The Project Gutenberg eBook, Jim of Hellas, or In Durance Vile; The Troubling of Bethesda Pool, by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

JIM OF HELLAS

THE TROUBLING OF
BETHESDA POOL

JIM OF HELLAS

OR

IN DURANCE VILE

BETHESDA POOL

BY

LAURA E. RICHARDS

Author of "Captain January," "Melody," "Queen Hildegarde,"
"Five-Minute Stories," "When I Was Your Age,"
"Narcissa," "Marie," "Nautilus."

Tenth Thousand

BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
1895

Copyright, 1895,

By Estes & Lauriat

All rights reserved

Typography and Printing by
C. H. Simonds & Co.
Electrotyping by Geo. C. Scott & Sons
Boston, U.S.A.

TO MY

Dear Brother,

HENRY MARION HOWE,

THIS VOLUME

IS AFFECTIONATELY

DEDICATED.

JIM OF HELLAS

JIM OF HELLAS.

Part I.

Everyone knows the Island; it is not necessary to name it. With its rolling downs, its points, its ponds, its light-houses, and above all, its town,—who does not know the Island? Some day I shall write a story about the downs, the billowy acres of gold on russet, russet on gold, wonderful to see,—but this story is about the town.

The town has its nominal government, like other towns; its selectmen, and its town-meeting, and other like machinery; but everybody knows that the real seat of government lies in the Upper House. The meetings of this republican House of Lords are held in the best room of "Bannister's," the one inn of the town. It is a pleasant, roomy old structure, built in the Island fashion, with wide windows and plenty of them, and with a railed platform on its flat-topped roof, from which, in former days, the women of the house used to watch for the coming of the whaling-fleet.

There is little watching now on the Island. No ships come into that wonderful harbour, once thronged with sails. The great wharves rot silently and fall apart; a few old hulks rot quietly beside them. Two or three fishing-smacks, a coal-schooner or two,—these are all one sees now from the roof or the windows of Bannister's.

But the men who sit together in the upper room still look out of the windows a great deal, because from them they can see the harbour, and beyond it the sea; and the sea is what they love best to look at, for the greater part of their lives has been spent on it. Old sea-captains,—it needs but one glance to tell of what the Upper House is composed: Men with faces that might have been carved out of mahogany, wrinkled and seamed and beaten into strange lines by wind and weather; with gray or white hair, for the most part, and shaggy beards, yet with keen, bright eyes which are used to looking, and, what is not always the same thing, to seeing what they look at.

Though most of them go to sea no more, they keep with care their sea-going aspect; they wear pea-jackets with huge horn buttons, heavy sea-boots, and never fail to don their sou'westers in bad weather. The room in which they sit is well suited to them. On the broad window-seats lie spy-glasses and telescopes of all kinds. The walls are hung with sea-trophies.

Here is a piece of plank transfixed by the sharp blade of a sword-fish; there, a pair of walrus-tusks; there, again, the beautiful horn of the narwhal, like a wonderful lance of ivory, fit weapon for King Olaf or Eric the Red. In the doorway stands a whale's jaw, a great arch ten feet high, under which all must pass with thoughts of Jonah. As for corals and shells, there is no end to them, for the upper room is a museum as well as a place of convention, and here the captains love to bring their choicest treasures, keeping only the second-best to adorn the chimney-piece of the home-parlour.

In a great arm-chair, facing a seaward window, sits the patriarch of the Upper House, old Abram Bannister. His grandfather had built the inn itself, his grandsons now keep it. Every morning, winter and summer, Jake and Bill "hist" the old captain out of bed, put him in his chair, and wheel him into the great room; then they give him a spy-glass to hold in his hand, and leave him till dinner-time. The captains begin to straggle in about eight o'clock, when their morning chores are done. They greet the white old man with never-failing cordiality; he is the pride of the Upper House. They are never tired of asking him how old he is, nor of hearing him reply in his feeble, cheery pipe,—

"Ninety-nine year, and risin' a hundred."

He sleeps a good deal of the day, and, on waking, never fails to cry out, "Thar' she blows!"

Whereupon, one of the captains promptly replies, "Where away?" and the patriarch says,—

"Weather bow!" and straightway forgets all about it, and plays with his spy-glass.

When the captains are assembled in sufficient number, they discuss the affairs of the town, talk over this or that question, and decide what the "se-leckmen" ought to do about it.

Woe to the selectmen who should dare to oppose the decision of the Upper House! Something dreadful would happen to them; but, as they never have opposed it, one cannot tell what form the punishment would take.

