Kitabı oku: «At Sunwich Port, Complete», sayfa 7

“I don’t think anybody will want to go bragging about it,” said Jack Nugent, rising, “unless it is Sam Wilks. Come along, Kate.”

Miss Nugent followed him obediently, only pausing at the door to give a last glance of mingled surprise and reproach at Mr. Wilks. Then they were outside and the door closed behind them.

“Well, that’s all right,” said Mr. Smith, easily.

“All right!” vociferated the steward. “Wot did you put it all on to me for? Why didn’t you tell ‘em your part in it?”

“Wouldn’t ha’ done any good,” said Mr. Smith; “wouldn’t ha’ done you any good. Besides, I did just wot the cap’n told me.”

“When’s he coming back?” inquired the steward.

Mr. Smith shook his head. “Couldn’t say,” he returned. “He couldn’t say ‘imself. Between you an’ me, I expect ‘e’s gone up to have a reg’lar fair spree.”

“Why did you tell me last night he was up-stairs?” inquired the other.

“Cap’n’s orders,” repeated Mr. Smith, with relish. “Ask ‘im, not me. As a matter o’ fact, he spent the night at my place and went off this morning.”

“An’ wot about the five pounds?” inquired Mr. Wilks, spitefully. “You ain’t earned it.”

“I know I ain’t,” said Mr. Smith, mournfully. “That’s wot’s worrying me. It’s like a gnawing pain in my side. D’you think it’s conscience biting of me? I never felt it before. Or d’ye think it’s sorrow to think that I’ve done the whole job too cheap. You think it out and let me know later on. So long.”

He waved his hand cheerily to the steward and departed. Mr. Wilks threw himself into a chair and, ignoring the cold and the general air of desolation of his best room, gave way to a fit of melancholy which would have made Mr. Edward Silk green with envy.

CHAPTER XIII

Days passed, but no word came from the missing captain, and only the determined opposition of Kate Nugent kept her aunt from advertising in the “Agony” columns of the London Press. Miss Nugent was quite as desirous of secrecy in the affair as her father, and it was a source of great annoyance to her when, in some mysterious manner, it leaked out. In a very short time the news was common property, and Mr. Wilks, appearing to his neighbours in an entirely new character, was besieged for information.

His own friends were the most tiresome, their open admiration of his lawlessness and their readiness to trace other mysterious disappearances to his agency being particularly galling to a man whose respectability formed his most cherished possession. Other people regarded the affair as a joke, and he sat gazing round-eyed one evening at the Two Schooners at the insensible figures of three men who had each had a modest half-pint at his expense. It was a pretty conceit and well played, but the steward, owing to the frenzied efforts of one of the sleepers whom he had awakened with a quart pot, did not stay to admire it. He finished up the evening at the Chequers, and after getting wet through on the way home fell asleep in his wet clothes before the dying fire.

He awoke with a bad cold and pains in the limbs. A headache was not unexpected, but the other symptoms were. With trembling hands he managed to light a fire and prepare a breakfast, which he left untouched. This last symptom was the most alarming of all, and going to the door he bribed a small boy with a penny to go for Dr. Murchison, and sat cowering over the fire until he came.

“Well, you’ve got a bad cold,” said the doctor, after examining him. “You’d better get to bed for the present. You’ll be safe there.”

“Is it dangerous?” faltered the steward.

“And keep yourself warm,” said the doctor, who was not in the habit of taking his patients into his confidence. “I’ll send round some medicine.”

“I should like Miss Nugent to know I’m bad,” said Mr. Wilks, in a weak voice.

“She knows that,” replied Murchison. “She was telling me about you the other day.”

He put his hand up to his neat black moustache to hide a smile, and met the steward’s indignant gaze without flinching.

“I mean ill,” said the latter, sharply.

“Oh, yes,” said the other. “Well, you get to bed now. Good morning.”

He took up his hat and stick and departed. Mr. Wilks sat for a little while over the fire, and then, rising, hobbled slowly upstairs to bed and forgot his troubles in sleep.

He slept until the afternoon, and then, raising himself in bed, listened to the sounds of stealthy sweeping in the room below. Chairs were being moved about, and the tinkle of ornaments on the mantelpiece announced that dusting operations were in progress. He lay down again with a satisfied smile; it was like a tale in a story-book: the faithful old servant and his master’s daughter. He closed his eyes as he heard her coming upstairs.

