The breeze which had begun to blow freshened as the day advanced, and the Admiral, directing his course to the nor’-east, made for the neighbourhood of the Dogger Bank. Having reached what he deemed suitable fishing-ground, he changed his course and gave the signal to “put to.” With the precision of well-trained troops the smacks obeyed, and let down their trawls. The Sunbeam also let down her net, and shaped her course like the rest, thus setting an example of attention to secular duty. She trawled for fish so as to help to pay expenses, until such time as suitable weather and opportunity offered for the main and higher duty of fishing for men.
The first haul of the mission vessel was a great success, prophetic of the great successes in store, thought her skipper, as the cod-end was finally swung inboard in an almost bursting condition. When the lower end was opened, and the living fountain of fish gushed over the deck, there was a general exclamation of satisfaction, mingled with thanksgiving, from the crew, for fishes great and small were there in abundance of every sort that swims in the North Sea.
“All sorts and conditions of men” leaped into Fred Martin’s mind, for he was thinking of higher things at the moment. “A good beginning and a good omen,” he murmured.
“Wot a haul!” exclaimed Pat Stiver, who was nearly swept off his legs, and to whom the whole thing was an entirely new experience.
“Use your eyes less and your hands more, my boy,” said Fink, the mate, setting the example by catching hold of a magnificent turbot that would have graced a lord mayor’s feast, and commencing to clean it.
Pat was by no means a lazy boy. Recovering from his surprise, he set to work with all the vigour of a man of purpose, and joined the rest of the crew in their somewhat disagreeable duty.
They wrought with such goodwill that their contribution of trunks to the general supply was the largest put on board the steamer next day.
Calm and storm sometimes succeed each other rapidly on the North Sea. It was so on the present occasion. Before the nets could be cleared and let down for another take, the breeze had died away. The weather that was unsuited, however, for fishing, was very suitable for “ferrying” to the steamer; and when that all-important duty was done, the comparative calm that prevailed was just the thing for the work of the Sunbeam.
Well aware of this, Manx Bradley and other like-minded skippers, kept close to the mission ship, whose great blue flag was waving welcome to all. Boats were soon pulling towards her, their crews being influenced by a great variety of motives; and many men who, but for her presence, would have been gambling or drinking, or oppressed with having nothing to do, or whistling for a breeze, found an agreeable place of meeting on her deck.
On this occasion a considerable number of men who had received slight injuries from accidents came on board, so that Fred had to devote much of his time to the medical part of his work, while Fink, his mate, superintended the distribution of what may be styled worsted-works and literature.
“Hallo, Jim Freeman!” said Fred, looking round from the medicine shelves before which he stood searching for some drug; “you’re the very man I want to see. Want to tempt you away from Skipper Lockley, an’ ship with me in the Sunbeam.”
“I’m not worth much for anybody just now,” said Freeman, holding up his right hand, which was bound in a bloody handkerchief. “See, I’ve got what’ll make me useless for weeks to come, I fear.”
“Never fear, Jim,” said Fred, examining the injured member, which was severely bruised and lacerated. “How got ye that?”
“Carelessness, Fred. The old story—clapped my hand on the gunwale o’ the boat when we were alongside the carrier.”
“I’d change with ’ee, Jim, if I could,” growled Joe Stubley, one of the group of invalids who filled the cabin at the time.
There was a general laugh, as much at Joe’s lugubrious visage as at his melancholy tone.
“Why, what’s wrong with you, Stubs?” asked Fred.
“DT,” remarked the skipper of the Cormorant, who could hardly speak because of a bad cold, and who thus curtly referred to the drunkard’s complaint of delirium tremens.
“Nothin’ o’ the sort!” growled Joe. “I’ve not seed a coper for a week or two. Brandy’s more in your way, Groggy Fox, than in mine. No, it’s mulligrumps o’ some sort that’s the matter wi’ me.”
“Indeed,” said Fred, as he continued to dress the bruised hand. “What does it feel like, Stubs?”