Now it fell, on a day, that the captains were sitting together spinning yarns, as was their custom when business was over. The present and the immediate future provided for, it was their delight to plunge into the past, and bring up the marvellous treasures hidden in that great sea. Captain Zeno Pye was telling about the loss of the "Sabra" in the year 1807. His father had been on the vessel, and Captain Zeno sometimes forgot that it was not himself, so often had he told the story. The other captains, sitting like so many veiled prophets, each shrouded in his cloud of smoke, listened with the placid enjoyment of connoisseurs, making a mental note of any slightest variation of word or inflection in the familiar narrative. Any one of them could have told it in his sleep, but it was Captain Zeno's story, and it was one of the unwritten laws of the Upper House that no captain should tell another's story.

"So," said Captain Zeno,—he was a little walnut-faced man, with sharp black eyes, and a dry and rasping utterance,—"so they was makin' good sailin' with a fair wind, on the 18th day of October, when all of a suddent the lookout sung out—"

"Thar she blows!" broke in Captain Abram, in his piping treble.

"Where away?" responded Captain Silas Riggs, promptly.

"Weather bow!" said the old man, and fell silent again. All looked at Captain Zeno, who smiled appreciatively.

"Won'erful, aint it?" he said, meditatively. "He knows that pint, Cap'n Abram does, as well as I do. Wal, as I was sayin', they struck a school o' whales, on the weather bow, sure enough; sperms they was, and likely-lookin' fur as they could see. Three boats put off, and my father, bein' mate at that time, had one of 'em. He sighted a sixty-barrel bull, and was pullin' for him for dear life, when an old cow come by with her calf, and when she saw the boat she dove, and one eend o' the fluke struck 'em amidships, and stove a hole in 'em. Wal! that kerwumpussed 'em, ye see! Nothin' for it but to pull back to the ship, and set to work on repairs. My father called the carpenters, and give 'em their job, an' then he looked after the school, and cussed a little, mebbe, for all he was a perfessor, to think he was losin' all the fun. All of a suddent he seed a whale leave the school, turn round, and make straight for the ship. He didn't think nothin' of it, 'cept he see 'twas the biggest bull his eyes had ever come across. Big? Wal!' Twas like a island, Father used to say. He'd heerd tell of two-hundred-and-thirty-barrel whales along back in the seventeens, and he calc'lated this might be one of 'em left over. He see the critter was comin' pooty nigh, and he sung out for a harpoon, thinkin' he might git a shy, after all; when, lo ye! that whale took a start an' come through the water like a shot out of a gun, and struck the ship just forrard of the forechains.

"Wal, sir, they was knocked consid'able eendways, I tell ye! Father was dumfoundered for a minute, and the ship's crew with him, what with the surprise on't, and the everlastin' shakin' it giv 'em, too. But Father never let his wits go without a string tied to 'em, and in a minute he ordered all hands to the pumps, to see if she had sprung a-leak. She hed, sir; she was sinkin'; and Father run up the sign for the boats to come back. He turned round from runnin' up that signal, and you may call me a Jerseyman if the whale wasn't comin' for 'em agin, head on and all sails drawin'! Before Father could sing out, he struck 'em again, pooty nigh the same place, with a crash that sent every man-jack sprawlin' on his face. Wal, sir, 'twas boats then, I can tell ye, and no time to lose, neither! Th' other boats kem back and took 'em aboard, and in five minutes' time the 'Sabry' down with her nose and up with her heels, and down she went to Davy. Yes, sir! That's what you might call—"

At this moment the captain was interrupted by a knock at the door. He looked displeased, but said "Come aboard!" with as good a grace as he could; while the other captains turned cheerfully in the direction of the knocker, who might bring them something new in place of a many-times-told tale.

A lank, ungainly man entered, and stood timidly on one foot, with his mouth open, holding the door in his hand.

"Come aboard!" repeated Captain Zeno, impatiently. "Shet the door! Say yer say with yer mouth, and then shet that,—if ye can get it all to at onc't!" he added, in an undertone.

The ungainly man looked slowly round the room, and stroked his lantern-jaws. "That man!" he said, deliberately, lingering on each word as if it were too precious to part with, "what be I to do with him?"

The captains looked at one another. They had been speaking of this matter only a few minutes before, but they feigned unconsciousness.

"What man do you mean, Sefami Bunt?" asked Captain Zeno, severely. "The prisoner who was caught stealin' hens from Palmyry Henshaw last week?"

