much probability of their
services being again in demand, and then, rising, put on his cap and
coat, and went out to take a look at the night.

Two other men sat smoking by the little stove, and talking in lazy tones
over the events of the day, which, to judge from their words, had been
already stirring enough.

Late the night before--one of them said, for the information of the
other, who appeared to have just arrived, and was getting the news--the
steam-tug and lifeboat had gone out on observing signals from the Gull,
and had been told there was a wreck on the sands; that they had gone
round the back of the sands, carefully examining them, as far as the
east buoy, encountering a heavy ground swell, with much broken sea, but
saw nothing; that they had then gone closer in, to about seven fathoms
of water, when the lifeboat was suddenly towed over a log--as he styled
it, a baulk--of timber, but fortunately got no damage, and that they
were obliged to return to harbour, having failed to discover the wreck,
which probably had gone to pieces before they got out to the sands; so
they had all their trouble for nothing.  The man--appealing by look to
the coxswain, who smoked in silence, and gazed sternly and fixedly at
the fire, as if his mind were wandering far away--went on to say,
further, that early that morning they had been again called out, and
were fortunate enough to save the crew of a small schooner, and that
they had been looking out for and expecting another call the whole day.
For the truth of all which the man appealed again by look to the
coxswain, who merely replied with a slight nod, while he continued to
smoke in silence, leaning his elbows on his knees, with his strong hands
clasped before him, sailor fashion, and gazing gravely at the fire.  It
seemed as if he were resting his huge frame after the recent fatigues to
which it had been exposed, and in anticipation of those which might be
yet in store.

Just then the little door opened quickly, and Pike's dripping head
appeared.

"I think the Gull is signalling," he said, and vanished.

The coxswain's sou'wester and coat were on as if by magic, and he stood
beside his mate at the end of the pier, partly sheltered by the parapet
wall.

They both clung to the wall, and gazed intently out to sea, where there
was just light enough to show the black waves heaving wildly up against
the dark sky, and the foam gleaming in lurid patches everywhere.  The
seas breaking in heavy masses on the pier-head drenched the two men as
they bent their heads to resist the roaring blast.  If it had been high
water, they could not have stood there for a moment.  They had not been
there long before their constant friend, the master of the steam-tug,
joined them.  Straining their eyes intently in the direction of the
floating-light, which appeared like a little star tossed on the far-off
horizon, they observed a slight flash, and then a thin curved line of
red fire was seen to leap into the chaos of dark clouds.

"There she goes!" cried the coxswain.

"An' no mistake," said Pike, as they all ran to get ready for action.

Few and to the point were the words spoken.  Each man knew exactly what
was to be done.  There was no occasion to rouse the lifeboat men on such
a night.  The harbour-master had seen the signal, and, clad in oilskins
like the men, was out among them superintending.  The steam-tug, which
lies at that pier with her fires lighted and banked up, and her water
hot, all the year round, sounded her shrill whistle and cast loose.  Her
master and mate were old hands at the perilous work, and lost no time,
for wreck, like fire, is fatally rapid.  There was no confusion, but
there was great haste.  The lifeboat was quickly manned.  Those who were
most active got on the cork lifebelts and leaped in; those who were less
active, or at a greater distance when the signal sounded, had to remain
behind.  Eleven stalwart men, with frames inured to fatigue and cold,
clad in oiled suits, and with lifebelts on, sat on the thwarts of the
lifeboat, and the coxswain stood on a raised platform in her stern, with
the tiller-ropes in his hands.  The masts were up, and the sails ready
to hoist.  Pike made fast the huge hawser that was passed to them over
the stern of the steam-tug, and away they went, rushing out right in the
teeth of the gale.

No cheer was given,--they had no breath to spare for sentimental service
just then.  There was no one, save the harbour-master and his assistant
with a few men on duty, to see them start, for few could have ventured
to brave the fury of the elements that night on the spray-lashed pier.
In darkness they left; into darkness most appalling they plunged, with
nothing save a stern sense of duty and the strong hope of saving human
life to cheer them on their way.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE BATTLE.

At first the men of the lifeboat had nothing to do but hold on to the
thwarts, with the exception, of course, of the coxswain, whose energies
were taxed from the commencement in the matter of steering the boat,
which was dragged through the waves at such a rate by the powerful tug
that merely to hold on was a work of some difficulty.  Their course
might much more truly be said to have been under than over the waves, so
constantly did these break into and fill the boat.  But no sooner was
she full than the discharging tubes freed her, and she rose again and
again, buoyant as a cork.

Those who have not seen this desperate work can form but a faint
conception of its true character.  Written or spoken words may conjure
up a pretty vivid picture of the scene, the blackness of the night, and
the heaving and lashing of the waves, but words cannot adequately
describe the shriek of the blast, the hiss and roar of breakers, and
they cannot convey the feeling of the weight of tons of falling water,
which cause the stoutest crafts of human build to reel and quiver to
their centres.

The steam-tug had not to contend with the ordinary straightforward rush
of a North Sea storm.  She was surrounded and beset by great boiling
whirlpools and spouting cross-seas.  They struck her on the bow, on the
side, on the quarter, on the stern.  They opened as if to engulf her.
They rushed at as if to overwhelm her.  They met under her, thrusting
her up, and they leaped into her, crushing her down.  But she was a
sturdy vessel; a steady hand was at the wheel, and her weather-beaten
master stood calm and collected on the bridge.

It is probable that few persons who read the accounts of lifeboat
service on the Goodwin sands are aware of the importance of the duties
performed and the desperate risks run by the steam-tug.  Without her
powerful engines to tow it to windward of the wrecks the lifeboat would
be much, very much, less useful than it is.  In performing this service
the tug has again and again to run into shallow water, and steer, in the
blackest nights, amid narrow intricate channels, where a slight error of
judgment on the part of her master--a few fathoms more to the right or
left--would send her on the sands, and cause herself to become a wreck
and an object of solicitude to the lifeboat crew.  "Honour to whom
honour is due" is a principle easy to state, but not always easy to
carry into practice.  Every time the steam-tug goes out she runs her
full share of the imminent risk;--sometimes, and in some respects, as
great as that of the lifeboat herself, for, whereas, a touch upon the
sand, to which it is her duty to approach _as near as possible_, would
be the death-warrant of the tug, it is, on the other hand, the glorious
prerogative of the lifeboat to be almost incapable of destruction, and
her peculiar privilege frequently to go "slap on and right over" the
sands with slight damage, though with great danger.  That the
death-warrant just referred to has not been signed, over and over again,
is owing almost entirely to the courage and skill of her master and
mate, who possess a thorough and accurate knowledge of the intricate
channels, soundings, and tides of those dangerous shoals, and have spent
many years in risking their lives among them.  Full credit is usually
given to the lifeboat, though _not too much_ by any means, but there is
not, we think, a sufficient appreciation of the services of the
steam-tug.  She may be seen in the harbour any day, modestly doing the
dirty work of hauling out the dredge-boats, while the gay lifeboat
floats idly on the water to be pointed out and admired by summer
visitors--thus unfairly, though unavoidably, are public favours often
distributed!

Observe, reader, we are far from holding up these two as rivals.  They
are a loving brother and sister.  Comparatively little could be done in
the grand work of saving human life without the mighty strength of the
"big brother;" and, on the other hand, nothing at all could be done
without the buoyant activity and courage of the "little sister."
Observe, also, that although the lifeboat floats in idleness, like a
saucy little duck, in time of peace, her men, like their mates in the
"big brother," are hard at work like other honest folk about the
harbour.  It is only when the sands "show their teeth," and the floating
lights send up their signals, and the storm-blast calls to action, that
the tug and boat unite, and the men, flinging down the implements of
labour, rise to the dignity of heroic work with all the pith and power
and promptitude of heroes.

As they ploughed through the foam together, the tug was frequently
obliged to ease-steam and give herself time to recover from the shock of
those heavy cross seas.  Suddenly a bright flaring light was observed in
the vicinity of a shoal called the _Break_, which lies between the
Goodwins and the shore.  It went out in a few seconds, but not before
the master of the tug had taken its bearings and altered his course.  At
the same time signal-guns and rockets were observed, both from the North
sandhead light-vessel and the Gull, and several flaring lights were also
seen burning on or near the Goodwin sands.

On nearing the _Middle Break_, which was easily distinguishable from the
surrounding turmoil by the intensity of its roar as the seas rolled over
it, the coxswain of the lifeboat ordered the sail to be hoisted and the
tow-rope slipped.  Pike, who was a thoroughly intelligent and
sympathetic bowman, had all in readiness; he obeyed the order instantly,
and the boat, as if endued with sudden life, sprang away on its own
account into the broken water.

Broken water! who but a lifeboat-man can conceive what that means?--
except, indeed, those few who have been saved from wreck.  A chaos of
white water, rendered ghostly and grey by darkness.  No green or liquid
water visible anywhere; all froth and fury, with force tremendous
everywhere.  Rushing rivers met by opposing cataracts; bursting against
each other; leaping high in air from the shock; falling back and
whirling away in wild eddies,--seeking rest, but finding none!  Vain
indeed must be our attempt to describe the awful aspect, the mad music,
the fearful violence of "broken water" on the Break!

In such a sea the boat was tossed as if she were a chip; but the gale
gave her speed, and speed gave her quick steering power.  She leaped
over the foam, or dashed through it, or staggered under it, but always
rose again, the men, meanwhile, holding on for life.  Pike was ready in
the bow, with an arm tightly embracing the bollard, or strong post,
round which the cable runs.  The coxswain's figure, towering high in the
stern, with the steering tackles in his hands, leaned forward against a
strong strap or band fixed across the boat to keep him in position.

They made straight for the spot where the flare light had been seen.  At
first darkness and thick spray combined prevented them from seeing
anything, but in a few minutes a dark object was seen looming faintly
against the sky, and the coxswain observed with anxious concern that it
lay not to leeward, but to windward of him.

"Out oars! down with the sail!" he shouted.

His voice was very powerful, but it was swept away, and was only heard
by those nearest to him.  The order was instantly obeyed, however; but
the gale was so heavy and the boat so large that headway could not be
made.  They could see that the wreck was a small vessel on her
beam-ends.  Being to leeward, they could hear despairing cries
distinctly, and four or five human beings were seen clinging to the
side.  The lifeboat-men strained till their sinews well-nigh cracked; it
seemed doubtful whether they had advanced or not, when suddenly an
unusually large wave fell in thunder on the Break; it rushed over the
shallows with a foaming head, caught the boat on its crest and carried
it far away to leeward.

Sail was again made.  A box near the coxswain a feet was opened, and a
blue-light taken out.  There was no difficulty in firing this.  A sharp
stroke on its butt lighted the percussion powder within, and in a moment
the scene was illumined by a ghastly glare, which brought out the blue
and white boat distinctly, and gave corpse-like colour to the faces of
the men.  At the same time it summoned the attendant steamer.

In a few minutes the tug ran down to her; the tow-rope was taken on
board, and away went the brother and sister once more to windward of the
wreck; but now no wreck was to be seen!  They searched round the shoal
in all directions without success, and finally were compelled to come to
the conclusion that the same sea which had carried the boat to leeward
had swept the wreck away.

With sad hearts they now turned towards the Goodwins, but the melancholy
incident they had just witnessed was soon banished from their minds by
the urgent signals for aid still seen flaring in all directions.  For
the nearest of these they made at full speed.  On their way, a dark
object was seen to sweep past them across their stern as if on the wings
of the wind.  It was the Broadstairs lifeboat, which had already done
good service that night, and was bent on doing more.  Similarly occupied
were the lifeboats of Deal, Walmer, and other places along the coast.  A
Deal lugger was also seen.  The hardy beachmen of Kent fear no storm.
They run out in all weathers to succour ships in distress, and much good
service do they accomplish, but their powers are limited.  Like the
steam-tugs, they can hover around the sands in heavy gales, and venture
gingerly near to them; but thus far, and no farther, may they go.  They
cannot, like the noble lifeboats, dash right into the caldron of surf,
and dare the sands and seas to do their worst!

The lifeboat men felt cheered, no doubt, to know that so many able hands
were fighting around them in the same battle, but they had little time
to think on such things; the work in hand claimed their exclusive
attention--as it must now claim ours.

One vessel was seen burning three very large flare lights.  Towards this
the steamer hastened, and when as near as prudence would permit her to
approach the Goodwin sands--something less than quarter of a mile--the
hawser was again slipped, sail was made on the lifeboat, and she once
more entered the broken water alone.

Here, of course, being more exposed, it was still more tremendous than
on the Break.  It was a little after midnight when they reached the
sands, and made the discovery that they were on the wrong hide of them.
The tide was making, however, and in a short time there was sufficient
water to enable the boat to run right over; she struck many times, but,
being tough, received no serious damage.  Soon they drew near the wreck,
and could see that she had sunk completely, and that the crew were
clinging to the jibboom.

When about fifty yards to windward, the anchor was let go, the lifeboat
veered down towards the wreck, and with much difficulty they succeeded
in taking off the whole crew of seven men.  Signalising the tug with
another blue-light, they ran to leeward into deep water, and were again
taken in tow; the saved men being with some difficulty put on board the
tug.  They were Dutchmen; and the poor master of the lost vessel could
find no words sufficiently forcible to express his gratitude to the
coxswain of the lifeboat.  When he afterwards met him on shore, he wrung
his hand warmly, and, with tears in his eyes, promised never to forget
him.  "Me never tinks of you," said he (meaning the reverse), "so long's
I live; me tell the King of Holland!"

It is but just to add that the poor fellow faithfully redeemed his
ill-expressed promise, and that the coxswain of the lifeboat now
possesses a medal presented to him by the King of Holland in
acknowledgment of his services on that occasion.

But the great work of that night still remained to be done.  Not far
from the light-vessel a flare-light was seen burning brightly.  It
seemed to be well tended, and was often renewed.  Towards this the tug
now steered with the little sister in tow.  They soon came near enough
to observe that she was a large ship, going to pieces on the sands.

Slipping the cable once more, the lifeboat gallantly dashed into the
thickest of the fight, and soon got within hail of the wreck.

Then it was that, for the first time, a ray of hope entered the hearts
of the passengers of the luckless Wellington, and then it was that Jim
Welton and Stanley Hall, with several young officers, who had kept the
tar-barrels burning so briskly for so many hours, despite the drenching
seas, sent up a loud thrilling cheer, and announced to the
terror-stricken women and children that _the lifeboat was in sight_!

What a cry for those who had been for three hours dashing on the sands,
expecting every moment that the ship would break up!  The horrors of
their situation were enhanced by the novelty of their sensations!  All
of us can realise to some extent, from hearsay and from paintings, what
is meant by billows bursting high over ships' mast-heads and washing
everything off the decks, but who that has not experienced it can
imagine what it is to see gigantic yards being whipped to and fro as a
light cane might be switched by a strong man, to see top-masts snapping
like pipe-stems, to hear stout ropes cracking like pliant whipcord, and
great sails flapping with thunder-claps or bursting into shreds?  Above
all, who can realise the sensation caused by one's abode being lifted
violently with every surge and dropped again with the crashing weight of
two thousand tons, or being rolled from side to side so that the floor
on which one stands alternates between the horizontal and perpendicular,
while one's frame each time receives a shock that is only too much in
dread harmony with the desperate condition of the mind?

"The lifeboat in sight!"  Who at such a time would not pray God's best
blessing on the lifeboat, on the stalwart men who man it, and on the
noble Society which supports it?

Certain it is that many a prayer of this kind was ejaculated on board
the Wellington that night, while the passengers re-echoed the good news,
and hurriedly went on deck.  But what an awful scene of dreary
desolation presented itself when they got there!  The flares gave forth
just enough light to make darkness visible--ropes, masts, yards, sails,
everything in indescribable confusion, and the sea breaking over all
with a violence that rendered it extremely difficult to maintain a
footing even in the most sheltered position.

Fortunately by this time the vessel had been beaten sufficiently high on
the shoal to prevent the terrible rolling to which she had been at first
subjected; and as the officers and seamen vied with each other in
attentions to the women and children, these latter were soon placed in
comparative security, and awaited with breathless anxiety the arrival of
the boat.

In order to keep the flare-lights burning all kinds of materials had
been sacrificed.  Deluged as they were continually by heavy seas,
nothing but the most inflammable substances would burn.  Hence, when
their tar-barrels were exhausted, Stanley Hall and his assistants got
hold of sheets, table-cloths, bedding, and garments, and saturated these
with paraffine oil, of which, fortunately, there happened to be a large
quantity on board.  They now applied themselves with redoubled diligence
to the construction and keeping alight of these flares, knowing well
that the work which remained to be done before all should be rescued,
was of a nature requiring time as well as care and courage.

On rushed the lifeboat through the broken water.  When almost within
hail, the coxswain heard the roar of an unusually heavy sea rushing
behind him.

"Let go the fore-sheet," he shouted, "and hold on for your lives."

The wave--a billow broken to atoms, yet still retaining all its weight
and motive force--overwhelmed the boat and passed on.  Before she had
quite recovered, another sea of equal size engulfed her, and as she had
been turned broadside on by the first, the second caught her in its
embrace and carried her like the wind bodily to leeward.  Her immense
breadth of beam prevented an upset, and she was finally launched into
shallower water, where the sand had only a few feet of sea above it.
She had been swept away full quarter of a mile in little more than a
minute!  Here the surf was like a boiling caldron, but there was not
depth enough to admit of heavy seas.

The same sea that swept away the boat carried the fore and main masts of
the Wellington by the board, and extinguished all her lights.

The boat drove quite two miles to leeward before the tug got hold of her
again.  To have returned to the wreck against wind and tide alone, we
need scarcely repeat, would have been impossible, but with the aid of
the tug she was soon towed to her old position and again cast loose.

Once more she rushed into the fight and succeeded in dropping anchor a
considerable distance to windward of the wreck, from which point she
veered down under her lee, but so great was the mass of broken masts,
spars, and wreckage--nothing being now left but parts of the mizzen and
bowsprit--that the coxswain was obliged to pay out 117 fathoms of cable
to keep clear of it all.