“Feel like?” exclaimed the unhappy man, in a tone that told of anguish, “it feels like red-hot thunder rumblin’ about inside o’ me. Just as if a great conger eel was wallopin’ about an’ a-dinin’ off my witals.”
“Horrible, but not incurable,” remarked Fred. “I’ll give you some pills, boy, that’ll soon put you all to rights. Now, then, who’s next?”
While another of the invalids stepped forward and revealed his complaints, which were freely commented on by his more or less sympathetic mates, Fink had opened out a bale of worsted comforters, helmets, and mitts on deck, and, assisted by Pat Stiver, was busily engaged in distributing them. “Here you are—a splendid pair of mitts, Jack,” he said, tossing the articles to a huge man, who received them with evident satisfaction.
“Too small, I fear,” said Jack, trying to force his enormous hand into one of them.
“Hold on! don’t bu’st it!” exclaimed Pat sharply; there’s all sorts and sizes here. “There’s a pair, now, that would fit Goliath.”
“Ah, them’s more like it, little ’un,” cried the big fisherman. “No more sea-blisters now, thanks to the ladies on shore,” he added, as he drew the soft mittens over his sadly scarred wrists.
“Now then, who wants this?” continued Fink, holding up a worsted helmet; “splendid for the back o’ the head and neck, with a hole in front to let the eyes and nose out.”
“Hand over,” cried David Duffy.
“I say, wot’s this inside?” exclaimed one of the men, drawing a folded paper from one of his mittens and opening it.
“Read, an’ you’ll maybe find out,” suggested the mate.
“‘God, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy,’” said the fisherman, reading from the paper.
“Just so,” said Fink, “that’s what the lady as made the mitts wants to let you know so’s you may larn to think more o’ the Giver than the gifts.”
“I wish,” said another of the men testily, as he pulled a tract from inside one of his mitts, and flung it on the deck, “I wish as how these same ladies would let religion alone, an’ send us them things without it. We want the mitts, an’ comforters, an’ helmets, but we don’t want their humbuggin’ religion.”
“Shame, Dick!” said David Duffy, as he wound a comforter round his thick neck. “You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. We’re bound to take the things as they’ve been sent to us, an’ say ‘Thank ’ee.’”
“If it wasn’t for what you call ‘humbuggin’ religion,’” remarked Fink, looking Dick straight in the face, “it’s little that we’d see o’ comforters, or books, or mission ships on the North Sea. Why, d’ee think that selfishness, or greed, or miserliness, or indifference, or godlessness would ever take the trouble to send all them things to us? Can’t you understand that the love of God in the heart makes men and women wish to try to keep God’s commandments by bein’ kind to one another, an’ considering the poor, an’ feedin’ the hungry, an’ clothin’ the naked?”
“Right you are, Fink,” said Lockley, with a nod of approval, which was repeated by several of those around.
“But, I say, you spoke of books, mate,” remarked Bob Lumsden, who came forward at the moment, much to the satisfaction of his little friend Pat Stiver; “you han’t showed us any books yet.”
“One thing at a time, boy,” returned the mate.
“We’ve got lots o’ books too. Go below, Pat, an’ ask the skipper to send up that big case o’ books; say I’ve about finished givin’ out the mitts an’ mufflers.”
“Just so, boy,” put in his friend Bob; “say that the mate has distributed the soft goods, an’ wants some hard facts now.”
“Don’t be cheeky, you young rascal!” cried the mate, hitting Bob on the nose with a well aimed pair of mittens.
“Thankee! On’y them things was meant for the hands not for the nose. Howsever, I won’t quarrel with a gift, no matter what way it comes to me,” retorted Bob, picking up the mitts and putting them in his pocket.
While he was speaking two men brought on deck a large box, which was quickly opened by the mate. The men crowded around with much interest and curiosity, for it was the first batch of books that had ever reached that fleet. The case was stuffed to the lid with old periodicals and volumes, of every shape, and size, and colour.
“W’y, they’ve bin an’ sent us the whole British Museum, I do believe!” exclaimed David Duffy, whose younger brother chanced to be a porter in our great storehouse of literature.