The man nodded. "Says he wants somethin' to do!" he said. "Says he'd like to do chores round for his victuals. Says he doesn't like my victuals."

The captains chuckled. Sefami Bunt was a bachelor, and his housekeeping was not supposed to be of a high order.

"Have ye got him in the jail?" asked Captain Asy Bean.

The lantern-jawed man shifted uneasily to the other foot. "Wal, I hev!" he admitted. "But he doesn't seem to be contented with that." Then, after a pause, "I brung him with me. 'T want safe to leave him, for the jail door sags so I can't lock it, and the chain is bust. So 'f you'd like to see him for yerselves—"

"Where is he?" asked the captains in chorus.

Sefami Bunt gave a backward jerk with his head. "I tied him to the leg o' the table," he said. "The boys is mindin' of him. Sh'll I fetch him up?"

Receiving an affirmative answer, he disappeared, and returned, dragging the prisoner by the collar.

The latter, the instant he caught sight of the assembly of mariners, shook off his keeper with a single movement; then, making his obeisance in true seaman fashion, he glanced quickly round the room, and stood still, cap in hand, in an attitude of respectful humility.

He was a short, thick-set man, evidently of great strength; a sailor, every inch of him, from the gold rings in his ears to the way he set his feet down. Jet-black curls clustered about his brown, smiling face. His dark eyes were alive with intelligence and humour. His open shirt displayed a neck elaborately tattooed, while hands and wrists were a museum of anchors, hearts and crosses.

"Will you speak to him, Cap'n Bean?" said one or two of the other captains in low tones.

"Wal, I don't want to be settin' myself up," replied Captain Asy, "but if it's the wish"—he glanced round the circle, and ascertained that it was the wish. Whereupon, clearing his throat and assuming a quarter-deck frown, he asked, in majestic tones, "What is your name, prisoner?"

The dark eyes looked intelligence. "Name, honourable captains? Giorgios Aristides Evangelides Paparipopoulos."

"Great Andes!" exclaimed Captain Asy. "We've got the whole archipelago, and no mistake. What do they call ye? Hey?"

"Ah!"—the brown face flashed into a bewildering smile, an ivory revelation. "Call me? Jim!"

The captains breathed again.

"That's more civilized!" said Captain Asy. "Now, you Jim, what have you got to say for yourself?"

It appeared that Jim had a great deal to say for himself. He was not happy, he must inform the honourable captains. He complained of his quarters, of his jailer, of his fare. He had, it was true, stolen a hen, being very hungry and having no money to seek the so honourable hotel. The hen was almost uneatable, but—he had stolen her. He had been condemned to three months' imprisonment in the jail, and it was well. But—here he waxed eloquent, pathetic. "I haf been in jail, honourable captains, before. Never for great offence, but—I have been. But never like zis! Ze rain come in upon my bed. I try to shut ze door, for ze wind blow at me, but he not shut. I sleep, and ze ship come in ze door and eat me."

"Hold on there!" said Captain Asy. "What do you mean by that? Hey? Ship come in the door?"

"Yes, honourable captain; t'ree gre't big ship. I hear 'baa! baa!' I wake suddainlee, and zey are eat my foot."

"Sheep, he means!" the jailer explained. "The' warnt but two, I guess. Fact, they got a way o' wand'rin' int' the jail, but they wouldn't ha' hurt him any. He's dretful skeered for one that's knocked about pooty nigh the world over, from what he says."

"But!" the prisoner maintained, turning a candid face upon the court; "is it a jail—for ship to walk in and eat—what you say neeble—ze foots of prisoners?"

"No! no! 'taint!" "That's so!" "He's right, gentlemen!" came from the assembled captains.

"Zen," Jim continued, "ze mess! Salted backbone of hog—must I eat always zis? Never for t'ree mont's ozer sing? Honourable captains, I die."

"Wal!" said Sefami Bunt, with a hint of bluster in his voice, "I guess if backbone's good enough for me, it's good enough for him! 'Twas a good hawg! and, anyway, I've got to use it!"

"Sold the rest and salted down the backbone for yourself and prisoner?" queried Captain Asy Bean.

The jailer nodded, and repeated in an injured tone:

"'Twas a good hawg! Anybody could ha' seen him fattenin' any time they mind to pass by."