The difficulty and danger of getting the boat alongside now became
apparent to the people on the wreck, many of whom had never dreamed of
such impediments before, and their hopes sank unreasonably low, just as,
before, they had been raised unduly high.

With great difficulty the boat got near to the port quarter of the ship,
and Pike stood up ready in the bow with a line, to which was attached a
loaded cane, something like a large life-preserver.

"Heave!" shouted the coxswain.

The bowman made a deliberate and splendid cast; the weighted cane fell
on the deck of the ship, and was caught by Jim Welton, who attached a
hawser to it.  This was drawn into the boat, and in a few seconds she
was alongside.  But she was now in great danger!  The wild waters that
heaved, surged, and leaped under the vessel's lee threatened to dash the
boat in pieces against her every moment, and it was only by the
unremitting and strenuous exertions of the men with boat-hooks, oars,
and fenders that this was prevented.  Now the boat surged up into the
chains as if about to leap on board the ship; anon it sank into a gulf
of spray, or sheered wildly to leeward, but by means of the hawser and
cable, and a "spring" attached to the latter, she was so handled that
one and another of the crew of the wreck were taken into her.

The first saved was a little child.  It was too small and delicate to be
swung over the side by a rope, so the captain asked Jim Welton, as being
the most agile man in the ship and possessed of superabundant animal
courage, to take it in his arms and leap on board.  Jim agreed at once,
handed over the care of his flare-lights to one of the men, and prepared
for action.  The poor child, which was about a year old, clung to its
mother's neck with terror, and the distracted woman--a soldier's widow--
could scarce be prevailed on to let the little one out of her arms.

"Oh, let me go with him," she pleaded most earnestly, "he is all that is
left to me."

"You shall follow immediately; delay may be death," said the captain,
kindly, as he drew the child gently but firmly from her grasp.

It was securely bound to Jim's broad bosom by means of a shawl.
Watching his opportunity when the boat came surging up on the crest of a
billow almost to his feet, and was about to drop far down into the
trough of the sea, the young sailor sprang from the side and was caught
in the outstretched arms of the lifeboat men.

It had occurred to Stanley Hall, just before this happened, that there
was every probability of some of the passengers falling overboard during
the process of being transferred to the boat.  Stanley was of a somewhat
eccentric turn of mind, and seldom allowed his thoughts to dissipate
without taking action of some kind.  He therefore got into the mizzen
chains and quietly fastened a rope round his waist, the other end of
which he tied to a stanchion.

"You'll get crushed by the boat there," cried the captain, who observed
him.

"Perhaps not," was the reply.

He stood there and watched Jim Welton as he leaped.  The mother of the
child, unable to restrain herself, climbed on the bulwarks of the
vessel.  Just as she did so the boat surged up again,--so close that it
required but a short step to get into her.  Some of the passengers
availed themselves of the chance--the poor widow among them.  She sprang
with a cry of joy, for she saw her child's face at the moment as they
unbound him from Jim's breast, but she sprang short.  Little wonder that
a woman should neglect to make due allowance for the quick swooping of
the boat!  Next moment she was in the boiling foam.  A moment later and
she was in Stanley Hall's grasp, and both were swept violently to
leeward, but the rope brought them up.  Despite darkness and turmoil the
quick-eyed coxswain and his mate had noted the incident.  Pike payed out
the hawser, the coxswain eased off the spring; away went the boat, and
next moment Pike had Stanley by the hair.  Short was the time required
for their strong arms to pull him and his burden in-board; and, oh! it
was a touching sight to witness the expressions of the anxious faces
that were turned eagerly towards the boat, and glared pale and ghastly
in the flaring light, as her sturdy crew hauled slowly up, hand over
hand, and got once more under the vessel's lee.

No sooner were they within reach than another impatient passenger leaped
overboard.  This was Jim's faithful dog Neptune!  Watching his time with
the intelligence of a human being, he sprang, with much greater
precision and vigour than any human being could have done, and,
alighting on Pike's shoulders, almost drove that stout boatman into the
bottom of the boat.

Soon the boat was as full as it could hold.  All the women and children
had been got into her, and many of the male passengers, so that there
was no room to move; still there remained from twenty to thirty people
to be rescued.  Seeing this, Jim seized Neptune by the neck and flung
him back into the wreck.  Catching a rope that hung over the side, he
also swung himself on board, saying,--"You and I must sink or swim
together, Nep!  Shove off, lads, and come back as soon as you can."

The hawser was slipped as he spoke; the lifeboat was hauled slowly but
steadily to windward up to her anchor.  Tons of water poured over her
every moment, but ran through her discharging tubes, and, deeply loaded
though she was, she rose buoyant from each immersion like an invincible
sea-monster.

When the anchor was reached, a small portion of the foresail was set,
and then, cutting the cable with one blow of a hatchet, away they went
like the scudding foam right over the boiling shallows on the spit of
sand.

"Hand out a blue-light there," cried the coxswain.  A sharp blow caused
the blue-fire to flare up and shed a light that fell strong as that of
the full moon on the mingled grave, pale, stern, and terrified faces in
the lifeboat.

"Safe!" muttered one of the crew.

"Safe?" was echoed in surprise, no doubt, from several fluttering
hearts.

As well might that have been said to the hapless canoe-man rushing over
the Falls of Niagara as to the inexperienced ones there, while they
gazed, horror-struck, on the tumult of mad waters in that sudden blaze
of unearthly light.  Their faith in a trustworthy and intelligent
boatman was not equal to their faith in their own eyes, backed by
ignorance!  But who will blame them for lack of faith in the
circumstances?  Nevertheless, they _were_ safe.  The watchful master of
the tug,--laying-to off the deadly banks, now noting the compass, now
casting the lead, anon peering into the wild storm,--saw the light, ran
down to it, took the rescued ones on board, and, having received from
the coxswain the information that there were "more coming," sent them
down into his little cabin, there to be refreshed and comforted, while
the lifeboat sheered off again, and once more sprang into the "broken
water."  So might some mighty warrior spur from the battle-field charged
with despatches of the highest import bearing on the fight, and, having
delivered his message, turn on his heel and rush back into the whirling
tide of war to complete the victory which had been so well begun!

Once more they made for the wreck, which was by that time fast breaking
up.  Running right before the wind in such an awful gale, it was
necessary to make the men crowd aft in order to keep the boat's head
well out of the water.  On this occasion one or two of the seamen of the
Wellington, who had been allowed inadvertently to remain in the boat,
became alarmed, for the seas were rolling high over the gunwale on each
side, and rushing into her with such force as to make it a difficult
matter to avoid being washed out.  It was a new sensation to these men
to rush thus madly between two walls of foam eight or ten feet high!
They glanced backward, where another wall of foaming water seemed to be
curling over the stern, as if about to drop inboard.  The coxswain
observed their looks, and knew their feelings.  He knew there was no
lack of courage in them, and that a little experience would change their
minds on this point.

"Never look behind, lads," he cried; "look ahead; always look right
ahead."

"Ay, Geordy," remarked one of the men,--a Scotchman,--to his mate, "it's
rum sailin' this is.  I thocht we was a' gaun to the bottom; but nae
doot the cox'n kens best.  It's a wonderfu' boat!"

Having so said, the sedate Scot dismissed his anxieties, and thereafter
appeared to regard the surrounding chaos of water with no other feelings
than philosophic interest and curiosity.

On nearing the wreck the second time, it was found that the tide had
fallen so low that they could scarcely get alongside.  Three times they
struck on the shoal; on the third occasion the mizzen-mast and sail were
blown out of the boat.  They managed to drop anchor, however, and to
veer down under the port bow of the Wellington, whence the anxious
survivors threw ropes to them, and, one after another, leaped or swung
themselves into the boat.  But they were so long about it that before
all had been got out the coxswain was obliged to drop to leeward to
prevent being left aground.  In spite of this, the boat got fast, and
now they could neither advance to the wreck for the nine men who still
remained in her, nor push off to rejoin the tug.

The space between the boat and vessel was crossed by such a continuous
rush of broken water that for a time it was impossible to attempt
anything, but as the tide fell the coxswain consulted with his bowman,
and both agreed to venture to wade to the wreck, those on board having
become so exhausted as to be unable or unwilling to make further effort
to save themselves.

Acting on this resolve they with one of their men sprang into the raging
surf and staggered to the wreck, where they induced two of the crew to
leap overboard and brought them safely to the boat.  Others of the
lifeboat crew then joined them and four more were rescued.  [See note
1.]

The tide had been at its lowest when this desperate work was begun,--
before it was finished it had turned.  This, coupled with the fact that
they had all been nearly swept away during the last effort; and that
there was a fresh burst of violence in the gale, induced them to wait
until the tide should rise.  When it did so sufficiently, they hauled
and shoved the boat alongside, and the captain, who was one of the three
remaining men, made a desperate spring, but missed the boat and was
whirled away.  Pike made a grasp at him but missed.  The coxswain seized
a life-buoy and hurled it towards him.  It fell within his reach, and it
was supposed that he had caught it, but they could not be certain.  The
boat was now afloat and bumping violently.  If they had cut the cable in
order to rescue the captain, which they could by no means make sure of
doing, the improbability of being able to return in time to save the two
remaining men would have been very great.  It seemed to be life or death
in either case, so they stuck by the wreck.

It was grey dawn now, and the wreckage was knocking against and around
them to such an extent that the coxswain began to fear for the safety of
his boat.  Yet he was loath to leave the men to perish.

"Jump now, lads!" he cried, sheering up alongside, "it's your last
chance.  It's death to all of us if we stop longer here!"

The men sprang together.  One gained the side of the boat and was saved,
the other was swept away.  He made frantic efforts to gain the boat, but
before his companion had been got inboard he was out of sight, and
although the cable was promptly cut and the sail set he could not be
found.  The boat was then run down along the sands in search of the
captain.  The coxswain knew well from experience that he must certainly
have been swept by the current in the same direction as the wreckage.
He therefore followed this, and in a short time had the inexpressible
satisfaction and good fortune to find the captain.  He had caught the
life-buoy, and having managed to get it under his arms had floated about
for the greater part of an hour.  Though nearly dead he was still
sensible, and, after being well chafed and refreshed with a little rum
from the coxswain's case-bottle--provided for occasions of this sort--he
recovered.

The great work of the lifeboat had now been accomplished, but they could
not feel that it had been thoroughly completed without one more effort
being made to save the lost man.  They therefore ran still farther down
the sand in the direction where he had been last seen.  They followed
the drift of wreckage as before.  Presently the bowman uttered a
thrilling shout, for, through the turmoil of dashing spray, he saw the
man clinging to a spar!

So unexpected was this happy event that the whole crew involuntarily
gave vent to a ringing cheer, although, in the circumstances, and
considering the nature of their exhausting work and the time they had
been exposed to it, one might have supposed them incapable of such a
burst of enthusiasm.

In a few moments he was rescued, and now, with light hearts, they ran
for the tug, which was clearly visible in the rapidly increasing
daylight.  They did not put off time in transferring the saved men to
the steamer.  The big hawser,--their familiar bond of attachment,--was
made fast to them, and away went that noble big brother and splendid
little sister straight for Ramsgate harbour.  [See note 2.]

But the work of that wild night was not yet finished.  On their way home
they fell in with a schooner, the foretopmast and bowsprit of which were
gone.  As she was drifting towards the sands they hailed her.  No reply
being made, the lifeboat was towed alongside, and, on being boarded, it
was found that she was a derelict.  Probably she had got upon the sands
during the night, been forsaken by her crew in their own boat--in which
event there was small chance of any being saved--and had drifted off
again at the change of the tide.

Be that as it might, six lifeboat men were put on board.  Finding no
water in her, they slipt her two cables, which were hanging from the
bow, a rope was made fast to the steamer, and she was taken in tow.

It was drawing towards noon when they neared the harbour.  Very
different indeed was the aspect of things there then from what it had
been when they went out on their errand of mercy thirteen hours before.
Although the gale was still blowing fresh it had moderated greatly.  The
black clouds no longer held possession of the sky, but were pierced,
scattered, and gilded, as they were rolled away, by the victorious sun.
The sea still raged and showed its white "teeth" fiercely, as if its
spirit had been too much roused to be easily appeased; but blue sky
appeared in patches everywhere; the rain had ceased, and the people of
the town and visitors swarmed out to enjoy the returning sunshine,
inhale the fresh sea-breeze, and await, anxiously, the return of the
lifeboat--for, of course, every one in the town was aware by that time
that she had been out all night.

When, at length, the smoke of the "big brother" was observed drawing
near, the people flocked in hundreds to the piers and cliffs.--Wherever
a point of vantage was to be had, dozens of spectators crowned it.
Wherever a point of danger was to be gained, daring spirits--chiefly in
the shape of small boys--took it by storm, in absolute contempt of the
police.  "Jacob's Ladder"--the cliff staircase--was crowded from top to
bottom.  The west pier was rendered invisible to its outer extremity by
human beings.  The east pier, as far as it was dry, was covered by the
fashion and beauty--as well as by the fishy and tarry--of the town.
Beyond the point of dryness it was more or less besieged by those who
were reckless, riotous, and ridiculously fond of salt-water spray.  The
yards and shrouds of the crowded and much damaged shipping in the
harbour were manned, and the windows of the town that commanded the sea
were filled with human faces.  An absolute battery of telescopes, like
small artillery, was levelled at the approaching tug.  Everywhere were
to be seen and heard evidences of excitement, anxiety, and expectation.

It was not long before it was announced that flags were seen flying at
the mast-heads of the tug and lifeboat--a sure evidence that a rescue
had been successfully accomplished.  This caused many a burst of
cheering from the crowds, as the fact and its import became gradually
known.  But these were as nothing compared with the cheers that arose
when the steamer, with the lifeboat and the schooner in tow, drew near,
and it could be seen that there were many people on board--among them
women and children.  When they finally surged past the pier-head on the
crest of a tremendous billow, and swept into the harbour under a vast
shower of spray that burst over the pier and rose above the mast-heads
of the shipping within--as if to pour a libation on the gallant crews--
then a succession of cheers, that cannot be described, welcomed the
victors and re-echoed from the chalk-cliffs, to be caught up and sent
out again and again in thrilling cadence on the mad sea, which had thus
been plundered of its booty and disappointed of its prey!

Scarfs and hats and kerchiefs and hands were waved in wild enthusiasm,
strangely mingled with tender pity, when the exhausted women and
children and the worn-out and battered lifeboat-men were landed.  Many
cheered, no doubt, to think of the strong hearts and invincible courage
that dwelt in the breasts of Britain's sons; while others,--tracing
things at once to their true source,--cheered in broken tones, or were
incompetent to cheer at all, when they thought with thankfulness of
Britain's faith in the Word of God, which, directly or indirectly, had
given that courage its inspiration, and filled those hearts with fire.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The coxswain--Mr Isaac Jarman--who has rendered heroic service
in the Ramsgate Lifeboat during the last ten years, has been personally
instrumental in saving between four and five hundred lives.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 2.  If the reader should desire to know something more of the
history of the celebrated Ramsgate lifeboat, which, owing to its
position, opportunities, and advantages, has had the most stirring
career of all the lifeboat fleet, we advise the perusal of a work (at
present in the press, if it be not already published) named _Storm
Warriors, or the Ramsgate Lifeboat and the Goodwin Sands_, by the
Reverend John Gilmore, whose able and thrilling articles on the
lifeboat-service in _Macmillan's Magazine_ are well known.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

SHOWS THAT THERE ARE NO EFFECTS WITHOUT ADEQUATE CAUSES.

There were not a few surprising and unexpected meetings that day on
Ramsgate pier.  Foremost among the hundreds who pressed forward to shake
the lifeboat-men by the hand, and to sympathise with and congratulate
the wrecked and rescued people, was Mr George Durant.  It mattered
nothing to that stout enthusiast that his hat had been swept away into
hopeless destruction during his frantic efforts to get to the front,
leaving his polished head exposed to the still considerable fury of the
blast and the intermittent violence of the sun; and it mattered, if
possible, still less that the wreck turned out to be one of his own
vessels; but it was a matter of the greatest interest and amazement to
him to find that the first man he should meet in the crowd and seize in
a hearty embrace, was his young friend, Stanley Hall.

"What, Stanney!" he exclaimed in unmitigated surprise; "is it--can it
be?  Prodigious sight!"

The old gentleman could say no more, but continued for a few seconds to
wring the hands of his young friend, gaze in his face, and vent himself
in gusts of surprise and bursts of tearful laughter, to the great
interest and amusement of the bystanders.

Mr Durant's inconsistent conduct may be partly accounted for and
excused by the fact that Stanley had stepped on the pier with no other
garments on than a pair of trousers and a shirt, the former having a
large rent on the right knee, and the latter being torn open at the
breast, in consequence of the violent removal of all the buttons when
its owner was dragged into the lifeboat.  As, in addition to this, the
young man's dishevelled hair did duty for a cap, and his face and hands
were smeared with oil and tar from the flare-lights which he had
assisted to keep up so energetically, it is not surprising that the
first sight of him had a powerful effect on Mr Durant.

"Why, Stanney," he said at length, "you look as if you were some strange
sea-monster just broke loose from Neptune's menagerie!"

Perhaps this idea had been suggested by the rope round Stanley's waist,
the cut end of which still dangled at his side, for Mr Durant took hold
of it inquiringly.

"Ay, sir," put in the coxswain, who chanced to be near him, "that bit of
rope is a scarf of honour.  He saved the life of a soldier's widow with
it."

There was a tendency to cheer on the part of the bystanders who heard
this.

"God bless you, Stanney, my boy!  Come and get dressed," said the old
gentleman, suddenly seizing his friend's arm and pushing his way through
the crowd, "come along; oh, don't talk to me of the ship.  I know that
it's lost; no matter--you are saved.  And do _you_ come along with us
Wel--Wel--what's the name of --?  Ah!  Welton--come; my daughter is here
somewhere.  I left her near the parapet.  Never mind, she knows her way
home."

Katie certainly was there, and when, over the heads of the people--for
she had mounted with characteristic energy on the parapet, assisted by
Queeker and accompanied by Fanny Hennings--she beheld Stanley Hall in
such a plight, she felt a disposition to laugh and cry and faint all at
once.  She resisted the tendency, however, although the expression of
her face and her rapid change of colour induced Queeker with anxious
haste to throw out his arms to catch her.