“Here you are, lads!” cried Fink, going down on his knees and pulling out the contents. “Wollum of The Leisure Hour, Sunday Magazine, odd numbers o’ The Quiver, wollum of The Boy’s Own Paper, Young England, Home Words, and Good Words (to smother our bad words, you know). There you are, enough to make doctors or professors of every man Jack o’ you, if you’ll on’y take it all in.”
“Professors!” growled Joe Stubley, who had come on deck, still suffering from his strange internal complaint. “More like to make fools on us. Wot do we want wi’ books and larnin’!”
“Nothin’ wotsumdever,” answered Pat Stiver, with a look of the most patronising insolence. “You’re right, Joe, quite right—as you always are. Smacksmen has got no souls, no brains, no minds, no hintellects.”
“They’ve got no use for books, bless you! All they wants is wittles an’ grog—”
The boy pulled up at this point, for Stubley made a rush at him, but Pat was too quick for him.
“Well said, youngster; give it him hot,” cried one of the men approvingly, while the others laughed; but they were too much interested in the books to be diverted from these for more than a few seconds. Many of them were down on their knees beside the mate, who continued in a semi-jocular strain—“Now then, take your time, my hearties; lots o’ books here, and lots more where these came from. The British public will never run dry. I’m cheap John! Here they are, all for nothin’, on loan; small wollum—the title ain’t clear, ah!—The Little Man as Lost his Mother; big wollum—Shakespeare; Pickwick; books by Hesba Stretton; Almanac; Missionary Williams; Polar Seas an’ Regions; Pilgrim’s Progress—all sorts to suit all tastes—Catechisms, Noo Testaments, Robinson Crusoe.”
“Hold on there, mate; let’s have a look at that!” cried Bob Lumsden eagerly—so eagerly that the mate handed the book to him with a laugh.
“Come here, Pat,” whispered Bob, dragging his friend out of the crowd to a retired spot beside the boat of the Sunbeam, which lay on deck near the mainmast. “Did you ever read Robinson Crusoe?”
“No, never—never so much as ’eard of ’im.”
“You can read, I suppose?”
“Oh yes; I can read well enough.”
“What have you read?” demanded Bob.
“On’y bits of old noospapers,” replied Pat, with a look of contempt, “an’ I don’t like readin’.”
“Don’t like it? Of course you don’t, you ignorant curmudgeon, if noospapers is all you’ve read. Now, Pat, I got this book, not for myself but a purpus for you.”
“Thankee for nothin’,” said Pat; “I doesn’t want it.”
“Doesn’t want it!” repeated Bob. “D’ee know that this is the very best book as ever was written?”
“You seems pretty cock-sure,” returned Pat, who was in a contradictory mood that day; “but you know scholards sometimes differ in their opinions about books.”
“Pat I’ll be hard upon you just now if you don’t look out!” said Bob seriously. “Howsever, you’re not so far wrong, arter all. People does differ about books, so I’ll only say that Robinson Crusoe is the best book as was ever written, in my opinion, an’ so it’ll be in yours, too, when you have read it; for there’s shipwrecks, an’ desert islands, an’ savages, an’ scrimmages, an’ footprints, an’—see here! That’s a pictur of him in his hairy dress, wi’ his goat, an’ parrot, an’ the umbrellar as he made hisself, a-lookin’ at the footprint on the sand.”
The picture, coupled with Bob Lumsden’s graphic description, had the desired effect. His little friend’s interest was aroused, and Pat finally accepted the book, with a promise to read it carefully when he should find time.
“But of that,” added Pat, “I ain’t got too much on hand.”
“You’ve got all that’s of it—four and twenty hours, haven’t you?” demanded his friend.
“True, Bob, but it’s the spare time I’m short of. Howsever, I’ll do my best.”
While this literary conversation was going on beside the boat, the visitors to the Sunbeam had been provided with a good supply of food for the mind as well as ease and comfort for the body, and you may be very sure that the skipper and his men, all of whom were Christians, did not fail in regard to the main part of their mission, namely, to drop in seeds of truth as they found occasion, which might afterwards bear fruit to the glory of God and the good of man.