"And I tell Mr. Bont,"—Jim resumed the thread of his narrative, smiling apology around,—"I tell him, 'Let-a me go!' not ron avay, of course; I cannot ron avay if I wish. It is island. I tell him 'Let-a me go and work! I make ze door good; I mend ze windows; I do for ozer people work, perhaps zey give me ozer mess.' Is it not?" with a sudden flash and gleam of eyes and teeth.

There was a short pause. "How did you come here, anyway?" queried Captain Bije Tarbox.

It appeared that Jim had fallen overboard from his vessel. It was night, and his fall had not been noticed. Fortunately, the vessel was, even at the moment, passing the Island. He was a good swimmer, used to being in the water for a long time—briefly, behold him! He stole the hen. He was taken, brought before the "selected gentlemen." That was his story.

"Just step outside with Bunt a minute, my man," said Captain Asy Bean, "and we'll settle your case." Then, as the door closed behind the smiling criminal and his gloomy guardian, Captain Asy turned to the others:

"Gentlemen, this story may or may not be true. It sounds fishy; but, anyhow, the man must have come from somewhere, and I d'no as it matters much, s'long as he's here now. Question is, what to do with him now he is here. Just like them seleckmen, lettin' the jail go to rack an' ruin, an' then clappin' a man in thar for the sheep to nibble."

"Man's a seaman, anyhow," said Captain Bije Tarbox. "Ought t' ha' been sent straight to us."

"That's so!" assented the captains all.

"Wal!" resumed Captain Asy, "'pears to me the straight thing is for us to send for the seleckmen—they'll be goin' by to dinner direckly, an' we can toll 'em in an' say to 'em—"

"Thar she blows!" sang out Captain Abram.

"Where away?" asked Captain Moses Packard.

"Weather bow!" was the reply; and then the talk went on again.

Part II.

Palmyra Henshaw was sitting in her neat kitchen, with folded hands. The kettle was singing cheerfully, the cat was purring contentedly by the stove; but for once Miss Palmyra's mood did not chime in with the singing or the purring. She had sprained her ankle the day before, and it was now so painful, that, after dragging it about till her work was "done up" (for, land sakes! she couldn't sit down in the dirt; and her kitchen had to be cleaned up, if she did it on her hands and knees), she was fain now to sit down and put the offending member up on a chair.

She looked at the poor foot with great displeasure. It was badly swollen; she had had to put on a green carpet slipper, one of an old pair of her father's; and the contrast with her other foot, in its trim, well-blacked shoe, was anything but pleasant.

As she sat thus in silent discomfort, she heard the sound of the pump in the yard. Somebody was working the handle up and down with firm, regular strokes.

"Well, what next?" said Miss Palmyra, fretfully, peering out of the window and trying to gain a sight of the intruder. "I sh'd like to know who's at that pump without askin' leave or license. I left the pail out there, too, didn't I? Like as not it'll go, same as the hen did. I must get up!"—she made a motion to rise, but sank back with a groan. "My Land! Have I got to sit here and have my things stole without liftin' a finger?"

At the same moment she heard quick steps crossing the yard: the door opened, and a man entered, carrying a brimming pail of water. Miss Palmyra opened her mouth to shriek, but closed it again when the stranger smiled.

"Good eve!" said the man, who had black curls, gold rings in his ears, and the brightest eyes that ever were seen. "I come to do ze work."

"Work!" ejaculated Miss Palmyra, faintly.

"Ze shores!" explained the man, with a brilliant flash of eyes and teeth. "You have hurt ze foot? So peety! Look! I fill ze kettel—so! I bring ze wood—so!" (He was gone, and back again with an armful of wood before Miss Palmyra could trust her bewildered senses enough to know whether she was awake or dreaming.) "I fill up ze stofe—so! And next? It is a cow zat you haf? I milk her!" He swept a glance around the kitchen, seized with unerring instinct the right pail, and was gone again.

Miss Palmyra pinched herself, and opened and shut her eyes several times.

"I wonder if I'm goin' crazy!" she said. "I feel kinder light-headed."

She looked at the cat, who blinked quietly in return, and his calm air of tranquillity steadied her nerves. "If he'd been a tramp, he wouldn't ha' brought in that wood!" she said. "Would he, Eben?" The cat was named Ebenezer. Ebenezer purred assurance, and Miss Palmyra's spirits rose. "Like as not he's stayin' with some o' the neighbours!" she said. "Mis' Brewster's real kind: mebbe this is her nephew she was expectin', and she sent him in to help me. Well, I'm sure!" She twitched a little shawl over the carpet-slipper, and settled her neat collar and apron.