"Ha!" exclaimed Queeker, "_I knew it_!"

What Queeker knew he never explained.  It may have had reference to
certain suspicions entertained in regard to the impression made by the
young student on Katie the night of their first meeting; we cannot tell,
but we know that he followed up the exclamation with the muttered
remark, "It was fortunate that I pulled up in time."

Herein Queeker exhibited the innate tendency of the human heart to
deceive itself.  That furious little poetical fox-hunter had, by his own
confession, felt the pangs of a guilty conscience in turning, just
because he could not help it, from Katie to Fanny, yet here he was now
basely and coolly taking credit to himself for having "pulled up in
time!"

"Oh, look at the _dear_ little children!" exclaimed Fanny, pointing
towards a part of the crowd where several seamen were carrying the
rescued and still terrified little ones in their strong arms, while
others assisted the women along, and wrapped dry shawls round them.

"How dreadful to think," said Katie, making a hard struggle to suppress
her agitation, "that all these would have been lost but for the
lifeboat; and how wonderful to think that some of our own friends should
be among them!"

"Ay, there be many more besides these saved last night, miss," remarked
a sturdy old boatman who chanced to be standing beside her.  "All along
the east coast the lifeboats has bin out, miss, you may be sure; and
they don't often shove off without bringin' somethin' back to show for
their pains, though they don't all 'ave steamers for to tug 'em out.
There's the Broadstairs boat, now; I've jist heerd she was out all night
an' saved fifteen lives; an' the Walmer and Deal boats has fetched in a
lot, I believe, though we han't got particklers yet."

Besides those whom we have mentioned as gazing with the crowd at the
arrival of the lifeboat, Morley Jones, and Nora, and Billy Towler were
there.  Jones and Billy had returned from London together the night
before the storm, and, like nearly every one else in the town, had
turned out to witness the arrival of the lifeboat.

Dick Moy also was there, and that huge lump of good-nature spent the
time in making sagacious remarks and wise comments on wind and weather,
wrecks and rescues, in a manner that commanded the intense admiration of
a knot of visitors who happened to be near him, and who regarded him as
a choice specimen--a sort of type--of the British son of Neptune.

"This is wot _I_ says," observed Dick, while the people were landing "so
long as there's 'ope, 'old on.  Never say die, and never give in; them's
my sentiments.  'Cause why? no one never knows wot may turn up.  If your
ship goes down; w'y, wot then?  Strike out, to be sure.  P'r'aps you may
be picked up afore long.  If sharks is near, p'r'aps you may be picked
down.  You can never tell.  If you gets on a shoal, wot then? w'y, stick
to the ship till a lifeboat comes off to 'ee.  Don't never go for to
take to your own boats.  If you do--capsize, an' Davy Jones's locker is
the word.  If the lifeboat can't git alongside; w'y, wait till it can.
If it can't; w'y, it can only be said that it couldn't.  No use cryin'
over spilt milk, you know.  Not that I cares for milk.  It don't keep at
sea, d'ye see; an's only fit for babbys.  If the lifeboat capsizes; w'y,
then, owin' to her parfection o' build, she rights again, an' you,
'avin' on cork jackets, p'r'aps, gits into 'er by the lifelines, all
handy.  If you 'aven't got no cork jackets on, w'y, them that has'll
pick 'ee up.  If not, it's like enough you'll go down.  But no matter,
you've did yer best, an' man, woman, or child can do no more.  You can
only die once, d'ye see?"

Whether the admiring audience did or did not see the full force of these
remarks, they undoubtedly saw enough in the gigantic tar to esteem him a
marvel of philosophic wisdom.  Judging by their looks that he was highly
appreciated, it is just possible that Dick Moy might have been tempted
to extend his discourse, had not a move in the crowd showed a general
tendency towards dispersion, the rescued people having been removed,
some to the Sailor's Home, others to the residences of hospitable people
in the town.

Now, it must not be imagined that all these characters in our tale have
been thus brought together, merely at our pleasure, without rhyme or
reason, and in utter disregard of the law of probabilities.  By no
means.

Mr Robert Queeker had started for Ramsgate, as the reader knows, on a
secret mission, which, as is also well known, was somewhat violently
interrupted by the sporting tendencies of that poetical law-clerk; but
no sooner did Queeker recover from his wounds than--with the
irresistible ardour of a Wellington, or a Blucher, or a bull-dog, or a
boarding-school belle--he returned to the charge, made out his intended
visit, set his traps, baited his lines, fastened his snares, and
whatever else appertained to his secret mission, so entirely to the
satisfaction of Messrs. Merryheart and Dashope, that these estimable men
resolved, some time afterwards, to send him back again to the scene of
his labours, to push still further the dark workings of his mission.
Elate with success the earnest Queeker prepared to go.  Oh, what joy if
_she_ would only go with him!

"And why not?" cried Queeker, starting up when this thought struck him,
as if it had struck him too hard and he were about to retaliate,--"Why
not?  _That_ is the question."

He emphasised _that_ as if all other questions, Hamlet's included, sank
into insignificance by contrast.

"Only last night," continued Queeker to himself, still standing bolt
upright in a frenzy of inspiration, and running his fingers fiercely
through his hair, so as to make it stand bolt upright too--"only last
night I heard old Durant say he could not make up his mind where to go
to spend the autumn this year.  Why not Ramsgate? why not Ramsgate?

  "Its chalky cliffs, and yellow sand,
  And rides, and walks, and weather,
  Its windows, which a view command
  Of everything together.

  "Its pleasant walks, and pretty shops,
  To fascinate the belles,
  Its foaming waves, like washing-slops,
  To captivate the swells.

  "Its boats and boatmen, brave and true,
  Who lounge upon the jetty,
  And smile upon the girls too--
  At least when they are pretty.

  "Oh!  Ramsgate, where in all the earth,
  Beside the lovely sea,
  Can any town of note or worth
  Be found to equal thee?

"Nowhere!" said Queeker, bringing his fist down on the table with a
force that made the ink leap, when he had finished these verses--verses,
however, which cost him two hours and a profuse perspiration to produce.

It was exactly a quarter to eight p.m. by the Yarmouth custom-house
clock, due allowance being made for variation, when this "Nowhere!" was
uttered, and it was precisely a quarter past nine p.m. that day week
when the Durants drove up to the door of the Fortress Hotel in Ramsgate,
and ordered beds and tea,--so powerful was the influence of a great mind
when brought to bear on Fanny Hennings, who exercised irresistible
influence over the good-natured Katie, whose power over her indulgent
father was absolute!

Not less natural was the presence, in Ramsgate, of Billy Towler.  We
have already mentioned that, for peculiarly crooked ends of his own,
Morley Jones had changed his abode to Ramsgate--his country abode, that
is.  His headquarters and town department continued as before to
flourish in Gravesend, in the form of a public-house, which had once
caught fire at a time, strange to say, when the spirit and beer casks
were all nearly empty, a curious fact which the proprietor alone was
aware of, but thought it advisable not to mention when he went to
receive the 200 pounds of insurance which had been effected on the
premises a few weeks before!  It will thus be seen that Mr Jones's
assurance, in the matter of dealing with insurance, was considerable.

Having taken up his temporary abode, then, in Ramsgate, and placed his
mother and daughter therein as permanent residents, Mr Jones commenced
such a close investigation as to the sudden disappearance of his ally
Billy, that he wormed out of the unwilling but helpless Nora not only
what had become of him, but the name and place of his habitation.
Having accomplished this, he dressed himself in a blue nautical suit
with brass buttons, took the morning train to London, and in due course
presented himself at the door of the Grotto, where he requested
permission to see the boy Towler.

The request being granted, he was shown into a room, and Billy was soon
after let in upon him.

"Hallo! young Walleye, why, what ever has come over you?" he exclaimed
in great surprise, on observing that Billy's face was clean, in which
condition he had never before seen it, and his hair brushed, an
extraordinary novelty; and, most astonishing of all, that he wore
unragged garments.

Billy, who, although outwardly much altered, had apparently lost none of
his hearty ways and sharp intelligence, stopped short in the middle of
the room, thrust both hands deep into his trousers pockets, opened his
eyes very wide, and gave vent to a low prolonged whistle.

"What game may _you_ be up to?" he said, at the end of the musical
prelude.

"You are greatly improved, Billy," said Jones, holding out his hand.

"I'm not aweer," replied the boy, drawing back, "as I've got to thank
_you_ for it."

"Come, Billy, this ain't friendly, is it, after all I've done for you?"
said Jones, remonstratively; "I only want you to come out an' 'ave a
talk with me about things, an' I'll give 'ee a swig o' beer or whatever
you take a fancy to.  You ain't goin' to show the white feather and
become a milksop, are you?"

"Now, look here, Mister Jones," said the boy, with an air of decision
that there was no mistaking, as he retreated nearer to the door; "I
don't want for to have nothin' more to do with _you_.  I've see'd much
more than enough of 'ee.  You knows me pretty well, an' you knows that
wotiver else I may be, I ain't a hippercrite.  I knows enough o' your
doin's to make you look pretty blue if I like, but for reasons of my
own, wot you've got nothink to do with, I don't mean to peach.  All I ax
is, that you goes your way an' let me alone.  That's where it is.  The
people here seem to 'ave got a notion that I've got a soul as well as a
body, and that it ain't 'xactly sitch a worthless thing as to be never
thought of, and throw'd away like an old shoe.  They may be wrong, and
they may be right, but I'm inclined to agree with 'em.  Let me tell 'ee
that _you_ 'ave did more than anybody else to show me the evil of wicked
ways, so you needn't stand there grinnin' like a rackishoot wi' the
toothache.  I've jined the Band of Hope, too, so I don't want none o'
your beer nor nothin' else, an' if you offers to lay hands on me, I'll
yell out like a she-spurtindeel, an' bring in the guv'nor, wot's fit to
wollop six o' you any day with his left hand."

This last part of Billy's speech was made with additional fire, in
consequence of Morley Jones taking a step towards him in anger.

"Well, boy," he said, sternly, "hypocrite or not, you've learned yer
lesson pretty pat, so you may do as you please.  It's little that a chip
like you could do to get me convicted on anything you've seen or heard
as yet, an' if ye did succeed, it would only serve to give yourself a
lift on the way to the gallows.  But it wasn't to trouble myself about
you and your wishes that I came here for (the wily rascal assumed an air
and tone of indifference at this point); if you had only waited to hear
what I'd got to say, before you began to spit fire, you might have saved
your breath.  The fact is that my Nora is very ill--so ill that I fear
she stands a poor chance o' gittin' better.  I'm goin' to send her away
on a long sea voyage.  P'r'aps that may do her good; if not, it's all up
with her.  She begged and prayed me so earnestly to come here and take
you down to see her before she goes, that I could not refuse her--
particularly as I happened to have business in London anyhow.  If I'd
known how you would take it, I would have saved myself the trouble of
comin'.  However, I'll bid you good-day now."

"Jones," said the boy earnestly, "that's a lie."

"Very good," retorted the man, putting on his hat carelessly, "I'll take
back that message with your compliments--eh?"

"No; but," said Billy, almost whimpering with anxiety, "is Nora _really_
ill?"

"I don't wish you to come if you don't want to," replied Jones; "you can
stop here till doomsday for me.  But do you suppose I'd come here for
the mere amusement of hearing you give me the lie?"

"I'll go!" said Billy, with as much emphasis as he had previously
expressed on declining to go.

The matter was soon explained to the manager of the Grotto.  Mr Jones
was so plausible, and gave such unexceptionable references, that it is
no disparagement to the penetration of the superintendent of that day to
say that he was deceived.  The result was, as we have shown, that Billy
ere long found his way to Ramsgate.

When Mr Jones introduced him ceremoniously to Nora, he indulged in a
prolonged and hearty fit of laughter.  Nora gazed at Billy with a look
of intense amazement, and Billy stared at Nora with a very mingled
expression of countenance, for he at once saw through the deception that
had been practised on him, and fully appreciated the difficulty of his
position--his powers of explanation being hampered by a warning, given
him long ago by his friend Jim Welton, that he must be careful how he
let Nora into the full knowledge of her father's wickedness.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

CONFIDENCES AND CROSS PURPOSES.

Katie Durant, sitting with a happy smile on her fair face, and good-will
in her sweet heart to all mankind--womankind included, which says a good
deal for her--was busy with a beautiful sketch of a picturesque
watermill, meditating on the stirring scene she had so recently
witnessed, when a visitor was announced.

"Who can it be?" inquired Katie; "papa is out, you know, and no one can
want me."

The lodging-house keeper, Mrs Cackles, smiled at the idea of no one
wanting Katie, knowing, as she did, that there were at least twenty
people who would have given all they were worth in the world to possess
her, either in the form of wife, sister, daughter, friend governess, or
companion.

"Well, miss, she do wants you, and says as no one else will do."

"Oh, a lady, please show her in, Mrs Cackles."

"Well, she ain't a lady, either, though I've seen many a lady as would
give their weight in gold to be like her."

So saying the landlady departed, and in a few seconds introduced Nora.

"Miss Jones!" cried Katie, rising with a pleased smile and holding out
her hand; "this is a very unexpected pleasure."

"Thank you, Miss Durant.  I felt sure you would remember me," said Nora,
taking a seat, "and I also feel sure that you will assist me with your
advice in a matter of some difficulty, especially as it relates to the
boy about whose sick brother you came to me at Yarmouth some time ago--
you remember?"

"Oh!  Billy Towler," exclaimed Katie, with animation; "yes, I remember;
you are right in expecting me to be interested in him.  Let me hear all
about it."

Hereupon Nora gave Katie an insight into much of Billy Towler's history,
especially dwelling on that part of it which related to his being sent
to the Grotto, in the hope of saving him from the evil influences that
were brought to bear upon him in his intercourse with her father.

"Not," she said, somewhat anxiously, "that I mean you to suppose my dear
father teaches him anything that is wicked; but his business leads him
much among bad men--and--they drink and smoke, you know, which is very
bad for a young boy to see; and many of them are awful swearers.  Now,
poor Billy has been induced to leave the Grotto and to come down here,
for what purpose I don't know; but I am _so_ disappointed, because I had
hoped he would not have got tired of it so soon; and what distresses me
most is, that he does not speak all his mind to me; I can see that, for
he is very fond of me, and did not use to conceal things from me--at
least I fancied not.  The strange thing about it too is, that he says he
is willing to return to the Grotto immediately, if I wish it."

"I am very _very_ sorry to hear all this," said Katie, with a troubled
air; "but what do you propose to do, and how can I assist you?--only
tell me, and I shall be so happy to do it, if it be in my power."

"I really don't know how to put it to you, dear Miss Durant, and I could
not have ventured if you had not been so very kind when I met you in
Yarmouth; but--but your father owns several vessels, I believe, and--
and--you will excuse me referring to it, I know--he was so good as to
get a situation on board of the Wellington--which has so unfortunately
been wrecked--for a young--a--a young--man; one of those who was
saved--"

"Yes, yes," said Katie, quickly, thinking of Stanley Hall, and blushing
scarlet; "I know the young gentleman to whom you refer; well, go on."

"Well," continued Nora, thinking of Jim Welton, and blushing scarlet
too, "that young man said to me that he felt sure if I were to make
application to Mr Durant through you, he would give Billy a situation
in one of his ships, and so get him out of harm's way."

"He was right," said Katie, with a somewhat puzzled expression; "and you
may rely on my doing what I can for the poor boy with papa, who is
always happy to help in such cases; but I was not aware that Mr Hall
knew either you or Billy."

"Mr Hall!" exclaimed Nora, in surprise.

"Did you not refer to him just now?"

"No, miss; I meant James Welton."

"Oh!" exclaimed Katie, prolonging that monosyllable in a sliding scale,
ranging from low to high and back to low again, which was peculiarly
suggestive; "I beg your pardon, I quite misunderstood you; well, you may
tell Mr Welton that I will befriend Billy to the utmost of my power."

The door opened as she spoke, and cousin Fanny entered.

"Katie, I've come to tell you that Mr Queek--" She stopped short on
observing Nora, who rose hastily, thanked Katie earnestly for the kind
interest she had expressed in her little friend, and took her leave.

"This is a very interesting little incident, Fan," said Katie with
delight when they were alone; "quite a romancelet of real life.  Let me
see; here is a poor boy--the boy who deceived us, you remember--whom bad
companions are trying to decoy into the wicked meshes of their dreadful
net, and a sweet young girl, a sort of guardian angel as it were, comes
to me and asks my aid to save the boy, and have him sent to sea.  Isn't
it delightful?  Quite the ground-work of a tale--and might be so nicely
illustrated," added Katie, glancing at her drawings.  "But forgive me,
Fan; I interrupted you.  What were you going to tell me?"

"Only that Mr Queeker cannot come to tea tonight, as he has business to
attend to connected with his secret mission," replied Fanny.

"How interesting it would be," said Katie, musing, "if we could only
manage to mix up this mission of Mr Queeker's in the plot of our
romance; wouldn't it?  Come, I will put away my drawing for to-day, and
finish the copy of papa's quarterly cash-account for those dreadful
Board of Trade people; then we shall go to the pier and have a walk, and
on our way we will call on that poor old bedridden woman whom papa has
ferreted out, and give her some tea and sugar.  Isn't it strange that
papa should have discovered one so soon?  I suppose you are aware of his
_penchant_ for old women, Fan?"

"No, I was not aware of it," said Fan, smiling.

Whatever Fan said, she accompanied with a smile.  Indeed a smile was the
necessary result of the opening of her little mouth for whatever
purpose--not an affected smile, but a merry one--which always had the
effect, her face being plump, of half shutting her eyes.

"Yes," continued Katie, with animation, "papa is _so_ fond of old women,
particularly if they are _very_ old, and _very_ little, and thin; they
_must_ be thin, though.  I don't think he cares much for them if they
are fat.  He says that fat people are so jolly that they don't need to
be cared for, but he dotes upon the little thin ones."

Fanny smiled, and observed that that was curious.  "So it is," observed
Katie; "now _my_ taste lies in the direction of old men.  I like to
visit poor old men much better than poor old women, and the older and
more helpless they are the more I like them."