There was on board the Sunbeam, on this her first voyage, a tall, broad-shouldered, but delicate-looking young man, with a most woebegone expression and a yellowish-green countenance. To look at him was to pronounce him a melancholy misanthrope—a man of no heart or imagination.
Never before, probably, did a man’s looks so belie his true character. This youth was an enthusiast; an eager, earnest, hearty Christian, full of love to his Master and to all mankind, and a student for the ministry. But John Binning had broken down from over-study, and at the time we introduce him to the reader he was still further “down” with that most horrible complaint, sea-sickness.
Even when in the depth of his woe at this time, some flashes of Binning’s true spirit gleamed fitfully through his misery. One of those gleams was on the occasion of Dick Martin being rescued. Up to that period, since leaving Yarmouth, Binning had lain flat on his back. On hearing of the accident and the rescue he had turned out manfully and tried to speak to the rescued man, but indescribable sensations quickly forced him to retire. Again, when the first visitors began to sing one of his favourite hymns, he leaped up with a thrill of emotion in his heart, but somehow the thrill went to his stomach, and he collapsed.
At last however, Neptune appeared to take pity on the poor student. His recovery—at least as regarded the sea-sickness—was sudden. He awoke, on the morning after the opening of the case of books, quite restored. He could hardly believe it. His head no longer swam; other parts of him no longer heaved. The first intimation that Skipper Martin had of the change was John Binning bursting into a hymn with the voice of a stentor. He rose and donned his clothes.
“You’ve got your sea legs at last, sir,” said Fred Martin, as Binning came on deck and staggered towards him with a joyful salutation.
“Yes, and I’ve got my sea appetite, too, Mr Martin. Will breakfast be ready soon?”
“Just goin’ on the table, sir. I like to hear that question. It’s always a sure and good sign.”
At that moment Pat Stiver appeared walking at an acute angle with the deck, and bearing a dish of smoking turbot. He dived, as it were, into the cabin without breaking the dish, and set it on the very small table, on which tea, bread, butter, and a lump of beef were soon placed beside it. To this sumptuous repast the skipper, the student, and the mate sat down. After a very brief prayer for blessing by the skipper, they set to work with a zest which perhaps few but seafaring men can fully understand. The student, in particular, became irrepressible after the first silent and ravenous attack.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “the sea! the sea! the open sea! If you are ill, go to sea. If you are fagged, go to sea! If you are used up, seedy, washed-out, miserable, go to sea! Another slice of that turbot, please. Thanks.”
“Mind your cup, sir,” said the skipper, a few minutes after, in a warning voice; “with a breeze like this it’s apt to pitch into your lap. She lays over a good deal because I’ve got a press of sail on her this morning.”
“More than usual?” asked Binning.
“Yes. You see I’m trying to beat a coper that’s close ahead of us just now. The Sunbeam is pretty swift on her heels, an’ if the breeze holds—ha! you’ve got it, sir?”
He certainly had got it, in his lap—where neither cup, saucer, nor tea should be.
“You are right, skipper, and if your ready hands had not prevented it I should have got the teapot and sugar-basin also. But no matter. As I’ve had enough now, I’ll go on deck and walk myself dry.”
On deck a new subject of interest occupied the mind of the rapidly reviving student, for the race between the Sunbeam and the coper was not yet decided. They were trying which would be first to reach a group of smacks that were sailing at a considerable distance ahead on the port bow. At first the coper seemed to have the best of it, but afterwards the breeze freshened and the Sunbeam soon left it far astern. Seeing that the race was lost, the floating grog-shop changed her course.
“Ah, she’ll steer for other fleets where there’s no opposition,” remarked the skipper.
“To win our first race is a good omen,” said John Binning, with much satisfaction. “May the copers be thus beaten from every fleet until they are beaten from the North Sea altogether!”
“Amen to that,” said Fred Martin heartily. “You feel well enough now, sir, to think of undertaking service to-morrow, don’t you?”
“Think of it, my friend! I have done more than think,” exclaimed the student; “I have been busy while in bed preparing for the Sabbath, and if the Master sends us calm weather I will surely help in the good work you have begun so well.”