When the stranger returned, beaming over the brimming milk-pail, she was able to greet him with "Well, you're real obligin', I must say. I didn't hardly know what I should do about milkin', for I can't seem to put my foot to the ground. Stayin' at Mis' Brewster's, be ye?"

"No!" with a flash which illuminated the kitchen. "Not zere. Where he live, ze milk? Zis door?"

Miss Palmyra indicated the pantry door, where the yellow pans stood ready and waiting.

She listened keenly for a sound of spilling or dripping, but none came; only a steady, even pouring. "He's a real good hand!" she murmured.

"And now?" the dark eyes smiled on her again. "You lame, I get your sopper. What you like?"

"Oh,—no, sir, you can't do that!" cried Miss Palmyra. "I'm jist as obliged, I assure you, but I sha'n't want nothin' more to-night. I had a good dinner. Well, I'm sure!"

She felt utterly helpless when the stranger, with another smile, produced three eggs from his pocket, and taking a bowl, proceeded to break the eggs into it and beat them with right good will. "When you seeck, then you weak," he explained. "Most eat good sopper! I make!"

In the twinkling of an eye the frying-pan was on the stove; and, while it was heating, his keen black eyes spied a tray. Napkin, knife and fork were arranged upon it with swift precision. Setting a plate to warm on the back of the stove, he proceeded to do wonderful things with the beaten eggs, tossing them about with a fork, stirring, seasoning, tasting. This was done with the right hand, while the left was toasting a slice of bread. All the time the black eyes were glancing here and there, like darting sunbeams. Spying a string of onions, the stranger pounced upon them. A morsel was torn off, shredded fine, and stirred into the savoury mess.

In five minutes such an omelette was smoking on the hot plate as Miss Palmyra had never even dreamed of; and in one minute more it was beside her on the little light-stand, and she was bidden "Eat! I make tea!"

Now Miss Palmyra had not had a good dinner, and she was desperately hungry, and—oh! how good that omelette did smell! The toast was perfect!

Where had Mis' Brewster's nephew learned all this? And now, to crown all, a cup of tea was set beside her,—hot, strong and fragrant. And then—

"Please ze lady I also have a cup?" asked this astonishing person. The tone was soft and pleading, the dark eyes deprecating, as if he were a humble suitor, asking a royal boon.

"Well, I should hope you could!" cried Miss Palmyra, hospitably. The idea! I don't see what I was thinking of, Mr.—Is your name Brewster?"

"No!" said the stranger, softly. "Name is Jim!"

A good supper had Giorgios Aristides Evangelides Paparipopoulos, alias Jim, that night! There was more omelette than Miss Palmyra could possibly eat, she declared; indeed, Jim had meant that there should be. Then she told him where to find a certain loaf of spice cake, and a jar of damson jam; and she insisted upon his eating till he could eat no more. After a week of salted backbone of hog, Jim's appetite for these good things was keen enough.

He beamed with pleasure; his smiles made noonday in the darkening kitchen: Miss Palmyra thought him uncommonly handsome. Only—it was a pity he wore ear-rings. And, after all, who was he? She really must find out.

"You've never told me how you kem to know of my bein' lame!" she said, as her guest was washing the dishes with careful nicety. "You a stranger here, too! Who did send ye, if I'm not takin' a liberty?"

"Ze honourable captains send me," said Jim, with open cheerfulness; "and ze selected gentlemen."

"Well, I'm sure!" ejaculated Miss Palmyra.

"I steal your hen!" Jim explained, with winning grace. "Was very sorry; should not have done—but! Now I work t'ree mont'; do shores for ladies; do all works. But for you I work most, for I steal your hen. Is it not?" And putting away the cups and saucers, he swept the hearth with ardour.

"Well, I'm sure!" said Miss Palmyra again; and she really could not think of anything else to say.

Everyone agreed that it was a special providence that Jim Popples (such being the popular rendering of our hero's name) had been cast away on the Island just when there was so much sickness "goin' about," and when Aunt Ruhamy Snell, the accredited nurse of the Island, was laid up with rheumatism The quick, active Greek was here, there and everywhere. He split wood, he made fires, he milked cows. He mended chairs, and set panes of glass; he kept all the children happy by plaiting wonderful things out of twine, and whittling royal navies with his jackknife.

He also mended up the jail as well as he could, and might be seen patching the walls of his cell, whistling merrily, while the jailer sat by in moody silence watching him. It was generally felt that Sefami Bunt had not done as he ought by his prisoner, and that he really was not fitted for the offices he held of jailer and hog-reeve; but, as Captain Zeno Pye said, "thar warnt nothin' else Sefami could do, and it kep' him off the town, anyway."

