The Money Moon Part 21

"I mean, comrade--that on Sat.u.r.day next, being the twenty-fifth instant,--we march out--bag and baggage--horse, foot, and artillery,--we evacuate our position--in face of superior force,--for good and all, comrade."

"Is that so, s.h.i.+pmate?"

"It's rough on you, Peterday--it's hard on you, I'll admit, but things were said, comrade--relative to--business troubles of one as we both respect, Peterday,--things was said as called for--beer down the neck,--and running out into the road, comrade. But it's rough on you, Peterday seeing as you--like the Hussars at a.s.suan--was never engaged, so to speak."

"Aye, aye, s.h.i.+pmate, that does ketch me,--all aback, s.h.i.+pmate. Why Lord!

I'd give a pound,--two pound--ah, ten!--just to have been astarn of him wi' a rope's end,--though--come to think of it I'd ha' preferred a capstan-bar."

"Peterday," said the Sergeant removing his gaze from the wall with a jerk, "on the twenty-fifth instant we shall be--without a roof to cover us, and--all my doing. Peterday--what have you to say about it?"

"Say, messmate,--why that you and me, honouring, and respecting two ladies as deserves to be honoured, and respected, ain't going to let such a small thing as this here cottage come betwixt us, and our honouring and respecting of them two ladies. If, therefore, we are due to quit this anchorage, why then it's all hands to the windla.s.s with a heave yo ho, and merrily! say I. Messmate,--my fist!" Hereupon, with a very jerky movement indeed, the Sergeant reached out his remaining arm, and the soldier and the sailor shook hands very solemnly over the m.u.f.fins (already vastly diminished in number) with a grip that spoke much.

"Peterday,--you have lifted a load off my heart--I thank ye comrade,--and spoke like a true soldier. Peterday--the m.u.f.fins!"

So now the Sergeant, himself once more, fell to in turn, and they ate, and drank, and laughed, and talked, until the shrimps were all gone, and the m.u.f.fins were things of the past.

And now, declining all Bellew's offers of a.s.sistance, the soldier and the sailor began was.h.i.+ng, and drying, and putting away their crockery, each in his characteristic manner,--the Sergeant very careful and exact, while the sailor juggled cups and saucers with the sure-handed deftness that seems peculiar to nautical fingers.

"Yes, Peterday," said the Sergeant, hanging each cup upon its appointed nail, and setting each saucer solicitously in the s.p.a.ce reserved for it on the small dresser, "since you have took our marching orders as you have took 'em, I am quite reconciled to parting with these here snug quarters, barring only--a book-shelf, and a cup-board."

"Cupboard!" returned Peterday with a snort of disdain, "why there never was such a ill-contrived, lubberly cupboard as that, in all the world; you can't get at it unless you lay over to port,--on account o' the clothes-press, and then hard a starboard,--on account o' the dresser,--and then it being in the darkest corner--"

"True Peterday, but then I'm used to it, and use is everything as you know,--I can lay my hand upon anything--in a minute--watch me!" Saying which, the Sergeant squeezed himself between the press and the dresser, opened the cupboard, and took thence several articles which he named, each in order.

"A pair o' jack-boots,--two brushes,--blacking,--and a burnisher."

Having set these down, one by one, upon the dresser, he wheeled, and addressed himself to Bellew, as follows:

"Mr. Bellew, sir,--this evening being the anniversary of a certain--event, sir, I will ask you--to excuse me--while I make the necessary preparations--to honour this anniversary--as is ever my custom." As he ended, he dropped the two brushes, the blacking, and the burnisher inside the legs of the boots, picked them up with a sweep of the arm, and, turning short round, strode out into the little garden.

"A fine fellow is d.i.c.k, sir!" nodded Peterday, beginning to fill a long clay pipe, "Lord!--what a sailor he 'd ha' made, to be sure!--failing which he's as fine a soldier as ever was, or will be, with enough war-medals to fill my Sunday hat, sir. When he lost his arm they gave him the V.C., and his discharge, sir,--because why--because a soldier wi' one arm ain't any more good than a sailor wi' one leg, d'ye see. So they tried to discharge d.i.c.k, but--Lord love you!--they couldn't, sir,--because why?--because d.i.c.k were a soldier bred and born, and is as much a soldier to-day, as ever he was,--ah! and always will be--until he goes marching aloft,--like poor Tom Bowling,--until one as is General of all the armies, and Admiral of all the fleets as ever sailed, shall call the last muster roll, sir. At this present moment, sir," continued the sailor, lighting his pipe with a live coal from the fire, "my messmate is a-sitting to the leeward o' the plum tree outside, a polis.h.i.+ng of his jack-boots,--as don't need polis.h.i.+ng, and a burnis.h.i.+ng of his spurs,--as don't need burnis.h.i.+ng. And because why?--because he goes on guard, to-night, according to custom."