And the Master did send calm weather—so calm and so beautiful that the glassy sea and fresh air and bright blue sky seemed typical of the quiet “rest that remaineth for the people of God.” Indeed, the young student was led to choose that very text for his sermon, ignoring all his previous preparation, so impressed was he with the suitability of the theme. And when afterwards the boats of the various smacks came trooping over the sea, and formed a long tail astern of the Sunbeam, and when the capacious hold was cleared, and packed as full as possible with rugged weather-beaten men, who looked at the tall pale youth with their earnest inquiring gaze, like hungering men who had come there for something and would not be content to depart with nothing, the student still felt convinced that his text was suitable, although not a single word or idea regarding it had yet struggled in his mind to get free.
In fact the young man’s mind was like a pent-up torrent, calm for the moment, but with tremendous and ever-increasing force behind the flood-gates, for he had before him men, many of whom had scarcely ever heard the Gospel in their lives, whose minds were probably free from the peculiar prejudices of landsmen, whose lives were spent in harsh, hard, cheerless toil, and who stood sorely in need of spiritual rest and deliverance from the death of sin. Many of these men had come there only out of curiosity; a few because they loved the Lord, and some because they had nothing better to do.
Groggy Fox was among them. He had come as before for “baccy,” forgetting that the weed was not sold on Sundays, and had been prevailed on to remain to the service. Dick Martin was also there, in a retired and dark corner. He was curious to know, he remarked, what the young man had to talk about.
It was not till after prayer had been offered by the student that God opened the flood-gates. Then the stream gushed forth.
“It is,” said the preacher—in tones not loud, but so deep and impressive that every soul was at once enthralled—“it is to the servants of the devil that the grand message comes. Not to the good, and pure, and holy is the blessed Gospel or good news sent, but, to the guilty, the sin-stricken, the bad, and the sin-weary God has sent by His blessed Spirit the good and glorious news that there is deliverance in Jesus Christ for the chief of sinners. Deliverance from sin changes godless men into the children of God, and there is rest for these. Do I need to tell toilers of the deep how sweet rest is to the tired-out body? Surely not, because you have felt it, and know all about it better than I do. But it is needful to tell you about rest for the soul, because some of you have never felt it, and know not what it is. Is there no man before me who has, some time or other, committed some grievous sin, whose soul groans under the burden of the thought, and who would give all he possesses if he had never put out his hand to commit that sin? Is there no one here under the power of that deadly monster—strong drink—who, remembering the days when he was free from bondage, would sing this day with joy unspeakable if he could only escape?”
“Yes,” shouted a strong voice from a dark corner of the hold. “Thank God!” murmured another voice from a different quarter, for there were men in that vessel’s hold who were longing for the salvation of other as well as their own souls.
No notice was taken of the interrupters. The preacher only paused for an instant as if to emphasise the words— “Jesus Christ is able to save to the uttermost all who come to God through Him.”
We will not dwell on this subject further than to say that the prayer which followed the sermon was fervent and short, for that student evidently did not think that he should be “heard for his much speaking!” The prayer which was thereafter offered by the Admiral of the fleet was still shorter, very much to the point, and replete with nautical phrases, but an uncalled-for petition which followed that was briefest of all. It came in low but distinct tones from a dark corner of the hold, and had a powerful effect on the audience; perhaps, also, on the Hearer of prayer. It was merely— “God have mercy on me.”
Whatever influence might have resulted from the preaching and the prayer on that occasion, there could be no doubt whatever as to the singing. It was tremendous! The well-known powers of Wesleyan throats would have been lost in it. Saint Paul’s Cathedral organ could not have drowned it. Many of the men had learned at least the tunes of the more popular of Sankey’s hymns, first from the Admiral and a few like-minded men, then from each other. Now every man was furnished with an orange-coloured booklet. Some could read; some could not. It mattered little. Their hearts had been stirred by that young student, or rather by the student’s God. Their voices, trained to battle with the tempest, formed a safety-valve to their feelings. “The Lifeboat” was, appropriately, the first hymn chosen. Manx Bradley led with a voice like a trumpet, for joy intensified his powers. Fred Martin broke forth with tremendous energy. It was catching. Even Groggy Fox was overcome. With eyes shut, mouth wide open, and book upside down, he absolutely howled his determination to “leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore.”