But Jim's best work, and his longest hours, were given to Miss Palmyra Henshaw. She had freely forgiven him his theft of the hen, and in the long period of inactivity to which she was now condemned (for if one trifles with a sprained ankle, one is apt to pay for it, and it was a month before she could do more than hobble about with a crutch), she found him an invaluable friend. Morning, noon and night would see him smiling at the door, with his cheery "How you do, Mees Palmyre? So better, is it not? Glad I am!"

Often he brought some little offering: a wooden dish of wild strawberries; a string of fish, gleaming fresh from the water; or it might be half-a-dozen crabs, which would crawl out of his pockets, only to meet a swift death in the kettle of boiling water, and be converted into some wonderful dish. Of Jim's skill in cookery, Miss Palmyra spoke with bated breath.

"Well!" she would say to Mrs. Brewster, who, toiling over her own cook stove, sometimes wished she had a sprained ankle and could have Jim Popples to do her work; "that man has a real gift, that's sartin'. Give him an egg and an onion, and it does seem as if he could git the flesh-pots of Egypt out of 'em. Jest you step to the cupboard, Mis' Brewster. Thar's a corner I left special for you to taste, a dish o' tomaytoes and rice he cooked for my dinner yesterday. Just them, and a bit o' butter and a scrap of onion, and—thar! Did you ever! Don't that relish good?"

Small wonder that Miss Palmyra grew plump and rosy in spite of the sprained ankle.

Many a housewife wished, like Mrs. Brewster, that she also might profit by Jim's gift; but though he did all kinds of chores for the whole village, he would cook for no one but Miss Palmyra Henshaw. "I steal you hen!" he said to her. "I wish to make you up for zat. I steal hens at no ozer lady."

So Miss Palmyra grew to feel a sort of ownership of Jim Popples, which was by no means unpleasant; and she sewed on his buttons (for pleasure; he could do it perfectly well himself, as she knew) and mended his clothes; while he, at work with broom or mop, or whittling away at basket-splints, told her wonderful stories of foreign lands, of apes and peacocks, cedars and pomegranates, till the good woman grew to feel that her thief was a very remarkable and very gifted person.

So three months slipped away, as fast as months are apt to do; and a day came when the captains sat all together in the Upper House at Bannister's, and Giorgios Aristides Evangelides Paparipopoulos stood before them, as he had stood once before, with his jailer glooming beside him.

The captains had sent for him, and now, at a murmur from the others, Captain Zeno Pye took up the word:

"Wal, Jim, yer three months is up, and I s'pose you're thinkin' about goin'. Me and the captains feel to say to you that you've done well, real well. Of course you started in mean, and stealin' aint right, however you look at it. But you've worked stiddy, and you've worked good; and I reckon you'd have to hunt round consid'able before you found anybody in town who wa'n't real sorry to have ye go. If you felt to stay, I don't doubt but you could get all the work you wanted, odd-jobbin' round. The seleckmen 'd oughter pay ye somethin' for repairin' the jail, but thar!—that's between you and them. Wal! the steamer comes to-morrer, and I s'pose you'll be movin'. What we want to say is, that we're right sorry to have ye go, Jim Popples. You're a handy fellow, and I don't doubt you're a good seaman; and if me or the other captains can speak a good word for ye, or help ye any way with a start, why, we're ready to do it. That's so, aint it?"

There was a growl of assent, in the midst of which—

"Thar she blows!" sung out Captain Abram Bannister.

"Where away?" cried Captain Bije Tarbox.

"Weather bow!" responded Captain Abram, and slept peacefully.

Jim looked slowly round the circle; his smile grew wider and brighter, till each man felt warm, and thought the weather was moderating; then he saluted in seaman fashion.

"I not go!" said the child of Hellas. "I stay. I get married to-morrow—to Mees Palmyre!"

THE TROUBLING OF BETHESDA POOL

THE TROUBLING OF BETHESDA POOL.

Part I.

Some people in the village (but they were the spiteful ones) used to say that Bethesda Pool might e'en so well be a dummy and done with it, if she never could open her mouth when a person spoke to her. But there were always others who were ready to respond that "it was a comfort there was one woman who knew enough to hold her tongue when she had nothing to say!" This retort was apt to provoke the reply churlish; and many a pretty quarrel had been hatched up over the silence of Bethesda Pool, who never quarrelled herself, because it entailed talking.

