Sea Urchins Part 39

"Wot was you a-doin' to let me do it?" he demanded at length of the boy.

"You ungrateful little toad. You can give me that 'arf-suvrin back, d'ye hear?"

"I can't," said the boy. "I followed your example, and give it to the red-'aired woman to buy the baby another bun with."

There was a buzzing noise in Mr. Dodds' head, and the bunks and their grinning occupants went round and round.

"'Ere, 'old up, Sam," said Pilchard, shaking him in alarm. "It's all right; don't be a fool. I've got the money."

Sam stared at him blankly.

"I've got the money," repeated the seaman.

Mr. Dodds' colour came back.

"How'd you get it?" he inquired.

"I took it out of your pocket last night just to give you a lesson,"

said Harry severely. "Don't you never be so silly agin, Sam."

"Gimme my money," said Mr. Dodds, glaring at him.

"You might ha' lorst it, you see, Sam," continued his benefactor; "if I could take it, anybody else could. Let this be a lesson to you."

"If you don't grimme my money--" began Sam violently.

"It's no good trying to do 'im a kindness," said Harry to the others as he turned to his bunk. "He can go an' lose it for all I care."

He put his hand in his bunk, and then with a sudden exclamation searched somewhat hastily amongst the bedding. Mr. Dodds, watching him with a scowl, saw him take every article separately out of his bunk, and then sink down appalled on the locker.

"You've took it, Sam-ain't-you?" he gasped.

"Look 'ere," said Mr. Dodds, with ominous quietness, "when you've done your little game."

"It's gone," said Harry in a scared voice; "somebody's taken it."

"Look 'ere, 'Arry, give 'im his money," said Steve impatiently; "a joke's a joke, but we don't want too much of it."

"I ain't got it," said Harry, trembling. "Sure as I stand 'ere it's gone. I took it out of your pocket, and put it under my piller. You saw me, didn't you, Steve?"

"Yes, and I told you not to," said Steve. "Let this be a warning to you not to try and teach lessons to people wot don't want 'em."

"I'm going to the police-station to give 'im in charge," said Mr. Dodds fiercely; "that's wot I'm goin' to do."

"For the Lord's sake don't do that, Sam," said Pilchard, clutching him by the coat.

"'Arry ain't made away with it, Sam," said Steve. "I saw somebody take it out of his bunk while he was asleep."

"Why didn't you stop him?" cried Harry, starting up.

"I didn't like to interfere," said Steve simply; "but I saw where he went to."

"Where?" demanded Mr. Dodds wildly. "Where?"

"He went straight up on deck," said Steve slowly, "walked aft, and then down into the cabin. The skipper woke up, and I heard 'im say something to him."

"Say something to 'im?" repeated the bewildered Dodds. "Wot was it?"

"Well, I 'ardly like to repeat it," said Steve, hesitating.

"Wot was it?" roared the overwrought Mr. Dodds.

"Well, I 'eard this chap say something," said Steve slowly, "and then I heard the skipper's voice. But I don't like to repeat wot 'e said, I reely don't."

"Wot was it?" roared Mr. Dodds, approaching him with clenched fist.

"Well, if you will have it," said Steve, with a little cough, "the old man said to me, 'Well done, Steve,' he ses, 'you're the only sensible man of the whole bilin' lot. Sam's a fool,' 'e ses, 'and 'Arrys worse, an' if it wasn't for men like you, Steve, life wouldn't be worth living.' The skipper's got it now, Sam, and 'e's goin' to give it to your wife to take care of as soon as we get home."

THE LOST s.h.i.+P

On a fine spring morning in the early part of the present century, Tetby, a small port on the east coast, was keeping high holiday.

Tradesmen left their shops, and labourers their work, and flocked down to join the maritime element collected on the quay.

In the usual way Tetby was a quiet, dull little place, cl.u.s.tering in a tiny heap of town on one side of the river, and perching in scattered red-tiled cottages on the cliffs of the other.

Now, however, people were grouped upon the stone quay, with its litter of fish-baskets and coils of rope, waiting expectantly, for to-day the largest s.h.i.+p ever built in Tetby, by Tetby hands, was to start upon her first voyage.

As they waited, discussing past Tetby s.h.i.+ps, their builders, their voyages, and their fate, a small piece of white sail showed on the n.o.ble barque from her moorings up the river. The groups on the quay grew animated as more sail was set, and in a slow and stately fas.h.i.+on the new s.h.i.+p drew near. As the light breeze took her sails she came faster, sitting the water like a duck, her lofty masts tapering away to the sky as they broke through the white clouds of canvas. She pa.s.sed within ten fathoms of the quay, and the men cheered and the women held their children up to wave farewell, for she was manned from captain to cabin boy by Tetby men, and bound for the distant southern seas.

Outside the harbour she altered her course somewhat and bent, like a thing of life, to the wind blowing outside. The crew sprang into the rigging and waved their caps, and kissed their grimy hands to receding Tetby. They were answered by rousing cheers from the sh.o.r.e, hoa.r.s.e and masculine, to drown the lachrymose attempts of the women.

They watched her until their eyes were dim, and she was a mere white triangular speck on the horizon. Then, like a melting snowflake, she vanished into air, and the Tetby folk, some envying the bold mariners, and others thankful that their lives were cast upon the safe and pleasant sh.o.r.e, slowly dispersed to their homes.

Months pa.s.sed, and the quiet routine of Tetby went on undisturbed. Other craft came into port and, discharging and loading in an easy, comfortable fas.h.i.+on, sailed again. The keel of another s.h.i.+p was being laid in the s.h.i.+pyard, and slowly the time came round when the return of Tetby's Pride, for so she was named, might be reasonably looked for.

It was feared that she might arrive in the night-the cold and cheerless night, when wife and child were abed, and even if roused to go down on to the quay would see no more of her than her side-lights staining the water, and her dark form stealing cautiously up the river. They would have her come by day. To see her first on that horizon, into which she had dipped and vanished. To see her come closer and closer, the good stout s.h.i.+p seasoned by southern seas and southern suns, with the crew crowding the sides to gaze at Tetby, and see how the children had grown.

But she came not. Day after day the watchers waited for her in vain. It was whispered at length that she was overdue, and later on, but only by those who had neither kith nor kin aboard of her, that she was missing.

Long after all hope had gone wives and mothers, after the manner of their kind, watched and waited on the cheerless quay. One by one they stayed away, and forgot the dead to attend to the living. Babes grew into st.u.r.dy, ruddy-faced boys and girls, boys and girls into young men and women, but no news of the missing s.h.i.+p, no word from the missing men. Slowly year succeeded year, and the lost s.h.i.+p became a legend. The man who had built her was old and grey, and time had smoothed away the sorrows of the bereaved.

It was on a dark, bl.u.s.tering September night that an old woman sat by her fire knitting. The fire was low, for it was more for the sake of company than warmth, and it formed an agreeable contrast to the wind which whistled round the house, bearing on its wings the sound of the waves as they came cras.h.i.+ng ash.o.r.e.