But skipper Fox was not the only man whose spirit was touched on that occasion. Many of the boats clung to the mission vessel till the day was nearly past, for their crews were loath to part. New joys, new hopes, new sensations had been aroused. Before leaving, Dick Martin took John Binning aside, and in a low but firm voice said—“you’re right, sir. A grievous sin does lie heavy on me. I robbed Mrs Mooney, a poor widdy, of her little bag o’ savin’s—twenty pounds it was.”
The latter part of this confession was accidentally overheard by Bob Lumsden. He longed to hear more, but Bob had been taught somehow that eavesdropping is a mean and dishonourable thing. With manly determination, therefore, he left the spot, but immediately sought and found his little friend Pat Stiver, intent on relieving his feelings.
“What d’ee think, Pat?” he exclaimed, in a low whisper, but with indignation in his eye and tone.
“I ain’t thinkin’ at all,” said Pat.
“Would you believe it, Pat?” continued Bob, “I’ve just heerd that scoun’rel Dick Martin say that it was him as stole the money from Mrs Mooney—from the mother of our Eve!”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Pat, making his eyes remarkably wide and round.
“Yes, I does, an’ I’ve long suspected him. Whether he was boastin’ or not I can’t tell, an’ it do seem strange that he should boast of it to the young parson—leastwise, unless it was done to spite him. But now mark me, Pat Stiver, I’ll bring that old sinner to his marrow-bones before long, and make him disgorge too, if he hain’t spent it all. I give you leave to make an Irish stew o’ my carcase if I don’t. Ay, ay, sir!”
The concluding words of Bob Lumsden’s speech were in reply to an order from Skipper Lockley to haul the boat alongside. In a few minutes more the mission ship was forsaken by her strange Sabbath congregation, and left with all the fleet around her floating quietly on the tranquil sea.
There was—probably still is—a coffee-tavern in Gorleston where, in a cleanly, cheerful room, a retired fisherman and his wife, of temperance principles, supplied people with those hot liquids which are said to cheer without inebriating.
Here, by appointment, two friends met to discuss matters of grave importance. One was Bob Lumsden, the other his friend and admirer Pat Stiver. Having asked for and obtained two large cups of coffee and two slices of buttered bread for some ridiculously small sum of money, they retired to the most distant corner of the room, and, turning their backs on the counter, began their discussion in low tones.
Being early in the day, the room had no occupants but themselves and the fisherman’s wife, who busied herself in cleaning and arranging plates, cups, and saucers, etcetera, for expected visitors.
“Pat,” said Bob, sipping his coffee with an appreciative air, “I’ve turned a total abstainer.”
“W’ich means?” inquired Pat.
“That I don’t drink nothin’ at all,” replied Bob.
“But you’re a-drinkin’ now!” said Pat.
“You know what I mean, you small willain; I drink nothin’ with spirits in it.”
“Well, I don’t see what you gains by that, Bob, for I heerd Fred Martin say you was nat’rally ‘full o’ spirit,’ so abstainin’ ’ll make no difference.”
“Pat,” said Bob sternly, “if you don’t clap a stopper on your tongue, I’ll wollop you.”
Pat became grave at once. “Well, d’ee know, Bob,” he said, with an earnest look, “I do b’lieve you are right. You’ve always seemed to me as if you had a sort o’ dissipated look, an’ would go to the bad right off if you gave way to drink. Yes, you’re right, an’ to prove my regard for you I’ll become a total abstainer too—but, nevertheless, I can’t leave off drinkin’.”
“Can’t leave off drinkin’!” echoed Bob.
Pat shook his head. “No—can’t. ’Taint possible.”
“Why, wot do you mean?”