She was the Lady of the Inn, Miss Bethesda. Her mother, the late Mrs. Pool, had married the inn-keeper, and led a sad life of it. She was a woman of a lively fancy, and had been in the habit of saying that if she had been fool enough to get drownded in a pool, she meant to get all the good she could out of the name! So she named her eldest daughter Siloama (pronounced Silo-amy), her second Bethesda, and the son, who came just after her husband had drowned himself in his special pool of whiskey, Heshbon. The neighbours thought this triflin' with Scriptur', and had their own opinion of Ma'am Pool's eccentricities; but the good lady cared little for anybody's opinion; indeed, if she had had any such care, she would not have married Father Pool, whose failings were well known. All that was long ago, however; Father and Mother Pool were gone to their places, the pensive Silo-amy and the fishy Heshbon had followed, and Miss Bethesda was Queen of the Inn.

The Inn was the only one in the village. Perhaps there was little need even of this; but it had always been there since the old stage-coach days, when the village was a favourite stopping-place for gay parties of travellers, and when old Gran'ther Pool kept open house, and smiled over his bar on all comers, like a rising sun a little the worse for wear. It was a quaint old house, with a stone veranda in front, and mossy roofs pitching this way and that. Inside was maze upon maze of long, narrow corridors, with queer little rooms opening out of them,—some square, some long; all low of ceiling and wavy of floor, with curious dolphin-shaped latches, and doors set as if the builder had thrown them at the wall and made the opening wherever they happened to strike. Few of these doors were on a level with the floor; they might be two steps above it, or three steps below; it was a matter of fancy, purely. There was one room that could only be entered through the closet, unless you preferred to get in at the window; but you could easily do that, as it opened on the balcony. Then there was a square chamber containing a trap-door; the Kidderminster carpet fitted the trap perfectly, and it was a dangerous room for strangers to enter. Here the Freemasons used, in old times, to hold their meetings, and carry on their mystic rites. Later, it was the favourite playroom of the Pool children, and they and their playmates were never tired of popping up and down the "Tumplety Hole," as they called it.

In the middle of the second story was a long ballroom, where in old days merry dances had been held, and young feet jigged it to the tune of "Money Musk" or "Hull's Victory."

This room, with its wonderful wall-paper, representing the Carnival at Rome, and its curious clock, was an object of wonder to the whole village; and strangers or visitors were pretty sure to present themselves at the Inn door, sometimes begging to be taken in for a few days, sometimes merely asking the privilege of going over the quaint old house. The reception of these visitors was apparently a matter of caprice with the Lady of the Inn; one never could tell how she would take it. Sometimes an eager statement that "We heard of your beautiful house, and we have driven over from South Tupham, ten miles, on purpose to see it!" would be met by the monosyllable "Have!" delivered in Miss Bethesda's mildest tone, and the door would be softly but firmly shut in the travellers' faces. Or the visitor might try another tack, and begin with the bold assumption that the Inn was a place of public entertainment, and that man and beast were welcome there, as a matter of course.

"I should like two bedrooms and a sitting-room, please! And will you send someone to look out for my horses? And—I should like supper, something hot, as soon as convenient!" To which Miss Bethesda might reply, "Should you?" and smile, and again shut the door.

But there were other times when something in the asking face or voice touched one knew not what chord in the good lady's breast. On these occasions she could be very gracious, and would say, perhaps, that she really didn't know, she didn't take boarders—mebbe—just this once—if't would accommodate—she didn't know—but she might compass it somehow, and the door would be opened wide; and, once inside, the guest was sure to be made so comfortable that he was loth to go away again.

The fact was, that being clothed with means, as they say in the village, the Lady of the Inn felt that it was merely a matter of personal fancy, the taking in of guests, and that if she were not in the mood for visitors there was no manner of reason why she should be bothered with them.

She had one servant, a grim elder, by name Ira Goodwin. The spiteful people before alluded to said that Ira—or Iry, to give the name its actual pronunciation—and his mistress never spoke to each other, but communicated by means of signs. That could not be true, however, for Mrs. Peake, next door, had been shaking a carpet in her yard one day, close by the fence, and had heard Iry say, in a growling manner, "Guess I can hold my tongue as well as others!" To which Miss Bethesda's crisp tones replied: "You'd better, for the outside of your head does you more credit than the inside!"

Thus Miss Bethesda Pool lived in solitude for the most part, and content with her lot; and no breeze ruffled the still waters of her life.