Fanny smiled again, and observed that that was curious too.

"So it is," said Katie, "very odd that papa should like the old women
and I should like the old men; but so it is.  Now, Fan, we'll get ready
and--oh how provoking!  That must be another visitor!  People find papa
out so soon wherever we go, and then they give him no rest."

"A boy wishes to see you, miss," said Mrs Cackles.

"Me?" exclaimed Katie in surprise.

"Yes, miss, and he says he wants to see you alone on important
business."

Katie looked at Fanny and smiled.  Fanny returned the smile, and
immediately left the room.

"Show him in, Mrs Cackles."

The landlady withdrew, and ushered in no less a personage than Billy
Towler himself, who stopped at the door, and stood with his hat in his
hand, and an unusually confused expression in his looks.  "Please,
miss," said Billy, "you knows me, I think?"

Katie admitted that she knew him, and, knowing in her heart that she
meant to befriend him, it suddenly occurred to her that it would be well
to begin with a little salutary severity by way of punishment for his
former misdeeds.

"Last time I saw you, miss, I _did_ you," said Billy with a slight grin.

"You did," replied Katie with a slight frown, "and I hope you have come
to apologise for your naughty conduct."

"Well, I can't 'xactly say as I have come to do that, but I dessay I may
as well begin that way.  I'm very sorry, miss, for havin' _did_ you, an'
I've called now to see if I can't _do_ you again."

Katie could not restrain a laugh at the impudence of this remark, but
she immediately regretted it, because Billy took encouragement and
laughed too; she therefore frowned with intense severity, and, still
remembering that she meant ultimately to befriend the boy, resolved to
make him in the meantime feel the consequences of his former misdeeds.

"Come, boy," she said sharply, "don't add impertinence to your
wickedness, but let me know at once what you want with me."

Billy was evidently taken aback by this rebuff.  He looked surprised,
and did not seem to know how to proceed.  At length he put strong
constraint upon himself, and said, in rather a gruff tone--

"Well, miss, I--a--the fact is--you know a gal named Nora Jones, don't
you?  Anyhow, she knows you, an' has said to me so often that you was a
parfect angel, that--that--"

"That you came to see," interrupted Katie, glancing at her shoulders,
"whether I really had wings, or not, eh?"

Katie said this with a still darker frown; for she thought that the
urchin was jesting.  Nothing was further from his intention.  Knowing
this, and, not finding the angelic looks and tones which he had been led
to expect, Billy felt still more puzzled and inclined to be cross.

"Seems to me that there's a screw loose somewheres," said Billy,
scratching the point of his nose in his vexation.  "Hows'ever, I came
here to ax your advice, and although you cer'nly don't 'ave wings nor
the style o' looks wot's usual in 'eavenly wisiters, I'll make a clean
breast of it--so here goes."

Hereupon the poor boy related how he had been decoyed from the Grotto--
of which establishment he gave a graphic and glowing account--and said
that he was resolved to have nothing more to do with Morley Jones, but
meant to return to the Grotto without delay--that evening if possible.
He had a difficulty, however, which was, that he could not speak freely
to Nora about her father, for fear of hurting her feelings or
enlightening her too much as to his true character, in regard to which
she did not yet know the worst.  One evil result of this was that she
had begun to suspect there was something wrong as to his own affection
for herself--which was altogether a mistake.  Billy made the last remark
with a flush of earnest indignation and a blow of his small hand on his
diminutive knee!  He then said that another evil result was that he
could not see his way to explain to Nora why he wished to be off in such
a hurry, and, worst of all, he had not a sixpence in the world wherewith
to pay his fare to London, and had no means of getting one.

"And so," said Katie, still keeping up her fictitious indignation, "you
come to beg money from me?"

"Not to beg, Miss--to borrer."

"Ah! and thus to _do_ me a second time," said Katie.

It must not be supposed that Katie's sympathetic heart had suddenly
become adamantine.  On the contrary, she had listened with deep interest
to all that her youthful visitor had to say, and rejoiced in the thought
that she had given to her such a splendid opportunity of doing good and
frustrating evil; but the little spice of mischief in her character
induced her still to keep up the fiction of being suspicious, in order
to give Billy a salutary lesson.  In addition to this, she had not quite
got over the supposed insult of being mistaken for an angel!  She
therefore declined, in the meantime, to advance the required sum--
ten-and-sixpence--although the boy earnestly promised to repay her with
his first earnings.

"No," she said, with a gravity which she found it difficult to maintain,
"I cannot give you such a sum until I have seen and consulted with my
father on the subject; but I may tell you that I respect your sentiments
regarding Nora and your intention to forsake your evil ways.  If you
will call here again in the evening I will see what can be done for
you."

Saying this, and meditating in her heart that she would not only give
Billy the ten-and-sixpence to enable him to return to the Grotto, but
would induce her father to give him permanent employment in one of his
ships, she showed Billy to the door, and bade him be a good boy and take
care of himself.

Thereafter she recalled Fanny, and, for her benefit, re-enacted the
whole scene between herself and Billy Towler, in a manner so graphic and
enthusiastic, as to throw that amiable creature into convulsions of
laughter, which bade fair to terminate her career in a premature fit of
juvenile apoplexy.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

MYSTERIOUS DOINGS.

Disappointed, displeased, and sorely puzzled, Billy Towler took his way
towards the harbour, with his hands thrust desperately into his pockets,
and an unwonted expression of discontent on his countenance.  So deeply
did he take the matter to heart, that he suffered one small boy to
inquire pathetically, "if 'e'd bin long in that state o' grumps?" and
another to suggest that, "if 'e couldn't be 'appier than that, 'e'd
better go an' drown hisself," without vouchsafing a retort, or even a
glance of recognition.

Passing the harbour, he went down to the beach, and there unexpectedly
met with Mr Morley Jones.

"Hallo! my young bantam," exclaimed Morley, with a look of surprise.

"Well, old Cochin-china, wot's up?" replied Billy, in a gruff tone.
"Drunk as usual, I see."

Being somewhat desperate, the boy did not see, or did not mind the
savage glance with which Mr Jones favoured him.  The glance was,
however, exchanged quickly for an idiotic smile, as he retorted--

"Well, I ain't so drunk but I can see to steer my course, lad.  Come,
I've got a noo boat, what d'ye say to go an' have a sail?  The fact is,
Billy, I was just on my way up to the house to ax you to go with me, so
it's good luck that I didn't miss you.  Will 'ee go, lad?"

At any other time the boy would have refused; but his recent
disappointment in regard to the angelic nature of Katie still rankled so
powerfully in his breast, that he swung round and said--"Get along,
then--I'm your man--it's all up now--never say die--in for a penny in
for a pound," and a variety of similar expressions, all of which tended
to convince Mr Jones that Billy Towler happened to be in a humour that
was extremely suitable to his purposes.  He therefore led him towards
his boat, which, he said, was lying on the beach at Broadstairs all
ready to shove off.

The distance to Broadstairs was about two miles, and the walk thither
was enlivened by a drunken commentary on the fallacy of human hopes in
general on the part of Mr Jones, and a brisk fire of caustic repartee
on the part of Master Towler.

A close observer might have noticed that, while these two were passing
along the beach, at the base of the high cliffs of chalk running between
Ramsgate and Broadstairs, two heads were thrust cautiously out of one of
the small caverns or recesses which have been made in these cliffs by
the action of the waves.  The one head bore a striking resemblance to
that of Robert Queeker, Esquire, and the other to that of Mr Larks.

How these two came to be together, and to be there, it is not our
business to say.  Authors are fortunately not bound to account for
everything they relate.  All that we know is, that Mr Queeker was there
in the furtherance, probably, of his secret mission, and that Mr Larks'
missions appeared to be always more or less secret.  At all events,
there they were together; fellow-students, apparently, of the geology or
conchology of that region, if one might judge from the earnest manner in
which they stooped and gazed at the sands, and picked up bits of flint
or small shells, over which they held frequent, and, no doubt, learned
discussions of an intensely engrossing nature.

It might have been also noticed by a close observer, that these
stoopings to pick up specimens, and these stoppages to discuss,
invariably occurred when Mr Jones and Master Billy chanced to pause or
to look behind them.  At last the boat was reached.  It lay on the beach
not far from the small harbour of Broadstairs, already surrounded by the
rising tide.  About the same time the geological and conchological
studies of Messrs. Queeker and Larks coming to an end, these scientific
men betook themselves suddenly to the shelter of a small cave, whence
they sat watching, with intense interest, the movements of the man and
boy, thus proving themselves gifted with a truly Baconian spirit of
general inquiry into simple facts, with a view to future inductions.

"Jump in, Billy," said Jones, "and don't wet your feet; I can easily
shove her off alone."

Billy obeyed.

"Hallo! wot have 'ee got here?" he cried, touching a large tarpaulin bag
with his foot.

"Only some grub," answered Jones, putting his shoulder to the bow of the
boat.

"And a compass too!" cried Billy, looking round in surprise.

"Ay, it may come on thick, you know," said Jones, as the boat's keel
grated over the sand.

"I say, stop!" cried Billy; "you're up to some mischief; come, let me
ashore."

Mr Jones made no reply, but continued to push off the boat.  Seeing
this, the boy leaped overboard, but Jones caught him.  For one instant
there was a struggle; then poor Billy was lifted in the strong man's
arms, and hurled back into the boat.  Next moment it was afloat, and
Jones leaped inboard.  Billy was not to be overcome so easily, however.
He sprang up, and again made a leap over the gunwale, but Jones caught
him by the collar, and, after a severe struggle, dragged him into the
boat, and gave him a blow on the head with his clenched fist, which
stunned him.  Then, seizing the oars, he pulled off.  After getting well
away from the beach he hoisted a small lug-sail, and stood out to sea.

All this was witnessed by the scientific men in the cave through a
couple of small pocket-telescopes, which brought the expression of
Jones's and Billy's countenances clearly into view.  At first Mr
Queeker, with poetic fervour, started up, intent on rushing to the
rescue of the oppressed; but Mr Larks, with prosaic hardness of heart,
held him forcibly back, and told him to make his mind easy, adding that
Mr Jones had no intention of doing the boy any further harm.  Whereupon
Queeker submitted with a sigh.  The two friends then issued from the
cave, shook hands, and bade each other goodbye with a laugh--the man
with the keen grey eyes following the path that led to Broadstairs,
while the lawyer's clerk returned to Ramsgate by the beach.

Meanwhile the sun went down, and the lanterns of the _Goodwin_, the
_Gull_, and the _South sandhead_ floating lights went up.  The shades of
evening fell, and the stars came out--one by one at first; then by twos
and threes; at last by bursts of constellations, until the whole heavens
glowed with a galaxy of distant worlds.  During all this time Mr Jones
sat at the helm of his little boat, and held steadily out to sea.  The
wind being light, he made small progress, but that circumstance did not
seem to trouble him much.

"You'd better have a bit supper, lad," said Jones in a careless way.
"Of course you're welcome to starve yourself if 'ee choose, but by so
doin' you'll only make yourself uncomfortable for nothing.  You're in
for it now, an' can't help yourself."

Billy was seated on one of the thwarts, looking very savage, with his
right eye nearly closed by the blow which had caused him to succumb.

"P'r'aps I mayn't be able to help myself," he replied, "but I can peach
upon _you_, anyhow."

"So you can, my lad, if you want to spend eight or ten years in limbo,"
retorted Jones, spitting out his quid of tobacco, and supplying its
place with a new one.  "You and I are in the same boat, Billy, whether
ashore or afloat; we sink or swim together."

No more was said for some time.  Jones knew that the boy was in his
power, and resolved to bide his time.  Billy felt that he had at least
the chance of being revenged if he chose to sacrifice himself, so he
"nursed his wrath to keep it warm."

About an hour afterwards a squall struck the boat, and nearly capsized
it; but Jones, who was quite sobered by that time, threw her head
quickly into the wind, and Billy, forgetting everything else, leaped up
with his wonted activity, loosened the sail, and reefed it.  The squall
soon passed away, and left them almost becalmed, as before.

"That was well done, Billy," said Jones, in a cheerful tone; "you'd make
a smart sailor, my lad."

Billy made no reply; and, despite his efforts to the contrary, felt
highly flattered.  He also felt the pangs of hunger, and, after
resisting them for some time, resolved to eat, as it were, under
protest.  With a reckless, wilful air, therefore, he opened the
tarpaulin bag, and helped himself to a large "hunk" of bread and a piece
of cheese.  Whereupon Mr Jones smiled grimly, and remarked that there
was nothing like grub for giving a man heart--except grog, he added,
producing a case-bottle from his pocket and applying it to his mouth.

"Have a pull, lad?  No! well, please yourself.  I ain't goin' to join
the temperance move myself yet," said Jones, replacing the bottle in his
pocket.

The short squall having carried the boat nearer to the Gull lightship
than was desirable, Mr Jones tried to keep as far off from her as
possible, while the tide should sweep them past; but the wind having
almost died away, he did not succeed in this; however, he knew that
darkness would prevent recognition, so he thought it best not to take to
the oars, but to hold on, intending to slip quietly by, not supposing
that Billy would think it of any use to hail the vessel; but Billy
happened to think otherwise.

"Gull ahoy! hoy!" he shouted at the top of his shrill voice.

"Boat ahoy!" responded Jack Shales, who happened to be on duty; but no
response was given to Jack, for the good reason that Jones had instantly
clapped his hand on Billy's mouth, and half-choked him.

"That's odd," remarked Jack, after repeating his cry twice.  "I could
swear it was the voice of that sharp little rascal Billy Towler."

"If it wasn't it was his ghost," replied Jerry MacGowl, who chanced to
be on deck at the time.

"Sure enough it's very ghost-like," said Shales, as the boat glided
silently and slowly out of the circle of the lantern's light, and faded
from their vision.

Mr Jones did not follow up his act with further violence.  He merely
assured Billy that he was a foolish fellow, and that it was of no use to
struggle against his fate.

As time wore on, poor Billy felt dreadfully sleepy, and would have given
a good deal for some of the grog in his companion's case-bottle, but,
resolving to stand upon his dignity, would not condescend to ask for it.
At length he lay down and slept, and Jones covered him with a
pilot-coat.

No soft spot in the scoundrel's heart induced him to perform this act of
apparent kindness.  He knew the poor boy's temperament, and resolved to
attack him on his weakest point.

When Billy awoke the day was just breaking.  He stretched himself,
yawned, sat up, and looked about him with the confused air of one not
quite awake.

"Hallo!" he cried gaily, "where on earth am I?"

"You ain't on earth, lad; you're afloat," replied Jones, who still sat
at the helm.

At once the boy remembered everything, and shrank within himself.  As he
did so, he observed the pilot-coat which covered him, and knew that it
must have been placed where it was by Jones.  His resolution to hold out
was shaken; still he did not give in.

Mr Jones now began to comment in a quiet good-natured way upon the
weather and the prospects of the voyage (which excited Billy's curiosity
very much), and suggested that breakfast would not be a bad thing, and
that a drop o' rum might be agreeable, but took care never to make his
remarks so pointed as to call for an answer.  Just as the sun was rising
he got up slowly, cast loose the stays and halyards of mast and sail,
lifted the mast out of its place, and deliberately hove the whole affair
overboard, remarking in a quiet tone that, having served his purpose, he
didn't want mast or sail any longer.  In the same deliberate way he
unshipped the rudder and cast it away.  He followed this up by throwing
overboard one of the oars, and then taking the only remaining oar, he
sculled and steered the boat therewith gently.

Billy, who thought his companion must be either drunk or mad, could
contain himself no longer.

"I say, old fellow," he remarked, "you're comin' it pretty strong!  Wot
on earth _are_ you up to, and where in all the world are 'ee goin' to?"

"Oh come, you know," answered Jones in a remonstrative tone, "I _may_ be
an easy-goin' chap, but I can't be expected to tell all my secrets
except to friends."

"Well, well," said Billy, with a sigh, "it's no use tryin' to hold out.
I'll be as friendly as I can; only.  I tells you candid, I'll mizzle
whenever I gits ashore.  I'm not agoin' to tell no end o' lies to please
you any longer, so I give 'ee fair warning," said Billy stoutly.

"All right, my lad," said the wily Jones, who felt that having subdued
the boy thus far, he would have little difficulty in subduing him still
further, in course of time, and by dint of judicious treatment; "I don't
want 'ee to tell lies on my account, an' I'll let you go free as soon as
ever we get ashore.  So now, let's shake hands over it, and have a glass
o' grog and a bit o' breakfast."

Billy shook hands, and took a sip out of the case-bottle, by way of
clenching the reconciliation.  The two then had breakfast together, and,
while this meal was in progress, Jones informed his little friend of the
nature of the "game" he was engaged in playing out.

"You must know, my lad," said Mr Jones, "that you and I have been
wrecked.  We are the only survivors of the brig Skylark, which was run
down in a fog by a large three-masted screw steamer on the night of the
thirteenth--that's three nights ago, Billy.  The Skylark sank
immediately, and every soul on board was lost except you and me, because
the steamer, as is too often the case in such accidents, passed on and
left us to our fate.  You and I was saved by consequence of bein' smart
and gettin' into this here small boat--which is one o' the Skylark's
boats--only just in time to save ourselves; but she had only one oar in
her, and no mast, or sail, or rudder, as you see, Billy; nevertheless we
managed to keep her goin' with the one oar up to this time, and no
doubt," said Mr Jones with a grin, "we'll manage to keep her goin' till
we're picked up and carried safe into port."

Billy's eyes had opened very wide and very round as Mr Jones's
description proceeded; gradually, as his surprise increased, his mouth
also opened and elongated, but he said never a word, though he breathed
hard.

"Now, Billy, my boy," pursued Mr Jones, "I tell 'ee all this, of
course, in strict confidence.  The Skylark, you must know, was loaded
with a valuable cargo of fine herrings, worth about 200 pounds.  There
was 780 barrels of 'em, and 800 boxes.  The brig was worth 100 pounds,
so the whole affair was valued at 300 pounds sterling."

"You don't mean to tell me," said Billy, catching his breath, "that
there warn't never no such a wessel as the Skylark?"