“Well, Bob, I mean that as I’ve never yet begun to drink, it ain’t possible for me to leave it off, d’ee see, though I was to try ever so hard. Howsever, I’ll become an abstainer all the same, just to keep company along wi’ you.”
Bob Lumsden gave a short laugh, and then, resuming his earnest air, said—
“Pat, I’ve found out that Dick Martin, the scoun’rel, has bin to Mrs Mooney’s hut again, an’ now I’m sartin sure it was him as stole the ’ooman’s money—not because I heerd him say so to Mr Binning, but because Eve told me she saw him flattenin’ his ugly nose against her window-pane last night, an’ recognised him at once for the thief. Moreover, he opened the door an’ looked into the room, but seein’ that he had given Eve a terrible fright, he drew back smartly an’ went away.”
“The willain!” exclaimed Pat Stiver, snapping his teeth as if he wanted to bite, and doubling up his little fists. It was evident that Bob’s news had taken away all his tendency to jest.
“Now it’s plain to me,” continued Bob, “that the willain means more mischief. P’r’aps he thinks the old ’ooman’s got more blunt hid away in her chest, or in the cupboard. Anyhow, he’s likely to frighten poor Eve out of her wits, so it’s my business to stop his little game. The question is, how is it to be done. D’ee think it would be of any use to commoonicate wi’ the police?”
The shaking of Pat Stiver’s head was a most emphatic answer.
“No,” said he, “wotiver you do, have nothin’ to do wi’ the p’leece. They’re a low-minded, pig-headed set, wi’ their ‘move on’s,’ an’ their ‘now then, little un’s;’ an’ their grabbin’s of your collars, without no regard to w’ether they’re clean or not, an’ their—”
“Let alone the police, Pat,” interrupted his friend, “but let’s have your adwice about what should be done.”
After a moment’s consideration, the small boy advised that Mrs Mooney’s hut should be watched.
“In course,” he said, “Dick Martin ain’t such a fool as to go an’ steal doorin’ the daytime, so we don’t need to begin till near dark. You are big an’ strong enough now, Bob, to go at a man like Dick an’ floor him wi a thumpin’ stick.”
“Scarcely,” returned Bob, with a gratified yet dubious shake of his head. “I’m game to try, but it won’t do to risk gettin’ the worst of it in a thing o’ this sort.”
“Well, but if I’m there with another thumpin’ stick to back you up,” said Pat, “you’ll have no difficulty wotsumdever. An’ then, if we should need help, ain’t the ‘Blue Boar’ handy, an’ there’s always a lot o’ hands there ready for a spree at short notice? Now, my adwice is that we go right off an’ buy two thumpin’ sticks—yaller ones, wi’ big heads like Jack the Giant Killer—get ’em for sixpence apiece. A heavy expense, no doubt, but worth goin’ in for, for the sake of Eve Mooney. And when, in the words o’ the old song, the shades of evenin’ is closin’ o’er us, we’ll surround the house of Eve, and ‘wait till the brute rolls by!’”
“You’re far too poetical, Pat, for a practical man, said his friend. Howsomediver, I think, on the whole, your adwice is not bad, so well try it on. But wot are we to do till the shades of evenin’ comes on?”
“Amoose ourselves,” answered Pat promptly.
“H’m! might do worse,” returned his friend. “I s’pose you know I’ve got to be at Widow Martin’s to take tea wi’ Fred an’ his bride on their return from their weddin’ trip. I wonder if I might take you with me, Pat. You’re small, an’ I suppose you don’t eat much.”
“Oh, don’t I, though?” exclaimed Pat.
“Well, no matter. It would be very jolly. We’d have a good blow-out, you know; sit there comfortably together till it began to git dark, and then start off to—to—”
“Go in an’ win,” suggested the little one.
Having thus discussed their plans and finished their coffee, the two chivalrous lads went off to Yarmouth and purchased two of the most formidable cudgels they could find, of the true Jack-the-Giant-Killer type, with which they retired to the Denes to “amoose” themselves.
