Kitabı oku: «The Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands», sayfa 15
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.