"Never that I know of," replied Jones with a smile, "except in my brain,
and on the books o' several insurance companies."

Billy's eyes and mouth grew visibly rounder, but he said nothing more,
and Mr Jones, renewing his quid, went on--

"Well, my lad, before this here Skylark left the port of London for
Cherbourg, I insured her in no fewer than five insurance Companies.
You'll understand that that ain't regular, my boy, but at each office I
said that the vessel was not insured in any other, and they believed me.
You must know that a good deal of business is done by these Companies
in good faith, which gives a chance to smart fellows like me and you to
turn an honest penny, d'ye see?  They are pretty soft, luckily."

Mr Jones happened to be mistaken in this opinion, as the sequel will
show, but Billy believed him at the time, and wondered that they were
"so green."

"Yes," continued Jones, counting on his fingers, "I'm in for 300 pounds
with the _Advance_ Company, and 300 pounds with the _Tied Harbours_
Company, and 225 pounds with the _Home and Abroad_ Company, and 200
pounds with the _Submarine_ Company, and 300 pounds with the
_Friend-in-need_ Company--the whole makin' a snug little sum of 1325
pounds.  `In for a penny, in for a pound,' is my motto, you see; so,
lad, you and I shall make our fortunes, if all goes well, and you only
continue game and clever."

This last remark was a feeler, and Mr Jones paused to observe its
effect, but he could scarce refrain from laughter for Billy's eyes and
mouth now resembled three extremely round O's with his nose like a fat
mark of admiration in the midst.

A gusty sigh was all the response he gave, however, so Mr Jones
continued--

"We've been out about thirty hours, starvin' in this here little boat,
you and I, so now it's about time we wos picked up; and as I see a
vessel on our larboard-beam that looks like a foreigner, we'll throw the
grub overboard, have another pull at the grog, bottle, and hoist a
signal of distress."

In pursuance of these intentions Jones applied the case-bottle to his
lips, and took a long pull, after which he offered it to Billy, who
however declined.  He then threw the bread-bag into the sea, and tying
his handkerchief to the oar after the manner of a flag, set it up on end
and awaited the result.

The vessel alluded to was presently observed to alter its course and
bear down on the boat, and now Billy felt that the deciding time had
come.  He sat gazing at the approaching vessel in silence.  Was he to
give in to his fate and agree to tell lies through thick and thin in
order to further the designs of Mr Jones, or was he to reveal all the
moment he should get on board the vessel, and take the consequences?  He
thought of Katie, and resolved to give up the struggle against evil.
Then Nora rose up in his mind's eye, and he determined to do the right.
Then he thought of transportation for a prolonged term of years, with
which Jones threatened him, and he felt inclined to turn again into the
wrong road to escape from that; presently he remembered the Grotto, and
the lessons of truth to God and man that he had learned there, and he
made up his mind to fight in the cause of truth to the last gasp.

Mr Jones watched his face keenly, and came to the conclusion that he
had quelled the boy, and should now find him a willing and useful tool,
but in order to make still more sure, he employed the few minutes that
remained to him in commenting on the great discomfort of a convict's
life, and the great satisfaction that accrued from making one's fortune
at a single stroke.

This talk was not without its effect.  Billy wavered.  Before he could
make up his mind they were alongside the strange vessel, and next moment
on her deck.  Mr Jones quickly explained the circumstances of the loss
of the Skylark to the sympathetic captain.  Billy listened in silence,
and, by silence, had assented to the falsehood.  It was too late now to
mend matters, so he gave way to despair, which in him frequently, if not
usually, assumed the form of reckless joviality.

While this spirit was strong upon him he swore to anything.  He not only
admitted the truth of all that his tempter advanced, but entertained the
seamen with a lively and graphic account of the running down of the
Skylark, and entered into minute particulars--chiefly of a comical
nature--with such recklessness that the cause of Mr Jones bade fair to
resemble many a roast which is totally ruined by being overdone.  Jones
gave him a salutary check, however, on being landed next day at a
certain town on the Kentish coast, so that when Billy was taken before
the authorities, his statements were brought somewhat more into accord
with those of his tempter.

The wily Mr Jones went at once with Billy to the chief officer of the
coast-guard on that station, and reported the loss of his vessel with
much minuteness of detail--to the effect that she had sailed from London
at noon of a certain date, at the quarter ebb tide, the sky being cloudy
and wind sou'-west; that the casualty occurred at five p.m. on the day
following near the North Foreland Light, at half flood tide, the sky
being cloudy and wind west-sou'-west; that the vessel had sunk, and all
the crew had perished excepting himself and the boy.  This report, with
full particulars, was sent to the Board of Trade.  Mr Jones then went
to the agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society and related his
pitiful tale to him.  That gentleman happening to be an astute man,
observed some discrepancies in the accounts given respectively by Billy
and his master.  He therefore put a variety of puzzling questions, and
took down a good many notes.  Mr Jones, however, had laid his plans so
well, and gave such a satisfactory and plausible account of himself,
that the agent felt constrained to extend to him the aid of the noble
Society which he represented, and by which so much good is done to
sailors directly, and indirectly to the community at large.  He paid
their passage to London, but resolved to make some further inquiries
with a view either to confirming or allaying his suspicions.

These little matters settled, and the loss having been duly advertised
in the newspapers, Mr Jones set out for London with the intention of
presenting his claims to the Insurance Companies.

In the train Billy had time to reflect on the wickedness of which he had
been guilty, and his heart was torn with conflicting emotions, among
which repentance was perhaps the most powerful.  But what, he thought,
was the use of repentance now?  The thing was done and could not be
undone.

Could it not?  Was it too late to mend?  At the Grotto he had been
taught that it was "never too late to mend"--but that it was sinful as
well as dangerous to delay on the strength of that fact; that "_now_ was
the accepted time, _now_ the day of salvation."  When Billy thought of
these things, and then looked at the stern inexorable face of the man by
whom he had been enslaved, he began to give way to despair.  When he
thought of his good angel Nora, he felt inclined to leap out of the
carriage window and escape or die!  He restrained himself, however, and
did nothing until the train arrived in London.  Then he suddenly burst
away from his captor, dived between the legs of a magnificent railway
guard, whose dignity and person were overthrown by the shock, eluded the
ticket-collector and several policemen, and used his active little legs
so well that in a few minutes his pursuers lost him in a labyrinth of
low streets not far distant from the station.

From this point he proceeded at a rapid though less furious pace direct
to the Grotto, where he presented himself to the superintendent with the
remark that he had "come back to make a clean breast of it."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

ON THE SCENT.

Let us change the scene and put back the clock.  Ah, how many hearts
would rejoice if it were as easy to return on the track of Time in real
life as it is to do so in a tale!

It was the evening of the day in which Jones and Billy went to sea in
the little boat.  Ramsgate, Mr Durant's supper-table, with Stanley Hall
and Robert Queeker as guests.

They were all very happy and merry, for Stanley was recounting with
graphic power some of the incidents of his recent voyage.  Mr Durant
was rich enough to take the loss of his vessel with great equanimity--
all the more so that it had been fully insured.  Mr Queeker was in a
state of bliss in consequence of having been received graciously by
Fanny, whose soul was aflame with sentiment so powerful that she could
not express it except through the medium of a giggle.  Only once had
Fanny been enabled to do full justice to herself, and that was when,
alone with Katie in the mysterious gloom of a midnight confabulation,
she suddenly observed that size and looks in men were absolutely
nothing--less than nothing--and that in her estimation heart and
intellect were everything!

In the midst of his mirth Mr Durant suddenly turned to Queeker and
said--

"By the way, what made you so late of coming to-night, Queeker?  I
thought you had promised to come to tea."

"Well, yes, but--a--that is," stammered Queeker in confusion, "in fact I
was obliged to keep an appointment in connection with the--the
particular business--"

"The secret mission, in short," observed Katie, with a peculiar smile.

"Well, secret mission if you choose," laughed Queeker; "at all events it
was that which prevented my getting here sooner.  In truth, I did not
expect to have managed to come so soon, but we came to the boat--"

Queeker stopped short and blushed violently, feeling that he had
slightly, though unintentionally, committed himself.

Fanny looked at him, blushed in sympathy, and giggled.

"Oh, there's a _boat_ in the secret mission, is there?" cried Stanley;
"come, let us make a game of it.  Was it an iron boat?"

"No," replied Queeker, laughing, for he felt that at all events he was
safe in answering that question.

"Was it a wooden one?" asked Katie.

"Well--ye--"

"Was it a big one?" demanded Mr Durant, entering into the spirit of the
game.

"No, it was a little one," said Queeker, still feeling safe, although
anxious to evade reply.

"Was there a man in it?" said Katie.

Queeker hesitated.

"And a boy?" cried Stanley.

The question was put unwittingly, but being so put Queeker stammered,
and again blushed.

Katie on the contrary turned pale, for her previously expressed hope
that there might be some connection between Queeker's mission and Billy
Towler's troubles flashed into her mind.

"But _was_ there a boy in it?" she said, with a sudden earnestness that
induced every one to look at her in surprise.

"Really, I pray--I must beg," said Queeker, "that you won't make this a
matter of even jocular inquiry.  Of course I know that no one here would
make improper use of any information that I might give, but I have been
pledged to secrecy by my employers."

"But," continued Katie in the same anxious way as before, "it will not
surely be a breach of confidence merely to tell me if the boy was a
small, active, good-looking little fellow, with bright eyes and curly
hair."

"I am bound to admit," said Queeker, "that your description is correct."

To the amazement, not to say consternation, of every one, Katie covered
her face with her hands and burst into tears, exclaiming in an agony of
distress that she knew it; she had feared it after sending him away;
that she had ruined him, and that it was too late now to do anything.

"No, not too late, perhaps," she repeated, suddenly raising her large
beautiful eyes, which swam in tears; "oh papa, come with me up-stairs, I
must speak with you alone at once."

She seized her astonished father by the hand and led him unresisting
from the room.

Having hurriedly related all she knew about Billy Towler, Morley Jones,
and Nora, she looked up in his face and demanded to know what _was_ to
be done.

"Done, my dear child," he replied, looking perplexed, "we must go at
once and see how much can be undone.  You tell me you have Nora's
address.  Well, we'll go there at once."

"But--but," said Katie, "Nora does not know the full extent of her
father's wickedness, and we want to keep it from her if possible."

"A very proper desire to spare her pain, Katie, but in the circumstances
we cannot help ourselves; we must do what we can to frustrate this man's
designs and save the boy."

So saying Mr Durant descended to the dining-room.  He explained that
some suspicious facts had come to his daughter's knowledge which
necessitated instant action; said that he was sorry Mr Queeker felt it
incumbent on him to maintain secrecy in regard to his mission, but that
he could not think of pressing him to act in opposition to his
convictions, and, dismissing his guests with many apologies, went out
with Katie in search of the abode of Nora Jones.

Stanley Hall, whose curiosity was aroused by all that had passed, went
down to take a walk on the pier by way of wearing it off in a
philosophical manner.  He succeeded easily in getting rid of this
feeling, but he could not so easily get rid of the image of Katie
Durant.  He had suspected himself in love with her before he sailed for
India; his suspicions were increased on his return to England, and when
he saw the burst of deep feeling to which she had so recently given way,
and heard the genuine expressions of remorse, and beheld her sweet face
bedewed with tears of regret and pity, suspicion was swallowed up in
certainty.

He resolved then and there to win her, if he could, and marry her!  Here
a touch of perplexity assailed him, but he fought it off nobly.

He was young, no doubt, and had no money, but what then?--he was strong,
had good abilities, a father in a lucrative practice, with the prospect
of assisting and ultimately succeeding him.  That was enough, surely.

The lodging which he had taken for a few days was retaken that night for
an indefinite period, and he resolved to lay siege to her heart in due
form.

But that uncertainty which is proverbial in human affairs stepped within
the circle of his life and overturned his plans.  On returning to his
rooms he found a telegram on the table.  His father, it informed him,
was dangerously ill.  By the next train he started for home, and arrived
to find that his father was dead.

A true narrative of any portion of this world's doings must of necessity
be as varied as the world itself, and equally abrupt in its transitions.
From the lively supper-table Stanley Hall passed to the deathbed of his
father.  In like manner we must ask the reader to turn with us from the
contemplation of Stanley's deep sorrow to the observation of Queeker's
poetic despair.

Maddened between the desire to tell all he knew regarding the secret
mission to Mr Durant, and the command laid on him by his employers to
be silent, the miserable youth rushed frantically to his lodgings,
without any definite intentions, but more than half inclined to sink on
his knees before his desk, and look up to the moon, or stars, or;
failing these, to the floating light for inspiration, and pen the
direful dirge of something dreadful and desperate!  He had even got the
length of the first line, and had burst like a thunderbolt into his room
muttering--

  "Great blazing wonder of illimitable spheres,"

when he became suddenly aware of the fact that his chair was occupied by
the conchological friend with whom he had spent the earlier part of that
day, who was no other than the man with the keen grey eyes.

"What! still in the poetic vein?" he said, with a grave smile.

"Why--I--thought you were off to London!" exclaimed Queeker, with a very
red face.

"I have seen cause to change my plan," said Mr Larks quietly.

"I'm _very_ glad of it," replied Queeker, running his fingers through
his hair and sitting down opposite his friend with a deep sigh, "because
I'm in the most horrible state of perplexity.  It is quite evident to me
that the boy is known to Miss Durant, for she went off into _such_ a
state when I mentioned him and described him exactly."

"Indeed," said Mr Larks; "h'm!  I know the boy too."

"Do you?  Why didn't you tell me that?"

"There was no occasion to," said the imperturbable Mr Larks, whose
visage never by any chance conveyed any expression whatever, except when
he pleased, and then it conveyed only and exactly the expression that he
intended.  "But come," he continued, "let's hear all about it, and don't
quote any poetry till you have done with the facts."

Thus exhorted Queeker described the scene at the supper-table with
faithful minuteness, and, on concluding, demanded what was to be done.

"H'm!" grunted Mr Larks.  "They've gone to visit Nora Jones, so you and
I shall go and keep them company.  Come along."

He put on his hat and went out, followed by his little friend.

In a lowly ill-furnished room in one of the poorest streets of the town,
where rats and dogs and cats seemed to divide the district with
poverty-stricken human beings, they found Nora sitting by the bedside of
her grandmother, who appeared to be dying.  A large Family Bible, from
which she had been reading, was open on her knee.

Mr Larks had opened the door and entered without knocking.  He and
Queeker stood in the passage and saw the bed, the invalid, and the
watcher through an inner door which stood ajar.  They could hear the
murmurings of the old woman's voice.  She appeared to wander in her
mind, for sometimes her words were coherent, at other times she merely
babbled.

"O Morley, Morley, give it up," she said, during one of her lucid
intervals; "it has been the curse of our family.  Your grandfather died
of it; your father--ah! he _was_ a man, tall and straight, and _so_
kind, till he took to it; oh me! how it changed him!  But the Lord saved
his soul, though he let the body fall to the dust.  Blessed be His holy
name for that.  Give it up, Morley, my darling boy; give it up, give it
up--oh, for God's sake give it up!"

She raised her voice at each entreaty until it almost reached a shriek,
and then her whole frame seemed to sink down into the bed from
exhaustion.

"Why don't 'ee speak to me, Morley?" she resumed after a short time,
endeavouring to turn her head round.

"Dearest granny," said Nora, gently stroking one of her withered hands,
which lay on the counterpane, "father is away just now.  No doubt he
will be back ere long."

"Ay, ay, he's always away; always away," she murmured in a querulous
tone; "always coming back too, but he never comes.  Oh, if he would give
it up--give it up--"

She repeated this several times, and gradually dwindled off into
unintelligible mutterings.

By this time Mr Larks had become aware of whispering voices in a part
of the room which he could not see.  Pushing the door a little farther
open he entered softly, and in a darkened corner of the apartment beheld
Mr Durant and Katie in close conversation with James Welton.  They all
rose, and Nora, seeing that the old woman had fallen into a slumber,
also rose and advanced towards the strangers.  Mr Durant at once
explained to her who Queeker was, and Queeker introduced Mr Larks as a
friend who had come to see them on important business.

"I think we know pretty well what the business is about," said Jim
Welton, advancing and addressing himself to Mr Larks, "but you see," he
added, glancing towards the bed, "that this is neither the time nor
place to prosecute your inquiries, sir."

Mr Larks, who was by no means an unfeeling man, though very stern, said
that he had no intention of intruding; he had not been aware that any
one was ill in the house, and he would take it as a favour if Mr Welton
would go outside and allow him the pleasure of a few words with him.  Of
course Jim agreed, but before going took Nora aside.

"I'll not be back to-night, dearest," he said in a low whisper.
"To-morrow, early, I'll return."

"You will leave no stone unturned?" said Nora.

"Not one.  I'll do my best to save him."

"And you have told me the worst--told me _all_?" asked Nora, with a look
of intense grief mingled with anxiety on her pale face.

"I have," said Jim, in a tone and with a look so earnest and truthful
that Nora required no further assurance.  She gave him a kindly but
inexpressibly sad smile, and returned to her stool beside the bed.  Her
lover and Mr Larks went out, followed by Queeker.

"We won't intrude on you longer to-night," said Katie, going up to Nora
and laying her hand quietly on her shoulder.

"Your visit is no intrusion," said Nora, looking up with a quiet smile.
"It was love that brought you here, I know.  May our dear Lord bless you
and your father for wishing to comfort the heart of one who needs it so
much--oh, so much."  She put her hands before her face and was silent.
Katie tried in vain to speak.  The tears coursed freely down her cheeks,
but never a word could she utter.  She put her arm round the neck of the
poor girl and kissed her.  This was a language which Nora understood;--
many words could not have expressed so much; no words could have
expressed more.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

MR. JONES IS OUTWITTED, AND NORA IS LEFT DESOLATE.