“Ah, pore dear,” said a voice.

Mr. Wilks opened his eyes sharply and beheld the meagre figure of Mrs. Silk. In one hand she held a medicine-bottle and a glass and in the other paper and firewood.

“I only ‘eard of it half an hour ago,” she said, reproachfully. “I saw the doctor’s boy, and I left my work and came over at once. Why didn’t you let me know?”

Mr. Wilks muttered that he didn’t know, and lay crossly regarding his attentive neighbour as she knelt down and daintily lit the fire. This task finished, she proceeded to make the room tidy, and then set about making beef-tea in a little saucepan.

“You lay still and get well,” she remarked, with tender playfulness. “That’s all you’ve got to do. Me and Teddy’ll look after you.”

“I couldn’t think of troubling you,” said the steward, earnestly.

“It’s no trouble,” was the reply. “You don’t think I’d leave you here alone helpless, do you?”

“I was going to send for old Mrs. Jackson if I didn’t get well to-day,” said Mr. Wilks.

Mrs. Silk shook her head at him, and, after punching up his pillow, took an easy chair by the fire and sat there musing. Mr. Edward Silk came in to tea, and, after remarking that Mr. Wilks was very flushed and had got a nasty look about the eyes and a cough which he didn’t like, fell to discoursing on death-beds.

“Good nursing is the principal thing,” said his mother. “I nursed my pore dear ‘usband all through his last illness. He couldn’t bear me to be out of the room. I nursed my mother right up to the last, and your pore Aunt Jane went off in my arms.”

Mr. Wilks raised himself on his elbow and his eyes shone feverishly in the lamplight. “I think I’ll get a ‘ospital nurse to-morrow,” he said, decidedly.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Silk. “It’s no trouble to me at all. I like nursing; always did.”

Mr. Wilks lay back again and, closing his eyes, determined to ask the doctor to provide a duly qualified nurse on the morrow. To his disappointment, however, the doctor failed to come, and although he felt much better Mrs. Silk sternly negatived a desire on his part to get up.

“Not till the doctor’s been,” she said, firmly. “I couldn’t think of it.”

“I don’t believe there’s anything the matter with me now,” he declared.

“‘Ow odd—‘ow very odd that you should say that!” said Mrs. Silk, clasping her hands.

“Odd!” repeated the steward, somewhat crustily. “How do you mean—odd?”

“They was the very last words my Uncle Benjamin ever uttered in this life,” said Mrs. Silk, with dramatic impressiveness.

The steward was silent, then, with the ominous precedent of Uncle Benjamin before him, he began to talk until scores of words stood between himself and a similar ending.

“Teddy asked to be remembered to you as ‘e went off this morning,” said Mrs. Silk, pausing in her labours at the grate.

“I’m much obliged,” muttered the invalid.

“He didn’t ‘ave time to come in,” pursued the widow. “You can ‘ardly believe what a lot ‘e thinks of you, Mr. Wilks. The last words he said to me was, ‘Let me know at once if there’s any change.’”

Mr. Wilks distinctly felt a cold, clammy sensation down his spine and little quivering thrills ran up and down his legs. He glared indignantly at the back of the industrious Mrs. Silk.

“Teddy’s very fond of you,” continued the unconscious woman. “I s’pose it’s not ‘aving a father, but he seems to me to think more of you than any-body else in the wide, wide world. I get quite jealous sometimes. Only the other day I said to ‘im, joking like, ‘Well, you’d better go and live with ‘im if you’re so fond of ‘im,’ I said.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Wilks, uneasily.

“You’ll never guess what ‘e said then,” said Mrs. Silk dropping her dustpan and brush and gazing at the hearth.

“Said ‘e couldn’t leave you, I s’pose,” guessed the steward, gruffly.

“Well, now,” exclaimed Mrs. Silk, clapping her hands, “if you ‘aven’t nearly guessed it. Well, there! I never did! I wouldn’t ‘ave told you for anything if you ‘adn’t said that. The exact words what ‘e did say was, ‘Not without you, mother.’”

Mr. Wilks closed his eyes with a snap and his heart turned to water. He held his breath and ran-sacked his brain in vain for a reply which should ignore the inner meaning of the fatal words. Something careless and jocular he wanted, combined with a voice which should be perfectly under control. Failing these things, he kept his eyes closed, and, very wide-awake indeed, feigned sleep. He slept straight away from eleven o’clock in the morning until Edward Silk came in at seven o’clock in the evening.