It was very peaceful to be alone there in the great rambling Inn, and hear no sound save the purring of the yellow cat, and the drip of the water from the roofs. The roofs all leaked in the Inn, whenever there was a possible chance for leaking, and the walls were covered with strange patterns and hieroglyphics that were not included in the design of the wall-paper.

It happened one day that Miss Bethesda Pool was sitting in her own comfortable room, toeing off a stocking, and thinking of many things, when she heard a knock at the door. She took no notice of the first summons, for she found that in many cases the knocker, after one, or at most two, trials, was apt to go away, which saved a world of trouble, and showed that he had no business that amounted to anything, anyhow. But this was a persistent knocker, who kept on with a timid yet steady "rat-tat-tat—" till Miss Bethesda concluded that, whoever it was, he had not sense enough to know when he wasn't wanted, and that she must answer the knock.

She folded her knitting deliberately, and after examining the draughts of the stove, and stroking the yellow cat two or three times, she went to the door, holding her chin a little high, and looking, if the truth must be told, rather uncompromising.

When she opened the door, however, the lines of her face softened and her chin went down. A bright-faced girl stood there, with a shawl wrapped round her, for the day was cold. She was trying to smile, but there were tears in her brown eyes, and her lip was quivering.

"Miss Pool," she said, "I don't suppose I can come in, can I? I'd like ever so much to speak to you, if you wouldn't mind!"

Miss Bethesda opened the door wide, and without wasting breath, led the shivering child in, and closed the door after her with a bang. That bang carried defiance across the way, and gave Miss Bethesda as much comfort as if she had let loose a torrent of angry words. There is great comfort in a door sometimes. Still in silence, she led the girl into the sitting-room, drew a chair near the stove for her, and motioned her to sit down. Then resuming her own seat, she took up her knitting again, and gazing calmly on her visitor, evidently felt that she had done her part.

"It's Father, Miss Pool!" said the pretty girl, whose name was Nan Bradford. Miss Pool nodded comprehension, and set her lips more firmly. "Father, he's going on dreadful!" said Nan. "You know Will Newell has been—well, he has thought a sight of me, and I of him, these two years past.

"It came about while I was staying to grandma's, over to Cyrus, and grandma knew all his folks, and there aint any better folks in the country, grandma said. And yet—Father—he acts as though Will was one thief and I was another. He won't let him come to the house, nor he won't let me write to him, nor he won't do anything—'cept just be ugly! There! I hadn't ought to say it, I know,—my own father, and just as good a father as ever a girl has in the wide world, I do believe, till this come up. But he won't hear of my marrying anybody,—that is the plain truth, Miss Pool, not if it was a seraph with six wings! And—and—what am I to do, I should like to know? I come to you, 'cause you've always been good to me, and I seem to know you better than anyone else, now grandma's dead. And I wouldn't complain of Father to anyone else in the village, so I wouldn't!"

She paused for breath; Miss Pool looked at her and nodded. It was an expressive nod, and the girl seemed to feel better for it. She began to cry softly, wiping her pretty eyes with the corner of her shawl. "I'm just beat out!" she said, plaintively. "Be!" said Miss Bethesda, soothingly; she went to the cupboard and brought out some of the famous cookies which a few privileged children were allowed to taste from time to time, but seldom anyone who had passed the boundary of childhood. Nan, who was still a child in some ways, brightened at sight of the cookies, and was soon nibbling them in comparative comfort, sighing from time to time, and glancing up under her long eyelashes at Miss Bethesda, who sat knitting as if her life depended upon it, her lips set very tight, and apparently taking no notice of her guest. But Nan Bradford knew Miss Pool, and was content to wait. She would not have been let in, she knew, if the Lady of the Inn had not been in a good mood. So, she nibbled the cookies, and thought of Will, and was as comfortable as a lovelorn and persecuted damsel could be.

Miss Bethesda kept her eyes fixed on her work, but she did not see it. Instead of the gray wool and shining needles, a stalwart figure stood before her, the figure of Buckstone Bradford. He had been her neighbour for all the years of their life; he was four years her senior, and they had been playmates in childhood. A breezy, rosy-cheeked boy he had been, and her sworn ally. The children were apt to divide into two parties: Bethesda and Buckstone on one side, Siloama and Heshbon on the other. Thus arrayed, they were wont to do battle around the yawning gulf of the Tumplety Hole, shouting their respective war-cries, which alluded, in an unfriendly spirit, to the qualities of the enemy.