When Morley Jones found himself suddenly deserted by his ally Billy
Towler, he retired to the privacy of a box in a low public-house in
Thames Street, and there, under the stimulus of a stiff glass of grog,
consulted with himself as to the best mode of procedure under the trying
circumstances in which he found himself placed.  He thought it probable,
after half an hour of severe meditation, that Billy would return to the
Grotto, but that, for his own sake, he would give a false account of his
absence, and say nothing about the loss of the Skylark.  Feeling
somewhat relieved in mind by his conclusions on this head, he drank off
his grog, called for another glass, and then set himself to the
consideration of how far the disappearance of the boy would interfere
with his obtaining payment of the various sums due by the Insurance
Offices.  This point was either more knotty and difficult to unravel
than the previous one, or the grog began to render his intellect less
capable of grappling with it.  At all events it cost him an hour to
determine his course of action, and required another glass of grog to
enable him to put the whole matter fairly before his mental vision in
one comprehensive view.  This, however, accomplished, he called for a
fourth glass of grog "for luck," and reeled out of the house to carry
out his deep-laid plans.

His first act was to proceed to Greenwich, where a branch of his
fish-curing business existed, or was supposed to exist.  Here he met a
friend who offered to treat him.  Unfortunately for the success of his
schemes he accepted this offer, and, in the course of a debauch,
revealed so much of his private affairs that the friend, after seeing
him safely to his lodging, and bidding him an affectionate farewell,
went up to London by the first boat on the following morning, and
presented himself to the managers of various Insurance Companies, to
whom he made revelations which were variously received by these
gentlemen; some of them opening their eyes in amazement, while others
opened their mouths in amusement, and gave him to understand that he was
very much in the position of a man who should carry coals to Newcastle--
they being then in possession of all the information given, and a great
deal more besides.

The manager of the Submarine Insurance Company was the most facetious
among these gentlemen on hearing the revelations of Mr Jones's
"friend."

"Can you tell me," said that gentleman, when he had pumped the "friend"
dry, "which of us is likely to receive the distinguished honour of the
first visit from Mr Jones?"

"He said summat about your own office, sir," replied the informer;
"leastwise I think he did, but I ain't quite sartin."

"H'm! not unlikely," observed the manager; "we have had the pleasure of
paying him something before to-day.  Come here, I will introduce you to
an acquaintance of Mr Jones, who takes a deep interest in him.  He has
just arrived from Ramsgate."

Opening a door, the manager ushered the informer into a small room where
a stout man with peculiarly keen grey eyes was warming himself at the
fire.

"Allow me to introduce you, Mr Larks, to a friend of Mr Jones, who may
be of some use.  I will leave you together for a little," said the
manager, with a laugh, as he retired and shut the door.

It is not necessary that we should enter into details as to how Mr
Jones went about the business of drawing his nets ashore--so to speak,--
and how those who took a special interest in Mr Jones carefully
assisted him, and, up to a certain point, furthered all his proceedings.
It is sufficient to say that, about a fortnight after his arrival in
London--all the preliminary steps having been taken--he presented
himself one fine forenoon at the office of the Submarine Insurance
Company.

He was received very graciously, and, much to his satisfaction, was told
that the claim could now be settled without further delay.  Former
experience had taught him that such a piece of business was not
unusually difficult of settlement, but he was quite charmed by the
unwonted facilities which seemed to be thrown in his way in regard to
the present affair.  He congratulated himself internally, and the
manager congratulated him externally, so to speak, by referring to his
good fortune in having insured the vessel and cargo to the full amount.

Even the clerks of the establishment appeared to manifest unwonted
interest in the case, which gratified while it somewhat surprised Mr
Jones.  Indeed, the interest deepened to such an extent, and was so
obtrusive, that it became almost alarming, so that feelings of
considerable relief were experienced by the adventurous man when he at
length received a cheque for 300 pounds and left the office with it in
his pocket.

In the outer lobby he felt a touch on his arm, and, looking round, met
the gaze of a gentleman with peculiarly keen grey eyes.  This gentleman
made some quiet remarks with reference to Mr Jones being "wanted," and
when Mr Jones, not relishing the tone or looks of this gentleman, made
a rush at the outer glass door of the office, an official stepped
promptly in front of it, put one hand on the handle, and held up the
other with the air of one who should say, "Excuse me, there is no
thoroughfare this way."  Turning abruptly to the left, Mr Jones found
himself confronted by another grave gentleman of powerful frame and
resolute aspect, who, by a species of magic or sleight of hand known
only to the initiated, slipped a pair of steel bracelets on Mr Jones's
wrists, and finally, almost before he knew where he was, Mr Jones found
himself seated in a cab with the strong gentleman by his side, and the
keen grey-eyed gentleman in front of him.

Soon afterwards he found himself standing alone in the midst of an
apartment, the chief characteristics of which were, that the furniture
was scanty, the size inconveniently little, and the window unusually
high up, besides being heavily barred, and ridiculously small.

Here let us leave him to his meditations.

One fine forenoon--many weeks after the capture of Morley Jones--Dick
Moy, Jack Shales, and Jerry MacGowl were engaged in painting and
repairing buoys in the Trinity store on the pier at Ramsgate.  The two
former were enjoying their month of service on shore, the latter was on
sick-leave, but convalescent.  Jack was painting squares of alternate
black and white on a buoy of a conical shape.  Dick was vigorously
scraping sea-weed and barnacles off a buoy of a round form.  The store,
or big shed, was full of buoys of all shapes; some new and fresh, others
old and rugged; all of them would have appeared surprisingly gigantic to
any one accustomed to see buoys only in their native element.  The
invalid sat on the shank of a mushroom anchor, and smoked his pipe while
he affected to superintend the work.

"Sure I pity the poor craturs as is always sick.  The mouth o' man can
niver tell the blessedness of bein' well, as the pote says," observed
Jerry, with a sigh, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe and proceeded
to refill it.  "Come now, Jack Shales," he added, after a short pause,
"ye don't call that square, do 'ee?"

"I'll paint yer nose black if you don't shut up," said Jack, drawing the
edge of a black square with intense caution, in order to avoid invading
the domain of a white one.

"Ah! you reminds me of the owld proverb that says somethin' about asses
gittin impudent an' becomin' free with their heels when lions grow
sick."

"Well, Jerry," retorted Jack, with a smile, as he leaned back and
regarded his work with his head very much on one side, and his eyes
partially closed, after the manner of knights of the brush, "I'm not
offended, because I'm just as much of an ass as you are of a lion."

"I say, mates," remarked Dick Moy, pausing in his work, and wiping his
brow, "are 'ee aweer that the cap'n has ordered us to be ready to start
wi' the first o' the tide at half after five to-morrow?"

"I knows it," replied Jack Shales, laying down the black brush and
taking up the white one.

"I knows it too," said Jerry MacGowl, "but it don't make no manner of
odds to me, 'cause I means to stop ashore and enjoy meself.  I mean to
amoose meself with the trial o' that black thief Morley Jones."

Dick Moy resumed his work with a grunt, and said that Jerry was a lucky
fellow to be so long on sick-leave, and Jack said he wished he had been
called up as a witness in Jones's case, for he would have cut a better
figure than Jim Welton did.

"Ay, boy," said Dick Moy, "but there wos a reason for that.  You know
the poor feller is in love wi' Jones's daughter, an' he didn't like for
to help to convict his own father-in-law _to be_, d'ye see?  That's
where it is.  The boy Billy Towler was a'most as bad.  He's got a
weakness for the gal too, an' no wonder, for she's bin as good as a
mother to 'im.  They say that Billy nigh broke the hearts o' the
lawyers, he wos so stoopid at sometimes, an' so oncommon cute at others.
But it warn't o' no use.  Jim's father was strong in his evidence agin
him, an' that Mr Larks, as comed aboard of the Gull, you remember, he
had been watching an' ferreting about the matter to that extent that he
turned Jones's former life inside out.  It seems he's bin up to dodges
o' that kind for a long time past."

"No! has he?" said Jack Shales.

"Arrah, didn't ye read of it?" exclaimed Jerry MacGowl.

"No," replied Jack drily; "not bein' on the sick-list I han't got time
to read the papers, d'ye see?"

"Well," resumed Dick Moy, "it seems he has more than once set fire to
his premises in Gravesend, and got the insurance money.  Hows'ever, he
has got fourteen years' transportation now, an' that'll take the shine
pretty well out of him before he comes back."

"How did the poor gal take it?" asked Jack.

Dick replied that she was very bad at first, but that she got somewhat
comforted by the way her father behaved to her and listened to her
readin' o' the Bible after he was condemned.  It might be that the death
of his old mother had softened him a bit, for she died with his name on
her lips, her last words being, "Oh Morley, give it up, my darling boy,
give it up; it's your only chance to give it up, for you inherit it, my
poor boy; the passion and the poison are in your blood; oh, give it up,
Morley, give it up!"

"They do say," continued Dick, "that Jones broke down altogether w'en he
heard that, an' fell on his gal's neck an' cried like a babby.  But for
my part I don't much believe in them deathbed repentances--for it's much
the same thing wi' Jones now, he bein' as good as dead.  It's not wot a
man _says_, but how a man _lives_, as'll weigh for or against him in the
end."

"An' what more did he say?" asked Jerry MacGowl, stopping down the
tobacco in his pipe with one of his fire-proof fingers; "you see, havin'
bin on the sick-list so long, I haven't got up all the details o' this
business."

"He didn't say much more," replied Dick, scraping away at the sea-weed
and barnacles with renewed vigour, "only he made his darter promise that
she'd marry Jim Welton as soon after he was gone as possible.  She did
nothing but cry, poor thing, and wouldn't hear of it at first, but he
was so strong about it, saying that the thought of her being so well
married was the only thing as would comfort him w'en he was gone, that
she gave in at last."

"Sure then she'll have to make up her mind," said Jerry, "to live on
air, which is too light food intirely for any wan excep' hummin'-birds
and potes."

"She'll do better than that, mate," returned Dick, "for Jim 'as got
appointed to be assistant-keeper to a light'ouse, through that fust-rate
gen'leman Mr Durant, who is 'and an' glove, I'm told, wi' the Elder
Brethren up at the Trinity 'Ouse.  It's said that they are to be spliced
in a week or two, but, owin' to the circumstances, the weddin' is to be
kep' quite priwate."

"Good luck to em!" cried Jerry.  "Talkin' of the Durants, I s'pose ye've
heard that there's goin' to be a weddin' in that family soon?"

"Oh, yes, I've heard on it," cried Dick; "Miss Durant--Katie, they calls
her--she's agoin' to be spliced to the young doctor that was wrecked in
the Wellington.  A smart man that.  They say 'ee has stepped into 'is
father's shoes, an' is so much liked that 'ee's had to git an assistant
to help him to get through the work o' curin' people--or killin' of 'em.
I never feel rightly sure in my own mind which it is that the doctors
does for us."

"Och, don't ye know?" said Jerry, removing his pipe for a moment, "they
keeps curin' of us as long as we've got any tin, an' when that's done
they kills us off quietly.  If it warn't for the doctors we'd all live
to the age of Methoosamel, excep', of coorse, w'en we was cut off by
accident or drink."

"Well, I don't know as to that," said Jack Shales, in a hearty manner;
"but I'm right glad to hear that Miss Durant is gettin' a good husband,
for she's the sweetest gal in England, I think, always exceptin' one
whom I don't mean for to name just now.  Hasn't she been a perfect angel
to the poor--especially to poor old men--since she come to Ramsgate? and
didn't she, before goin' back to Yarmouth, where she b'longs to, make a
beautiful paintin' o' the lifeboat, and present it in a gold frame, with
tears in her sweet eyes, to the coxswain o' the boat, an' took his big
fist in her two soft little hands, an' shook an' squeezed it, an' begged
him to keep the pictur' as a very slight mark of the gratitude an'
esteem of Dr Hall an' herself--that was after they was engaged, you
know?  Ah! there ain't many gals like _her_," said Jack, with a sigh,
"always exceptin' _one_."

"Humph!" said Dick Moy, "I wouldn't give my old 'ooman for six dozen of
'er."

"Just so," observed Jerry, with a grin, "an' I've no manner of doubt
that Dr Hall wouldn't give _her_ for sixty dozen o' your old 'ooman.
It's human natur', lad,--that's where it is, mates.  But what has come
o' Billy Towler?  Has he gone back to the what's-'is-name--the Cavern,
eh?"

"The Grotto, you mean," said Jack Shales.

"Well, the Grotto--'tan't much differ."

"He's gone back for a time," said Dick; "but Mr Durant has prowided for
_him_ too.  He has given him a berth aboord one of his East-Indiamen; so
if Billy behaves hisself his fortin's as good as made.  Leastwise he has
got his futt on the first round, an' the ladder's all clear before him."

"By the way, what's that I've heard," said Jack Shales, "about Mr
Durant findin' out that he'd know'd Billy Towler some years ago?"

"I don't rightly know," replied Dick.  "I've 'eerd it said that the old
gentleman recognised him as a beggar boy 'e'd tuck a fancy to an' putt
to school long ago; but Billy didn't like the school, it seems, an'
runn'd away--w'ich I don't regard as wery surprisin'--an' Mr Durant
could never find out where 'e'd run to.  That's how I 'eerd the story,
but wot's true of it I dun know."

"There goes the dinner-bell!" exclaimed Jack Shales, rising with
alacrity on hearing a neighbouring clock strike noon.

Jerry rose with a sigh, and remarked, as he shook the ashes out of his
pipe, and put it into his waistcoat pocket, that his appetite had quite
left him; that he didn't believe he was fit for more than two chickens
at one meal, whereas he had seen the day when he would have thought
nothing of a whole leg of mutton to his own cheek.

"Ah," remarked Dick Moy, "Irish mutton, I s'pose.  Well, I don't know
'ow you feels, but I feels so hungry that I could snap at a ring-bolt;
and I know of a lot o' child'n, big an' small, as won't look sweet on
their daddy if he keeps 'em waitin' for dinner, so come along, mates."

Saying this, Dick and his friends left the buoy-store, and walked
smartly off to their several places of abode in the town.

In a darkened apartment of that same town sat Nora Jones, the very
personification of despair, on a low stool, with her head resting on the
side of a poor bed.  She was alone, and perfectly silent; for some
sorrows, like some thoughts, are too deep for utterance.  Everything
around her suggested absolute desolation.  The bed was that in which not
long ago she had been wont to smooth the pillow and soothe the heart of
her old grandmother.  It was empty now.  The fire in the rusty grate had
been allowed to die out, and its cold grey ashes strewed the hearth.
Among them lay the fragments of a black bottle.  It would be difficult
to say what it was in the peculiar aspect of these fragments that
rendered them so suggestive, but there was that about them which
conveyed irresistibly the idea that the bottle had been dashed down
there with the vehemence of uncontrollable passion.  The little table
which used to stand at the patient's bedside was covered with a few
crumbs and fragments of a meal that must, to judge from their state and
appearance, have been eaten a considerable time ago; and the confusion
of the furniture, as well as the dust that covered everything, was
strangely out of keeping with the character of the poor girl, who
reclined by the side of the bed, so pale and still that, but for the
slight twitching movement of her clasped hands, one might have supposed
she had already passed from the scene of her woe.  Even the
old-fashioned timepiece that hung upon a nail in the wall seemed to be
smitten with the pervading spell, for its pendulum was motionless, and
its feeble pulse had ceased to tick.

A soft tap at the door broke the deathlike silence.  Nora looked up but
did not answer, as it slowly opened, and a man entered.  On seeing who
it was, she uttered a low wail, and buried her face in the bed-clothes.
Without speaking, or moving from her position, she held out her hand to
Jim Welton, who advanced with a quick but quiet step, and, going down on
his knees beside her, took the little hand in both of his.  The attitude
and the silence were suggestive.  Without having intended it the young
sailor began to pray, and in a few short broken sentences poured out his
soul before God.

A flood of tears came to Nora's relief.  After a few minutes she looked
up.

"Oh! thank you, thank you, Jim.  I believe that in the selfishness of my
grief I had forgotten God; but oh!  I feel as if my heart was crushed
beyond the power of recovery.  _She_ is gone" (glancing at the empty
bed), "and _he_ is gone--gone--_for ever_."

Jim wished to comfort her, and tried to speak, but his voice was choked.
He could only draw her to him, and laying her head on his breast,
smooth her fair soft hair with his hard but gentle hand.

"Not gone for ever, dearest," he said at length with a great effort.
"It is indeed along long time, but--"

He could not go further, for it seemed to him like mockery to suggest by
way of comfort that fourteen years would come to an end.

For some minutes the silence was broken only by an occasional sob from
poor Nora.

"Oh! he was so different _once_," she said, raising herself and looking
at her lover with tearful, earnest eyes; "you have seen him at his
worst, Jim.  There was a time,--before he took to--"

She stopped abruptly, as if unable to find words, and pointed, with a
fierce expression, that seemed strange and awful on her gentle face, to
the fragments of the broken bottle on the hearth.  Jim nodded.  She saw
that he understood, and went on in her own calm voice:--

"There was a time when he was kind and gentle and loving; when he had no
drunken companions, and no mysterious goings to sea; when he was the joy
as well as the support of his mother, and _so_ fond of me--but he was
always that; even after he had--"

Again Nora paused, and, drooping her head, uttered the low wail of
desolation that went like cold steel to the young sailor's heart.

"Nora," he said earnestly, "he will get no drink where he is going.  At
all events he will be cured of _that_ before he returns home."

"Oh, I bless the Lord for that," said Nora, with fervour.  "I have
thought of that before now, and I have thought, too, that there are men
of God where he is going, who think of, and pray for, and strive to
recover, the souls of those who--that is; but oh, Jim, Jim, it is a
long, long, weary time.  I feel that I shall never see my father more in
this world--never, never more!"

"We cannot tell, Nora," said Jim, with a desperate effort to appear
hopeful.  "I know well enough that it may seem foolish to try to comfort
you with the hope of seein' him again in this life; and yet even this
may come to pass.  He may escape, or he may be forgiven, and let off
before the end of his time.  But come, cheer up, my darling.  You
remember what his last request was?"

"How can you talk of such a thing at such a time?" exclaimed Nora,
drawing away from him and rising.