“I feel like a new man,” he said, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“I don’t see no change in your appearance,” said the comforting youth.

“‘E’s much better,” declared his mother. “That’s what comes o’ good nursing; some nurses would ‘ave woke ‘im up to take food, but I just let ‘im sleep on. People don’t feel hunger while they’re asleep.”

She busied herself over the preparation of a basin of arrowroot, and the steward, despite his distaste for this dish, devoured it in a twinkling. Beef-tea and a glass of milk in addition failed to take more than the edge off his appetite.

“We shall pull ‘im through,” said Mrs. Silk, smiling, as she put down the empty glass. “In a fortnight he’ll be on ‘is feet.”

It is a matter of history that Mr. Wilks was on his feet at five o’clock the next morning, and not only on his feet but dressed and ready for a journey after such a breakfast as he had not made for many a day. The discourtesy involved in the disregard of the doctor’s instructions did not trouble him, and he smirked with some satisfaction as he noiselessly closed his door behind him and looked at the drawn blinds opposite. The stars were paling as he quitted the alley and made his way to the railway station. A note on his tumbled pillow, after thanking Mrs. Silk for her care of him, informed her that he was quite well and had gone to London in search of the missing captain.

Hardy, who had heard from Edward Silk of the steward’s indisposition and had been intending to pay him a visit, learnt of his departure later on in the morning, and, being ignorant of the particulars, discoursed somewhat eloquently to his partner on the old man’s devotion.

“H’m, may be,” said Swann, taking off his glasses and looking at him. “But you don’t think Captain Nugent is in London, do you?”

“Why not?” inquired Hardy, somewhat startled. “If what Wilks told you is true, Nathan Smith knows,” said the other. “I’ll ask him.”

“You don’t expect to get the truth out of him, do you?” inquired Hardy, superciliously.

“I do,” said his partner, serenely; “and when I’ve got it I shall go and tell them at Equator Lodge. It will be doing those two poor ladies a service to let them know what has really happened to the captain.”

“I’ll walk round to Nathan Smith’s with you,” said Hardy. “I should like to hear what the fellow has to say.”

“No, I’ll go alone,” said his partner; “Smith’s a very shy man—painfully shy. I’ve run across him once or twice before. He’s almost as bashful and retiring as you are.”

Hardy grunted. “If the captain isn’t in London, where is he?” he inquired.

The other shook his head. “I’ve got an idea,” he replied, “but I want to make sure. Kybird and Smith are old friends, as Nugent might have known, only he was always too high and mighty to take any interest in his inferiors. There’s something for you to go on.”

He bent over his desk again and worked steadily until one o’clock—his hour for lunching. Then he put on his hat and coat, and after a comfortable meal sallied out in search of Mr. Smith.

The boarding-house, an old and dilapidated building, was in a bystreet convenient to the harbour. The front door stood open, and a couple of seamen lounging on the broken steps made way for him civilly as he entered and rapped on the bare boards with his stick. Mr. Smith, clattering down the stairs in response, had some difficulty in concealing his surprise at the visit, but entered genially into a conversation about the weather, a subject in which he was much interested. When the ship-broker began to discuss the object of his visit he led him to a small sitting-room at the back of the house and repeated the information he had given to Mr. Wilks.

“That’s all there is to tell,” he concluded, artlessly; “the cap’n was that ashamed of hisself, he’s laying low for a bit. We all make mistakes sometimes; I do myself.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Mr. Swann, gratefully.

“You’re quite welcome, sir,” said the boarding-master.

“And now,” said the visitor, musingly—“now for the police.”

“Police!” repeated Mr. Smith, almost hastily. “What for?”

“Why, to find the captain,” said Mr. Swann, in a surprised voice.

Mr. Smith shook his head. “You’ll offend the cap’n bitter if you go to the police about ‘im, sir,” he declared. “His last words to me was, ‘Smith, ‘ave this kept quiet.’”

“It’ll be a little job for the police,” urged the shipbroker. “They don’t have much to do down here; they’ll be as pleased as possible.”

“They’ll worry your life out of you, sir,” said the other. “You don’t know what they are.”