"On guard!" repeated Bellew, "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Of course you don't, sir," chuckled Peterday, "well then, to-night he marches away--in full regimentals, sir,--to mount guard. And--where, do you suppose?--why, I'll tell you,--under Miss Priscilla's window! He gets there as the clock is striking eleven, and there he stays, a marching to and fro, until twelve o'clock. Which does him a world o'

good, sir, and noways displeases Miss Priscilla,--because why?--because she don't know nothing whatever about it." Hereupon, Peterday rose, and crossing to a battered sea-man's chest in the corner, came back with three or four tin whistles which he handed to Bellew, who laid aside his pipe, and, having selected one, ran tentatively up and down the scale while Peterday listened attentive of ear, and beaming of face.

"Sir," said he, "what do you say to 'Annie Laurie' as a start--shall we give 'em 'Annie Laurie'?--very good!--ready?--go!"

Thus, George Bellew, American citizen, and millionaire, piped away on a tin whistle with all the gusto in the world,--introducing little trills, and flourishes, here and there, that fairly won the one-legged sailor's heart.

They had already "given 'em" three or four selections, each of which had been vociferously encored by Peterday, or Bellew,--and had just finished an impa.s.sioned rendering of the "Suwanee River," when the Sergeant appeared with his boots beneath his arm.

"s.h.i.+pmate!" cried Peterday, flouris.h.i.+ng his whistle, "did ye ever hear a tin whistle better played, or mellerer in tone?"

"Meller--is the only word for it, comrade,--and your playing sirs, is--artistic--though doleful. P'raps you wouldn't mind giving us something brighter--a rattling quick-step? P'raps you might remember one as begins:

'Some talk of Alexander And some, of Hercules;'

if it wouldn't be troubling you too much?"

Forthwith they burst forth into "The British Grenadiers?" and never did tin whistles render the famous old tune with more fire, and dash. As the stirring notes rang out, the Sergeant, standing upon the hearth, seemed to grow taller, his broad chest expanded, his eyes glowed, a flush crept up into his cheek, and the whole man thrilled to the music as he had done, many a time and oft, in years gone by. As the last notes died away, he glanced down at the empty sleeve pinned across his breast, shook his head, and thanking them in a very gruff voice indeed, turned on his heel, and busied himself at his little cupboard. Peterday now rose, and set a jug together with three gla.s.ses upon the table, also spoons, and a lemon, keeping his "weather-eye" meanwhile, upon the kettle,--which last, condescending to boil obligingly, he rapped three times with his wooden leg.

"Right O, s.h.i.+pmate!" he cried, very much as though he had been hailing the "main-top," whereupon the Sergeant emerged from between the clothes-press and the dresser with a black bottle in his hand, which he pa.s.sed over to Peterday who set about brewing what he called a "jorum o'

grog," the savour of which filled the place with a right pleasant fragrance. And, when the gla.s.ses brimmed, each with a slice of lemon a-top,--the Sergeant solemnly rose.

"Mr. Bellew, and comrade," said he, lifting his gla.s.s, "I give you--Miss Priscilla!"

"G.o.d bless her!" said Peterday.

"Amen!" added Bellew. So the toast was drunk,--the gla.s.ses were emptied, re-filled, and emptied again,--this time more slowly, and, the clock striking nine, Bellew rose to take his leave. Seeing which, the Sergeant fetched his hat and stick, and volunteered to accompany him a little way. So when Bellew had shaken the sailor's honest hand, they set out together.

"Sergeant," said Bellew, after they had walked some distance, "I have a message for you."

"For me, sir?"

"From Miss Priscilla."

"From--indeed, sir!"

"She bid me tell you that--the peaches are riper to-night than ever they were."

The Sergeant seemed to find in this a subject for profound thought, and he strode on beside Bellew very silently, and with his eyes straight before him.

"'That the peaches were riper,--to-night,--than ever they were?'" said he at last.

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Riper!" said the Sergeant, as though turning this over in his mind.

"Riper than ever they were!" nodded Bellew.

"The--peaches, I think, sir?"

"The peaches, yes." Bellew heard the Sergeant's finger rasping to and fro across his shaven chin.

"Mr. Bellew, sir--she is a--very remarkable woman, sir!"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"A--wonderful woman!"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"The kind of woman that--improves with age, sir!"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Talking of--peaches, sir, I've often thought--she is--very like a peach--herself, sir."