"Be not angry, Nora," said Jim, also rising.  "I did but remind you of
it for the purpose of sayin' that as you agreed to what he wished, you
have given me a sort of right or privilege, dear Nora, at least to help
and look after you in your distress.  Your own unselfish heart has never
thought of telling me that you have neither money nor home; this poor
place being yours only till term-day, which is to-morrow; but I know all
this without requiring to be told, and I have come to say that there is
an old woman--a sort of relation of mine--who lives in this town, and
will give you board and lodging gladly till I can get arrangements made
at the lighthouse for our--that is to say--till you choose, in your own
good time, to let me be your rightful protector and supporter, as well
as your comforter."

"Thank you, Jim.  It is like yourself to be so thoughtful.  Forgive me;
I judged you hastily.  It is true I am poor--I have nothing in the
world, but, thanks be to God, I have health.  I can work; and there are
some kind friends," she added, with a sad smile, "who will throw work in
my way, I know."

"Well, we will talk about these things afterwards, Nora, but you won't
refuse to take advantage of my old friend's offer--at least for a night
or two?"

"No, I won't refuse that, Jim; see, I am prepared to go," she said,
pointing to a wooden sea-chest which stood in the middle of the room;
"my box is packed.  Everything I own is in it.  The furniture, clock,
and bedding belong to the landlord."

"Come then, my own poor lamb," said the young sailor tenderly, "let us
go."

Nora rose and glanced slowly round the room.  Few rooms in Ramsgate
could have looked more poverty-stricken and cheerless, nevertheless,
being associated in her mind with those whom she had lost, she was loath
to leave it.  Falling suddenly on her knees beside the bed, she kissed
the old counterpane that had covered the dead form she had loved so
well, and then went hastily out and leaned her head against the wall of
the narrow court before the door.

Jim lifted the chest, placed it on his broad shoulders and followed her.
Locking the door behind him and putting the key in his pocket, he gave
his disengaged arm to Nora, and led her slowly a way.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

TELLS OF AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN, AND DESCRIBES A GREAT FEAST.

If, as we have elsewhere observed in this narrative, time and tide wait
for no man, it is not less true that time and tide work wonderful
changes in man and his affairs and fortunes.  Some of those changes we
will now glance at, premising that seven years have passed away since
the occurrence of the events recorded in our last chapter.

On the evening of a somewhat gloomy day in the month of sunny showers,
four men of rough aspect, and clad in coarse but not disreputable
garments, stopped in front of a public-house in one of the lowest
localities of London, and looked about them.  There was something quite
peculiar in their aspect.  They seemed to be filled with mingled
curiosity and surprise, and looked somewhat scared, as a bird does when
suddenly set free from its cage.

Two of the men were of an extremely low type of humanity--low-browed and
scowling--and their language betokened that their minds were in keeping
with their faces.  The other two were better-looking and better-spoken,
one of them having evidently been a handsome man in his day.  His hair
was blanched as white as snow although it still retained the curls of
youth.  His figure was much bent, and he appeared like one who had been
smitten with premature old age.

"Well, uncommon queer changes bin goin' on here," said one of the men,
gazing round him.

One of the others admitted that there certainly had been wonderful
changes, and expressed a fear that if the change in himself was as
great, his old pals wouldn't know him.

"Hows'ever," observed he who had spoken first, "they won't see such a
difference as they would have seen if we'd got the whole fourteen.  Good
luck to the ticket-of-leave system, say I."

The others laughed at this, and one of them suggested that they should
enter the public-house and have a glass of grog in memory of old times.
Three of the men at once agreed to this proposal, and said that as it
would not be long before they were in the stone jug again it behoved
them to make the most of their freedom while it lasted.  The man with
white hair, however, objected, and it was not until his companions had
chaffed and rallied him a good deal that he consented to enter the
house, observing, as he followed them slowly, that he had not tasted a
drop for seven years.

"Well, well," replied one of the others, "it don't matter; you'll relish
it all the more now, old feller.  It'll go down like oil, an' call up
the memory of old times--"

"The memory of old times!" cried the white-haired man, stopping short,
with a sudden blaze of ferocity which amazed his companions.

He stood glaring at them for a few moments, with his hands tightly
clenched; then, without uttering another word, he turned round and
rushed from the house.

"Mad!" exclaimed one of the other three, looking at his companions when
they had recovered from their surprise, "mad as a March hare.
Hows'ever, that don't consarn us.  Come along, my hearties.--Hallo!
landlord, fetch drink here--your best, and plenty of it.  Now, boys,
fill up and I'll give 'ee a toast."

Saying this the man filled his glass, the others followed his example--
the toast was given and drunk--more toasts were given and drunk--the
three men returned to their drink and their old ways, and haunts and
comrades, as the sow returns to her wallowing in the mire.

Meanwhile the white-haired man wandered away as if he had no settled
purpose.  Day after day he moved on through towns and villages and
fields, offering to work, but seldom being employed, begging his bread
from door to door, but carefully avoiding the taverns; sleeping where he
could, or where he was permitted--sometimes in the barn of a kindly
farmer, sometimes under a hay-stack, not unfrequently under a hedge--
until at last he found himself in the town of Ramsgate.

Here he made inquiries of various people, and immediately set forth
again on his travels through the land until he reached a remote part of
the coast of England, where he found his further progress checked by the
sea, but, by dint of begging a free passage from fishermen here and
there, he managed at last to reach one of our outlying reefs, where, on
a small islet, a magnificent lighthouse reared its white and stately
column, and looked abroad upon the ocean, with its glowing eye.  There
was a small village on the islet, in which dwelt a few families of
fishermen.  They were a hard-working community, and appeared to be
contented and happy.

The lighthouse occupied an elevated plateau above the cliffs at the
sea-ward extremity of the isle, about quarter of a mile distant from the
fishing village.  Thither the old man wended his way.  The tower, rising
high above shrubs and intervening rocks, rendered a guide unnecessary.
It was a calm evening.  The path, which was narrow and rugged, wound its
serpentine course amid grey rocks, luxuriant brambles, grasses, and
flowering shrubs.  There were no trees.  The want of shelter on that
exposed spot rendered their growth impossible.  The few that had been
planted had been cut down by the nor'-west wind as with a scythe.

As he drew near to the lighthouse, the old man observed a woman sitting
on a stool in front of the door, busily engaged with her needle, while
three children--two girls and a boy--were romping on the grass plat
beside her.  The boy was just old enough to walk with the steadiness of
an exceedingly drunk man, and betrayed a wonderful tendency to sit down
suddenly and gaze--astonished!  The girls, apparently though not really
twins, were just wild enough to enjoy their brother's tumbles, and
helped him to accomplish more of them than would have resulted from his
own incapacity to walk.

A magnificent black Newfoundland dog, with grey paws and a benignant
countenance, couched beside the woman and watched the children at play.
He frequently betrayed a desire to join them in their gambols, but
either laziness or a sense of his own dignity induced him to sit still.

"Nora," called the mother, who was a young and exceedingly beautiful
mother, "Nora, come here; go tell your father that I see a stranger
coming up the path.  Quick, darling."

Little Nora bounded away like a small fairy, with her fair curls
streaming in the wind which her own speed created.

"Katie," said the mother, turning to her second daughter, "don't rumple
him up quite so violently.  You must remember that he is a tiny fellow
yet, and can't stand such rough treatment."

"But he likes it, ma," objected Katie, with a look of glee, although she
obeyed the order at once.  "Don't you, Morley?"

Little Morley stopped in the middle of an ecstatic laugh, scrambled upon
his fat legs and staggered towards his mother, with his fists doubled,
as if to take summary vengeance on her for having stopped the fun.

"Oh, baby boy; my little Morley, what a wild fellow you are!" cried the
mother, catching up her child and tossing him in the air.

The old man had approached near enough to overhear the words and
recognise the face.  Tears sprang to his eyes and ran down his cheeks,
as he fell forward on the path with his face in the dust.

At the same moment the lighthouse-keeper issued from the door of the
building.  Running towards the old man, he and his wife quickly raised
him and loosened his neckcloth.  His face had been slightly cut by the
fall.  Blood and dust besmeared it and soiled his white locks.

"Poor old man!" said the keeper, as his mate, the assistant
light-keeper, joined him.  "Lend a hand, Billy, to carry him in.  He
ain't very heavy."

The assistant--a strapping young fellow, with a powerful, well-made
frame, sparkling eyes and a handsome face, on which at that moment there
was a look of intense pity--assisted his comrade to raise the old man.
They carried him with tender care into the lighthouse and laid him on a
couch which at that time, owing to lack of room in the building,
happened to be little Nora's bed.

For a few moments he lay apparently in a state of insensibility, while
the mother of the family brought a basin of water and began carefully to
remove the blood and dust which rendered his face unrecognisable.  The
first touch of the cold sponge caused him to open his eyes and gaze
earnestly in the woman's face--so earnestly that she was constrained to
pause and return the gaze inquiringly.

"You seem to know me," she said.

The old man made no reply, but, slowly clasping his hands and closing
his eyes, exclaimed "Thank God!" fervently.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Let us glance, now, at a few more of the changes which had been wrought
in the condition and circumstances of several of the actors in this tale
by the wonder-working hand of time.

On another evening of another month in this same year, Mr Robert
Queeker--having just completed an ode to a star which had been recently
discovered by the Astronomer-Royal--walked from the door of the Fortress
Hotel, Ramsgate, and, wending his way leisurely along Harbour Street,
directed his steps towards Saint James's Hall.

Seven years had wrought a great change for the better in Mr Robert
Queeker.  His once smooth face was decorated with a superb pair of
light-brown whiskers of the stamp now styled Dundreary.  His clothes
fitted him well, and displayed to advantage a figure which, although
short, was well made and athletic.  It was evident that time had not
caused his shadow to grow less.  There was a jaunty, confident air about
him, too, which might have been thought quite in keeping with a red coat
and top-boots by his friends in Jenkinsjoy, and would have induced
hospitable Mr Stoutheart to let him once more try his fortune on the
back of Slapover without much anxiety as to the result; ay, even
although the sweet but reckless Amy were to be his leader in the field!
Nevertheless there was nothing of the coxcomb about Queeker--no
self-assertion; nothing but amiableness, self-satisfaction, and
enthusiasm.

Queeker smiled and hummed a tune to himself as he walked along drawing
on his gloves, which were lavender kid and exceedingly tight.

"It will be a great night," he murmured; "a grand, a glorious night."

As there was nothing peculiarly grand in the aspect of the weather, it
is to be presumed that he referred to something else, but he said
nothing more at the time, although he smiled a good deal and hummed a
good many snatches of popular airs as he walked along, still struggling
with the refractory fingers of the lavender kid gloves.

Arrived at Saint James's Hall, he took up a position outside the door,
and remained there as if waiting for some one.

It was evident that Mr Queeker's brief remark had reference to the
proceedings that were going on at the hall, because everything in and
around it, on that occasion, gave unquestionable evidence that there was
to be a "great night" there.  The lobby blazed with light, and resounded
with voices and bustle, as people streamed in continuously.  The
interior of the hall itself glowed like a red-hot chamber of gold, and
was tastefully decorated with flowers and flags and evergreens; while
the floor of the room was covered with long tables, which groaned under
the glittering accessories of an approaching feast.  Fair ladies were
among the assembling company, and busy gentlemen, who acted the part of
stewards, hurried to and fro, giving directions and keeping order.  A
large portion of the company consisted of men whose hard hands, powerful
frames, and bronzed faces, proclaimed them the sons of toil, and whose
manly tones and holiday garments smacked of gales and salt water.

"What be goin' on here, measter?" inquired a country fellow, nudging Mr
Queeker with his elbow.

Queeker looked at his questioner in surprise, and told him that it was a
supper which was about to be given to the lifeboat-men by the people of
the town.

"An' who be the lifeboat-men, measter?"

"`Shades of the mighty dead;' not to mention the glorious living!"
exclaimed Queeker, aghast; "have you never heard of the noble fellows
who man the lifeboats all round the coasts of this great country, and
save hundreds of lives every year?  Have you not read of their daring
exploits in the newspapers?  Have you never heard of the famous Ramsgate
lifeboat?"

"Well, now 'ee mention it, I doos remember summat about loifboats,"
replied the country fellow, after pondering a moment or two; "but, bless
'ee, I never read nothin' about 'em, not bein' able to read; an' as I've
lived all my loif fur inland, an' on'y comed here to-day, it ain't to be
thow't as I knows much about yer Ramsgate loifboats.  Be there mony
loifboat men in Ramsgate, measter?"

"My good fellow," said Queeker, taking the man by the sleeve, and gazing
at him with a look of earnest pity, "there are dozens of 'em.  Splendid
fellows, who have saved hundreds of men, women, and children from the
raging deep; and they are all to be assembled in this hall to-night, to
the number of nearly a hundred--for there are to be present not only the
men who now constitute the crew of the Ramsgate boat, but all the men
who have formed part of her crew in time past.  Every man among them is
a hero," continued Queeker, warming as he went on, and shaking the
country fellow's arm in his earnestness, "and every man to-night will--"

He stopped short abruptly, for at that moment a carriage drove up to the
door, and a gentleman jumping out assisted a lady to alight.

Without a word of explanation to the astonished country fellow, Queeker
thrust him aside, dashed forward, presented himself before the lady,
and, holding out his hand, exclaimed--

"How _do_ you do, Miss Hennings?  I'm _so_ glad to have been fortunate
enough to meet you."

"Mr Quee--Queeker," exclaimed Fanny, blushing scarlet; "I--I was not
aware--so very unexpected--I thought--dear me!--but, pardon me--allow me
to introduce my uncle, Mr Hemmings.  Mr Queeker, uncle, whom you have
often heard mamma speak about."

Mr Hennings, a six-feet-two man, stooped to shake Queeker by the hand.
An impatient cabman shouted, "Move on."  Fanny seized her uncle's arm,
and was led away.  Queeker followed close, and all three were wedged
together in the crowd, and swept towards the banquet-hall.

"Are you one of the stewards?" asked Fanny, during a momentary pause.

How exquisite she looks! thought Queeker, as she glanced over her
shoulder at him.  He felt inclined to call her an angel, or something of
that sort, but restrained himself, and replied that he was not a
steward, but a guest--an honoured guest--and that he would have no
objection to be a dishonoured guest, if only, by being expelled from the
festive board, he could manage to find an excuse to sit beside her in
the ladies' gallery.

"But that may not be," he said, with a sigh.  "I shall not be able to
see you from my allotted position.  Alas! we separate here--though--
though--lost to sight, to memory dear!"

The latter part of this remark was said hurriedly and in desperation, in
consequence of a sudden rush of the crowd, rendering abrupt separation
unavoidable.  But, although parted from his lady-love, and unable to
gaze upon her, Queeker kept her steadily in his mind's eye all that
evening, made all his speeches to her, sang all his songs to her, and
finally--but hold! we must not anticipate.

As we have said--or, rather, as we have recorded that Queeker said--all
the lifeboat men of the town of Ramsgate sat down to that supper, to the
number of nearly one hundred men.  All sturdy men of tried courage.
Some were old, with none of the fire that had nerved them to rescue
lives in days gone by, save that which still gleamed in their eyes; some
were young, with the glow of irrepressible enthusiasm on their smooth
faces, and the intense wish to have a chance to dare and do swelling
their bold hearts; others were middle-aged, iron-moulded; as able and as
bold to the full as the younger men, with the coolness and
self-restraint of the old ones; but all, old, middle-aged, and young,
looking proud and pleased, and so gentle in their demeanour (owing, no
doubt, to the presence of the fair sex), that it seemed as if a small
breeze of wind would have made them all turn tail and run away,--
especially if the breeze were raised by the women!

That the reception of these lion-like men (converted into lambs that
night) was hearty, was evinced by the thunders of applause which greeted
every reference to their brave deeds.  That their reception was
intensely earnest, was made plain by the scroll, emblazoned on a huge
banner that spanned the upper end of the room, bearing the words.  "God
bless the Lifeboat Crews."

We need not refer to the viands set forth on that great occasion.  Of
course they were of the best.  We may just mention that they included
"baccy and grog!"  We merely record the fact.  Whether buns and tea
would have been equally effective is a question not now under
consideration.  We refrain from expressing an opinion on that point
here.

Of course the first toast was the Queen, and as Jack always does
everything heartily, it need scarcely be said that this toast was
utterly divested of its usual formality of character.  The chairman's
appropriate reference to her Majesty's well-known sympathy with the
distressed, especially with those who had suffered from shipwreck,
intensified the enthusiasm of the loyal lifeboat-men.

A band of amateur Christy Minstrels (the "genuine original" amateur
band, of course) enlivened the evening with appropriate songs, to the
immense delight of all present, especially of Mr Robert Queeker, whose
passionate love for music, ever since his attendance at the
singing-class, long long ago, had strengthened with time to such an
extent that language fails to convey any idea of it.  It mattered not to
Queeker whether the music were good or bad.  Sufficient for him that it
carried him back, with a _gush_, to that dear temple of music in
Yarmouth where the learners were perpetually checked at critical points,
and told by their callous teacher (tormentor, we had almost written) to
"try it again!" and where he first beheld the perplexing and beautiful
Fanny.

When the toast of the evening was given--"Success to the Ramsgate
Lifeboat,"--it was, as a matter of course, received with deafening
cheers and enthusiastic waving of handkerchiefs from the gallery in
which the fair sex were accommodated, among which handkerchiefs Queeker,
by turning his head very much round, tried to see, and believed that he
saw, the precious bit of cambric wherewith Fanny Hennings was accustomed
to salute her transcendental nose.  The chairman spoke with enthusiasm
of the noble deeds accomplished by the Ramsgate lifeboat in time past,
and referred with pride, and with a touch of feeling, to the brave old
coxswain, then present (loud cheers), who had been compelled, by
increasing years, to resign a service which, they all knew better than
he did, taxed the energies, courage, and endurance of the stoutest and
youngest man among them to the uttermost.  He expressed a firm belief in
the courage and prowess of the coxswain who had succeeded him (renewed
cheers), and felt assured that the success of the boat in time to come
would at the least fully equal its successes in time past.  He then
referred to some of the more prominent achievements of the boat,
especially to a night which all of them must remember, seven years ago,
when the Ramsgate boat, with the aid of the steam-tug, was the means of
saving so many lives--not to mention property--and among others the life
of their brave townsman, James Welton (cheers), and a young doctor, the
friend, and now the son-in-law, of one whose genial spirit and extensive
charities were well known and highly appreciated--he referred to Mr
George Durant (renewed cheers), whose niece at that moment graced the
gallery with her presence.