“I like a little excitement,” returned Mr. Swann. “I don’t suppose they’ll trouble me much, but they’ll turn your place topsy-turvy, I expect. Still, that can’t be helped. You know what fools the police are; they’ll think you’ve murdered the captain and hidden his body under the boards. They’ll have all the floors up. Ha, ha, ha!”

“‘Aving floors up don’t seem to me to be so amusing as wot it does to you,” remarked Mr. Smith, coldly.

“They may find all sorts of treasure for you,” continued his visitor. “It’s a very old house, Smith, and there may be bags of guineas hidden away under the flooring. You may be able to retire.”

“You’re a gentleman as is fond of his joke, Mr. Swann,” returned the boarding-master, lugubriously. “I wish I’d got that ‘appy way of looking at things you ‘ave.”

“I’m not joking, Smith,” said the other, quietly.

Mr. Smith pondered and, stealing a side-glance at him, stood scraping his foot along the floor.

“There ain’t nothing much to tell,” he grumbled, “and, mind, the worst favour you could do to the cap’n would be to put it about how he was done. He’s gone for a little trip instead of ‘is son, that’s all.”

“Little trip!” repeated the other; “you call a whaling cruise a little trip?”

“No, no, sir,” said Mr. Smith, in a shocked voice, “I ain’t so bad as that; I’ve got some ‘art, I hope. He’s just gone for a little trip with ‘is old pal Hardy on the Conqueror. Kybird’s idea it was.”

“Don’t you know it’s punishable?” demanded the shipbroker, recovering.

To Mr. Smith’s great surprise his visitor sat down suddenly and began to laugh. Tears of honest mirth suffused his eyes and dimmed his glasses. Mr. Smith, regarding him with an air of kindly interest, began to laugh to keep him company.

Mr. Smith shook his head and became serious. “The cap’n fell into ‘is own trap,” he said, slowly. “There’s no lor for ‘im! He’d only get laughed at. The idea of trying to get me to put little Amelia Kybird’s young man away. Why, I was ‘er god-father.”

Mr. Swann stared at him, and then with a friendly “good morning” departed. Half-way along the passage he stopped, and retracing his steps produced his cigar-case and offered the astonished boarding-master a cigar.

“I s’pose,” said that gentleman as he watched the other’s retreating figure and dubiously smelt the cigar; “I s’pose it’s all right; but he’s a larky sort, and I ‘ave heard of ‘em exploding. I’ll give it to Kybird, in case.”

CHAPTER XIV

Captain Nugent awoke the morning after his attempt to crimp his son with a bad headache. Not an ordinary headache, to disappear with a little cold water and fresh air; but a splitting, racking affair, which made him feel all head and dulness. Weights pressed upon his eye-lids and the back of his head seemed glued to his pillow.

He groaned faintly and, raising himself upon his elbow, opened his eyes and sat up with a sharp exclamation. His bed was higher from the floor than usual and, moreover, the floor was different. In the dim light he distinctly saw a ship’s forecastle, untidy bunks with frouzy bedclothes, and shiny oil-skins hanging from the bulkhead.

For a few moments he stared about in mystification; he was certainly ill, and no doubt the forecastle was an hallucination. It was a strange symptom, and the odd part of it was that everything was so distinct. Even the smell. He stared harder, in the hope that his surroundings would give place to the usual ones, and, leaning a little bit more on his elbow, nearly rolled out of the bunk. Resolved to probe this mystery to the bottom he lowered himself to the floor and felt distinctly the motion of a ship at sea.

There was no doubt about it. He staggered to the door and, holding by the side, looked on to the deck. The steamer was rolling in a fresh sea and a sweet strong wind blew refreshingly into his face. Funnels, bridge, and masts swung with a rhythmical motion; loose gear rattled, and every now and then a distant tinkle sounded faintly from the steward’s pantry.

He stood bewildered, trying to piece together the events of the preceding night, and to try and understand by what miracle he was back on board his old ship the Conqueror. There was no doubt as to her identity. He knew every inch of her, and any further confirmation that might be required was fully supplied by the appearance of the long, lean figure of Captain Hardy on the bridge.

Captain Nugent took his breath sharply and began to realize the situation. He stepped to the side and looked over; the harbour was only a little way astern, and Sunwich itself, looking cold and cheerless beyond the dirty, tumbling seas, little more than a mile distant.

At the sight his spirits revived, and with a hoarse cry he ran shouting towards the bridge. Captain Hardy turned sharply at the noise, and recognizing the intruder stood peering down at him in undisguised amazement.

“Put back,” cried Nugent, waving up at him. “Put back.”

“What on earth are you doing on my ship?” inquired the astonished Hardy.

“Put me ashore,” cried Nugent, imperiously; “don’t waste time talking. D’ye hear? Put me ashore.”

The amazement died out of Hardy’s face and gave way to an expression of anger. For a time he regarded the red and threatening visage of Captain Nugent in silence, then he turned to the second officer.

“This man is not one of the crew, Mr. Prowle?” he said, in a puzzled voice.

“No, sir,” said Mr. Prowle.

“How did he get aboard here?”

Captain Nugent answered the question himself. “I was crimped by you and your drunken bullies,” he said, sternly.

“How did this man get aboard here? repeated Captain Hardy, ignoring him.

“He must have concealed ‘imself somewhere, sir,” said the mate; “this is the first I’ve seen of him.”

“A stowaway?” said the captain, bending his brows. “He must have got some of the crew to hide him aboard. You’d better make a clean breast of it, my lad. Who are your confederates?”

Captain Nugent shook with fury. The second mate had turned away, with his hand over his mouth and a suspicious hunching of his shoulders, while the steward, who had been standing by, beat a hasty retreat and collapsed behind the chart-room.

“If you don’t put me ashore,” said Nugent, restraining his passion by a strong effort, “I’ll take proceedings against you for crimping me, the moment I reach port. Get a boat out and put me aboard that smack.”

He pointed as he spoke to a smack which was just on their beam, making slowly for the harbour.

“When you’ve done issuing orders,” said the captain, in an indifferent voice, “perhaps you’ll explain what you are doing aboard my crag.”

Captain Nugent gazed at the stern of the fast-receding smack; Sunwich was getting dim in the distance and there was no other sail near. He began to realize that he was in for a long voyage.

“I awoke this morning and found myself in a bunk in vow fo’c’s’le,” he said, regarding Hardy steadily. “However I got there is probably best known to yourself. I hold you responsible for the affair.”

“Look here my lad,” said Captain Hardy, in patronizing tones, “I don’t know how you got aboard my ship and I don’t care. I am willing to believe that it was not intentional on your part, but either the outcome of a drunken freak or else a means of escaping from some scrape you have got into ashore. That being so, I shall take a merciful view of it, and if you behave yourself and make yourself useful you will not hear anything more of it. He has something the look of a seafaring man, Mr. Prowle. See what you can make of him.”

“Come along with me, my lad,” said the grinning Mr. Prowle, tapping him on the shoulder.

The captain turned with a snarl, and, clenching his huge, horny fist, let drive full in the other’s face and knocked him off his feet.

“Take that man for’ard,” cried Captain Hardy, sharply. “Take him for’ard.”

Half-a-dozen willing men sprang forward. Captain Nugent’s views concerning sailormen were well known in Sunwich, and two of the men present had served under him. He went forward, the centre of an attentive and rotating circle, and, sadly out of breath, was bestowed in the forecastle and urged to listen to reason.

For the remainder of the morning he made no sign. The land was almost out of sight, and he sat down quietly to consider his course of action for the next few weeks. Dinner-time found him still engrossed in thought, and the way in which he received an intimation from a good-natured seaman that his dinner was getting cold showed that his spirits were still unquelled.

By the time afternoon came he was faint with hunger, and, having determined upon his course of action, he sent a fairly polite message to Captain Hardy and asked for an interview.

The captain, who was resting from his labours in the chart-room, received him with the same air of cold severity which had so endeared Captain Nugent himself to his subordinates.

“You have come to explain your extraordinary behaviour of this morning, I suppose?” he said, curtly.

“I have come to secure a berth aft,” said Captain Nugent. “I will pay a small deposit now, and you will, of course, have the balance as soon as we get back. This is without prejudice to any action I may bring against you later on.”

“Oh, indeed,” said the other, raising his eyebrows. “We don’t take passengers.”

“I am here against my will,” said Captain Nu-gent, “and I demand the treatment due to my position.”

“If I had treated you properly,” said Captain Hardy, “I should have put you in irons for knocking down my second officer. I know nothing about you or your position. You’re a stowaway, and you must do the best you can in the circumstances.”