At this there was a burst of loud and prolonged applause which
terminated in a roar of laughter, owing to the fact that Mr Queeker,
cheering and waving his hands in a state of wild enthusiasm, knocked the
neck off a bottle of wine and flooded the table in his immediate
vicinity!  Covered with confusion, Queeker sat down amid continued
laughter and rapturous applause.

The chairman then went on to say that the event to which he had
referred--the rescue of the crew and passengers of the Wellington on the
night of the great storm--had been eclipsed by some of the more recent
doings of the same boat; and, after touching upon some of these, said
that, although they had met there to do honour to the crews of their own
lifeboat, they must not forget other and neighbouring lifeboats, which
did their work nobly--the brave crews of which were represented by the
coxswains of the Margate and Broadstairs lifeboats, who sat at that
board that night as honoured guests (loud cheers, during which several
of the men nearest to them shook hands with the coxswains referred to).
He could not--the chairman went on to say--sit down without making
special reference to the steam-tug, without which, and the courage as
well as knowledge of her master, mate, and crew (renewed cheers), the
lifeboat could not overtake a tenth part of the noble work which she
annually accomplished.  He concluded by praying that a kind Providence
would continue to watch over and bless the Ramsgate lifeboat and her
crew.

We need scarcely add that this toast was drunk with enthusiastic
applause, and that it was followed up by the amateur minstrels with
admirable effect.

Many songs were sung, and many toasts were proposed that night, and warm
was the expression of feeling towards the men who were ever so ready to
imperil their lives in the hope of saving those of their
fellow-creatures, and who had already, oftentimes, given such ample
proof that they were thoroughly able to do, as well as to dare, almost
anything.  Several singers with good, and one or two with splendid,
voices, gave a variety of songs which greatly enhanced the brilliancy of
the evening, and were highly appreciated in the gallery; and a few bad
singers with miserable voices (who volunteered their songs) did really
good service by impressing upon the audience very forcibly the immense
differences between good and bad music, and thus kindly acted as shadows
to the vocal lights of the evening--as useful touches of discord in the
general harmony which by contrast rendered the latter all the sweeter.

But of all the solos sung that night none afforded such delight as a
national melody sung by our friend Jerry MacGowl, in a voice that rang
out like the voices of three first-class bo's'ns rolled into one.  That
worthy son of the Emerald Isle, and Dick Moy, and Jack Shales, happened
to be enjoying their month on shore when the supper to the lifeboat-men
was planned, and they were all there in virtue of their having been
instrumental in saving life on more than one occasion during their
residence in Ramsgate.  Jerry's song was, as we have said, highly
appreciated, but the applause with which it was greeted was as nothing
compared with the shouts and cheers that shook the roof of Saint James's
Hall, when, on being asked to repeat it, Jerry modestly said that he
"would prefer to give them a duet--perhaps it was a trayo--av his mates
Jack Shales and Dick Moy would only strike in wid bass and tenor."

The men of the floating light then sang "The Minute-Gun at Sea"
magnificently, each taking the part that suited him best or struck his
fancy at the moment, and Jerry varying from tenor to bass and bass to
treble according to taste.

"Now, Mister Chairman," said the bold Jerry MacGowl, when the cheers had
subsided, "it's my turn to call for a song, so I ax Mr Queeker to
favour the company wid--" Thunders of applause drowned the remainder of
the sentence.

Poor Queeker was thrown into great confusion, and sought to explain that
he could not sing, even in private--much less in public.

"Oh yes, you can, sir.  Try it, sir, no fear of 'ee.  Sure it's yourself
as can do it, an' no mistake," were the remarks with which his
explanation was interrupted.

"I assure you honestly," cried Queeker, "that I cannot sing, _but_"
(here breathless silence ensued) "if the chairman will kindly permit me,
I will give you a toast."

Loud cheers from all sides, and a good-humoured nod from the chairman
greeted this announcement.

"Mr Chairman and Friends," said Queeker, "the ladies have--" A perfect
storm of laughter and cheers interrupted him for at least two minutes.

"Yes," resumed Queeker, suddenly blazing up with enthusiasm, "I repeat--
the ladies--"

"That's the girls, blissin's on the swate darlints," murmured Jerry in a
tone which set the whole table again in a roar.

"I echo the sentiment; blessings on them," said Queeker, with a
good-humoured glance at Jerry.  "Yes, as I was going to say, I propose
the Ladies, who are, always were, and ever will be, the solace of man's
life, the sweet drops in his otherwise bitter cup, the lights in his
otherwise dark dwelling, the jewels in his--in his--crown, and the
bright stars that glitter in the otherwise dark firmament of his destiny
(vociferous cheering).  Yes," continued Queeker, waxing more and more
energetic, and striking the table with his fist, whereby he overturned
his neighbour's glass of grog, "yes, I re-assert it--the ladies are all
that, and _much more_!  (Hear, hear.)  I propose their health--and,
after all, I may be said to have some sort of claim to do so, having
already unintentionally poured a whole bottle of wine on the tablecloth
as a libation to them!  (Laughter and applause.)  What, I ask,"
continued Queeker, raising his voice and hand at the same moment, and
setting his hair straight upon end, "what, I ask, would man be _without_
the ladies?"  ("What indeed?" said a voice near the foot of the table,
which called forth another burst of laughter.) "Just try to think, my
friends, what would be the hideous gloom of this terrestrial ball if
there were no girls!  Oh woman! softener of man's rugged nature!  What--
in the words of the poet."  He carefully refrained from saying what
poet!

  "What were earth and all its joys;
  what were wealth with all its toys;
  what the life of men and boys
  But for lovely woman?

  "What if mothers were no more;
  If wives and sisters fled our shore,
  And left no sweethearts to the fore--
  No sign of darling woman?

  "What dreary darkness would ensue--
  what moral wastes devoid of dew--
  If no strong hearts of men like you
  Beat for charming woman?

  "Who would rise at duty's call;
  Who would fight to win or fall;
  Who would care to live at all,
  Were it not for woman?"

Prolonged and rapturous cheers greeted this effusion, in the midst of
which the enthusiastic Jerry MacGowl sprang to his feet, waved his glass
above his head--spilling half of its contents on the pate of a bald
skipper who sat next to him--and cheered lustily.

"Men of the Ramsgate lifeboat," shouted Queeker, "I call on you to
pledge the ladies--with all the honours!"

It is unnecessary to say that the call was responded to with a degree of
enthusiasm that threatened, as Dick Moy said to Jack Shales, "to smash
all the glasses an' blow the roof off."  In the midst of the noise and
confusion Queeker left the hall, ascended to the gallery, and sat
himself down beside Fanny Hennings, with an air of intense decision.

"Oh, Mr Queeker!" exclaimed Fanny.

"Listen, Fanny," said the tall uncle at that moment, "they are giving
one of the most important toasts of the evening--The Royal National
Lifeboat Institution."

Fanny tried to listen, and had caught a few words, when she felt her
hand suddenly seized and held fast.  Turning her head quickly, she
beheld the face of Queeker turned to bright scarlet.

What more she heard or saw after that it would be extremely difficult to
tell.  Perhaps the best way of conveying an idea of it is to lay before
the reader the short epistle which Fanny penned that same night to her
old friend Katie Hall.  It ran thus:--

"RAMSGATE.

"OH, KATIE!  DARLING KATIE!--He has done it _at last_!  Dear fellow!
And so like himself too--so romantically, so poetically!  They were
toasting the Lifeboat Institution at the time.  He seized my hand.
`Fanny,' he said, in the deep manly tones in which he had just made the
most brilliant speech of the evening, `Fanny, my love--my life--my
_lifeboat_--will you have me? will you _save_ me?'  There was a dreadful
noise at the time--a very storm of cheering.  The whole room seemed in a
whirl.  My head was in a whirl too; and oh! _how_ my heart beat!  I
don't know what I said.  I fear I burst into a fit of laughter, and then
cried, and dear uncle carried me out--but it's all over now.  That
_darling_ Lifeboat Institution, I shall never forget it; for they were
sounding its praises at the very moment when my Queeker and I got into
the same boat--for life!--Your happy FANNY."

To this the next post brought the following reply:--

"YARMOUTH."

"MY DEAREST FANNY,--Is it necessary for me to say that your last short
letter has filled my heart with joy?  It has cleared up a mystery too!
On Tuesday last, in the forenoon, Mr Queeker came by appointment to
take lunch with us, and Stanley happened to mention that a supper was to
be given to the Ramsgate lifeboat-men, and that he had heard _you_ were
to be there.  During lunch, Mr Queeker was very absent and restless,
and appeared to be unhappy.  At last he started up, made some hurried
apology about the train for the south, and having urgent business to
transact, looked at his watch, and rushed out of the house!  We could
not understand it at the time, but I knew that he had only a few minutes
left to catch the train for the south, and I _now_ know that he caught
it--and why!  Ah, Fanny, did I not always assure you that he would do it
in desperation at last!  My earnest prayer is, that your wedded life may
be as happy as mine has hitherto been.

"When your honeymoon is over, you must promise to pay us a visit.  You
know that our villa is sufficiently far out of town to warrant your
regarding us in the light of country friends; and Stanley bids me say
that he will take no denial.  Papa--who is at present romping round the
room with my eldest boy on his shoulders, so that I scarce know what I
write--bids me tell you, with his kind love and hearty congratulations,
that he thinks you are `not throwing yourself away, for that Queeker is
a first-rate little fellow, and a rising man!'  Observe, please, that I
quote papa's own words.

"I _must_ stop abruptly, because a tiny cry from the nursery informs me
that King Baby is awake, and demands instant attention!--With kindest
love and congratulations, your ever affectionate, KATIE HALL."



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

CONCLUSION.

Once again, and for the last time, we visit the floating light.

It was a calm sunny evening, about the end of autumn, when the Trinity
tender, having effected "the relief" of the old Gull, left her in order
to perform the same service for her sister light-vessels.

"Good-bye, Welton, good-bye, lads," cried the superintendent, waving his
hand as the tender's boat pushed off and left them, for another period
of duty, in their floating home.

"Good-bye, sir," replied the mate and men, touching their caps.

"Now, sir," said Dick Moy to the mate, shortly after, when they were
all, except the watch, assembled below round the galley stove, "are you
goin' to let us 'ave a bit o' that there letter, accordin' to promise?"

"What letter?" inquired Jack Shales, who having only accomplished half
of his period of service on board--one month--had not come off with his
comrades, and knew little or nothing of what had occurred on shore.

"A letter from the lighthouse from Jim," said the mate, lighting his
pipe, "received it this forenoon just as we were gettin' ready to come
off."

"All well and hearty, I hope?" asked Jerry MacGowl, seating himself on a
bench, and rolling some tobacco between his palms, preparatory to
filling his pipe.

"All well," replied the mate, pulling out the letter in question, and
regarding the address with much interest; "an' strange news in it."

"Well, then, let's 'ear wot it's all about," said Dick Moy; "there's
time to read it afore sunset, an it ain't fair to keep fellers in all
the hagonies of hexpectation."

"That's true enough," said Jerry with a grin.  "Arrah! it's bustin I am
already wid kooriosity.  Heave ahead, sir, an' be marciful."

Thus entreated, Mr Welton glanced at his watch, sat down, and, opening
his letter, read as follows:--

"DEAR FATHER,--Here we are, thank God, comfortably settled in the new
lighthouse, and Nora and I both agree that although it is more
outlandish, it is much more cheerful in every way than our last abode,
although it _is_ very wild-like, and far from the mainland.  Billy
Towler, my assistant,--who has become such a strapping fellow that you'd
scarce know him,--is also much pleased with it.  The children, too, give
a decided opinion in favour of the place, and even the baby, little
Morley, seems to know that he has made a change for the better!

"Baby's name brings me to the news that I've got to tell you.  Morley
Jones has come back!  You'll be surprised to hear that, I daresay, but
it's a fact.  He got a ticket-of-leave, and never rested till he found
out where Nora was.  He came to us one evening some time ago, and fell
down in a sort of fit close to the lighthouse-door, while Nora was
sitting in front of it, and the children were romping with Neptune
beside her.  Poor fellow! he was so changed, so old, and so white-haired
and worn, that we did not know him at first; but after we had washed the
blood off his face--for he had cut himself when he fell--I recognised
the old features.

"But he is changed in other respects too, in a way that has filled my
dear wife's heart with joy.  Of course you are aware that he got no
drink during the seven years of his imprisonment.  Now that he is free
he refuses to let a drop of anything stronger than water pass his lips.
He thinks it is his only chance, and I believe he is right.  He says
that nothing but the thought of Nora, and the hope of one day being
permitted to return to ask her forgiveness on his knees, enabled him to
endure his long captivity with resignation.  I do assure you, father,
that it almost brings tears to my eyes to see the way in which that man
humbles himself before his daughter.  Nora's joy is far too deep for
words, but it is written plainly in her face.  She spent all her spare
time with him at first, reading the Bible to him, and trying to convince
him that it was not the thought of _her_, but God's mercy and love that
had put it into his heart to repent, and desire to reform.  He does not
seem quite inclined to take that view of it, but he will come to it,
sooner or later, for we have the sure promise that the Lord will finish
the good work He has begun.  We have hired a room for him in a little
village within half a mile of us.  It is small, but comfortable enough,
and he seems to be quite content with it--as well he may be, with Nora
and the children going constantly about him!

"I tell you what, father, the longer I live with Nora, the more I feel
that I have got the truest-hearted and most loveable wife in all the
wide world!  The people of the village would go any length to serve her;
and as to their children, I believe they worship the ground she walks
on, as Jerry MacGowl used to say."

"Och, the idolatrous haythens!" growled Jerry.

"And the way she manages our dear youngsters," continued the mate,
reading on, without noticing Jerry's interruption, "would do your heart
good to see.  It reminds me of Dick Moy's wife, who is about the best
mother I ever met with--next to Nora, of course!"

"Humph!" said Dick, with a grim smile; "wery complimentary.  I wonder
wot my old ooman will say to that?"

"She'll say, no doubt, that she'll expect you to take example by Jim
Welton when speaking of your wife," observed Jack Shales.  "I wonder,
Dick, what ever could have induced Mrs Moy to marry such a fellow as
you?"

"I s'pose," retorted Dick, lighting his pipe, "that it was to escape the
chance o' bein' tempted, in a moment of weakness, to marry the likes o'
_you_."

"Hear, hear," cried MacGowl, "that's not unlikely, Dick.  An', sure, she
might have gone farther an' fared worse.  You're a good lump of a man,
anyhow; though you haven't much to boast of in the way of looks.
Howsever, it seems to me that looks don't go far wid sensible girls.
Faix, the uglier a man is, it's the better chance he has o' gittin' a
purty wife.  I have a brother, myself, who's a dale uglier than the
figurhead of an owld Dutch galliot, an' he's married the purtiest little
girl in Ireland, he has."

"If ye want to hear the end of Jim's letter, boys, you'd better shut up
your potato-traps," interposed Mr Welton.

"That's true--fire away," said Shales.

The mate continued to read.

"You'll be glad to hear that the old dog Neptune is well and hearty.  He
is a great favourite here, especially with the children.  Billy Towler
has taught him a number of tricks--among other things he can dive like a
seal, and has no objection whatever to let little Morley choke him or
half punch out his eyes.  Tell mother not to be uneasy on that point,
for though Neptune has the heart of a lion he has the temper of a lamb.

"There is an excellent preacher, belonging to the Wesleyan body, who
comes here occasionally on Sundays, and has worship in the village.  He
is not much of a preacher, but he's an earnest, God-fearing man, and has
made the name of Jesus dear to some of the people here, who, not long
ago, were quite careless about their souls.  Careless about their souls!
Oh, father, how often I think of that, now.  How strange it seems that
we should ever be thus careless!  What should we say of the jeweller who
would devote all his time and care to the case that held his largest
diamond, and neglect the gem itself?  Nora has got up a Sunday school at
the village, and Billy helps her with it.  The Grotto did wonders for
him--so he says himself.

"I must close this letter sooner than I intended, for I hear Nora's
voice, like sweet music in the distance, singing out that dinner is
ready; and if I keep the youngsters waiting long, they'll sing out in a
sharper strain of melody!

"So now, father, good-bye for the present.  We all unite in sending our
warmest love to dear mother and yourself.  Kindest remembrances also to
my friends in the floating light.  As much of my heart as Nora and the
children can spare is on board of the old Gull.  May God bless you
all.--Your affectionate son, JAMES WELTON."

"The sun will be down in a few minutes, sir," said the watch, looking
down the hatchway, while the men were engaged in commenting on Jim's
letter.

"I know that," replied the mate, glancing at his timepiece, as he went
on deck.

The upper edge of the sun was just visible above the horizon, gleaming
through the haze like a speck of ruddy fire.  The shipping in the Downs
rested on a sea so calm that each rope and mast and yard was faithfully
reflected.  Ramsgate--with the exception of its highest spires--was
overshadowed by the wing of approaching night.  The Goodwin Sands were
partially uncovered; looking calm and harmless enough, with only a snowy
ripple on their northern extremity, where they were gently kissed by the
swell of the North Sea, and with nothing, save a riven stump or a
half-buried stem-post, to tell of the storms and wrecks with which their
name is so sadly associated.

All around breathed of peace and tranquillity when the mate, having cast
a searching glance round the horizon, leaned over the hatchway and
shouted--"Lights up!"

The customary "Ay, ay, sir," was followed by the prompt appearance of
the crew.  The winch was manned, the signal given, and, just as the sun
went down, the floating light went up, to scatter its guiding and
warning beams far and wide across the darkening waste of water.

May our little volume prove a truthful reflector to catch up a few of
those beams, and, diverting them from their legitimate direction, turn
them in upon the shore to enlighten the mind and tickle the fancy of
those who dwell upon the land--and thus, perchance, add another thread
to the bond of sympathy already existing between them and those whose
lot it is to battle with the winds, and live upon the sea.