“Are you going to give me a cabin?” demanded the other, menacingly.

“Certainly not,” said Captain Hardy. “I have been making inquiries, and I find that you have only yourself to thank for the position in which you find yourself. I am sorry to be harsh with you.”

“Harsh?” repeated the other, hardly able to believe his ears. “You— harsh to me?”

“But it is for your own good,” pursued Captain Hardy; “it is no pleasure to me to punish you. I shall keep an eye on you while you’re aboard, and if I see that your conduct is improving you will find that I am not a hard man to get on with.”

Captain Nugent stared at him with his lips parted. Three times he essayed to speak and failed; then he turned sharply and, gaining the open air, stood for some time trying to regain his composure before going forward again. The first mate, who was on the bridge, regarded him curiously, and then, with an insufferable air of authority, ordered him away.

The captain obeyed mechanically and, turning a deaf ear to the inquiries of the men, prepared to make the best of an intolerable situation, and began to cleanse his bunk. First of all he took out the bedding and shook it thoroughly, and then, procuring soap and a bucket of water, began to scrub with a will. Hostile comments followed the action.

“We ain’t clean enough for ‘im,” said one voice.

“Partikler old party, ain’t he, Bill?” said another.

“You leave ‘im alone,” said the man addressed, surveying the captain’s efforts with a smile of approval. “You keep on, Nugent, don’t you mind ‘im. There’s a little bit there you ain’t done.”

“Keep your head out of the way, unless you want it knocked off,” said the incensed captain.

“Ho!” said the aggrieved Bill. “Ho, indeed! D’ye ‘ear that, mates? A man musn’t look at ‘is own bunk now.”

The captain turned as though he had been stung. “This is my bunk,” he said, sharply.

“Ho, is it?” said Bill. “Beggin’ of your pardon, an’ apologizing for a-contradictin’ of you, but it’s mine. You haven’t got no bunk.”

“I slept in it last night,” said the captain, conclusively.

“I know you did,” said Bill, “but that was all my kind-’artedness.”

“And ‘arf a quid, Bill,” a voice reminded him.

“And ‘arf a quid,” assented Bill, graciously, “and I’m very much obliged to you, mate, for the careful and tidy way in which you’ve cleaned up arter your-self.”

The captain eyed him. Many years of command at sea had given him a fine manner, and force of habit was for a moment almost too much for Bill and his friends. But only for a moment.

“I’m going to keep this bunk,” said the captain, deliberately.

“No, you ain’t, mate,” said Bill, shaking his head, “don’t you believe it. You’re nobody down here; not even a ordinary seaman. I’m afraid you’ll ‘ave to clean a place for yourself on the carpet. There’s a nice corner over there.”

“When I get back,” said the furious captain, “some of you will go to gaol for last night’s work.”

“Don’t be hard on us,” said a mocking voice, “we did our best. It ain’t our fault that you look so ridikerlously young, that we took you for your own son.”

“And you was in that state that you couldn’t contradict us,” said another man.

“If it is your bunk,” said the captain, sternly, “I suppose you have a right to it. But perhaps you’ll sell it to me? How much?”

“Now you’re talking bisness,” said the highly gratified Bill, turning with a threatening gesture upon a speculator opposite. “Wot do you say to a couple o’ pounds?”

The captain nodded.

“Couple o’ pounds, money down,” said Bill, holding out his hand.

The captain examined the contents of his pocket, and after considerable friction bought the bunk for a pound cash and an I O U for the balance.

A more humane man would have shown a little concern as to his benefactor’s sleeping-place; but the captain never gave the matter a thought. In fact, it was not until three days later that he discovered there was a spare bunk in the forecastle, and that the unscrupulous seaman was occupying it.

It was only one of many annoyances, but the captain realizing his impotence made no sign. From certain remarks let fall in his hearing he had no difficulty in connecting Mr. Kybird with his discomfiture and, of his own desire, he freely included the unfortunate Mr. Wilks.

He passed his time in devising schemes of vengeance, and when Captain Hardy, relenting, offered him a cabin aft, he sent back such a message of refusal that the steward spent half an hour preparing a paraphrase. The offer was not repeated, and the captain, despite the strong representations of Bill and his friends, continued to eat the bread of idleness before the mast.