Evening found them hungry and hearty at the tea-table of Mrs Martin—and really, for the table of a fisherman’s widow, it was spread with a very sumptuous repast; for it was a great day in the history of the Martin family. No fewer than three Mrs Martins were seated round it. There was old Granny Martin, who consented to quit her attic window on that occasion and take the head of the table, though she did so with a little sigh, and a soft remark that, “It would be sad if he were to come when she was not watching.” Then there was widow Martin, Fred’s mother—whose bad leg, by the way, had been quite cured by her legacy.
And lastly, there was pretty Mrs Isa Martin, Fred’s newly-married wife.
Besides these there were skipper Lockley of the Lively Poll, and his wife Martha—for it will be remembered Martha was cousin to Isa, and Stephen’s smack chanced to be in port at this time as well as the Sunbeam and the Fairy, alias the Ironclad, which last circumstance accounts for Dick Martin being also on shore. But Dick was not invited to this family gathering, for the good reason that he had not shown face since landing, and no one seemed to grieve over his absence, with the exception of poor old granny, whose love for her “wandering boy” was as strong and unwavering as was her love to the husband for whose coming she had watched so long.
Bob Lumsden, it may be remarked, was one of the guests, because Lockley was fond of him; and Pat Stiver was there because Bob was fond of him! Both were heartily welcomed.
Besides the improvement in Mrs Martin’s health, there was also vast improvement in the furniture and general appearance of the attic since the arrival of the legacy.
“It was quite a windfall,” remarked Mrs Lockley, handing in her cup for more tea.
“True, Martha, though I prefer to call it a godsend,” said Mrs Martin. “You see it was gettin’ so bad, what wi’ standin’ so long at the tub, an’ goin’ about wi’ the clo’es, that I felt as if I should break down altogether, I really did; but now I’ve been able to rest it I feel as if it was going to get quite strong again, and that makes me fit to look after mother far better. Have some more tea, granny!”
A mumbled assent and a pleased look showed that the old woman was fully alive to what was going on.
“Hand the butter to Isa, Pat. Thankee,” said the ex-washerwoman. “What a nice little boy your friend is, Bob Lumpy! I’m so glad you thought of bringin’ him. He quite puts me in mind of what my boy Fred was at his age—on’y a trifle broader, an’ taller, an stouter.”
“A sort of lock-stock-an’-barrel difference, mother,” said Fred, laughing.
“I dun know what you mean by your blocks, stocks, an’ barrels,” returned Mrs Martin, “but Pat is a sight milder in the face than you was, an I’m sure he’s a better boy.”
The subject of this remark cocked his ears and winked gently with one eye to his friend Bob, with such a sly look that the blooming bride, who observed it, went off into a shriek of laughter.
“An’ only to think,” continued Mrs Martin, gazing in undisguised admiration at her daughter-in-law, “that my Fred—who seems as if on’y yesterday he was no bigger than Pat, should have got Isa Wentworth—the best lass in all Gorleston—for a wife! You’re a lucky boy!”
“Right you are,” responded Fred, with enthusiasm. “I go wi’ you there, mother, but I’m more than a lucky boy—I’m a highly favoured one, and I thank God for the precious gift; and also for that other gift, which is second only to Isa, the command of a Gospel ship on the North Sea.”
A decided chuckle, which sounded like a choke, from granny, fortunately called for attentions from the bride at this point.
“But do ’ee really think your mission smack will do much good?” asked Martha Lockley, who was inclined to scepticism.
“I am sure of it,” replied Fred emphatically. “Why, we’ve done some good work already, though we have bin but a short time wi’ the fleet. I won’t speak of ourselves, but just look at what has bin done in the way of saving drunkards and swearers by the Cholmondeley in the short-Blue Fleet, and by the old Ensign in the Fleet started by Mr Burdett-Coutts, the Columbia fleet, and in the other fleets that have got Gospel ships. It is not too much to say that there are hundreds of men now prayin’ to God, singin’ the praises o’ the Lamb, an’ servin’ their owners better than they ever did before, who not long ago were godless drunkards and swearers.”
“Men are sometimes hypocrites,” objected Martha; “how d’ee know that they are honest, or that it will last?”
“Hypocrites?” exclaimed Fred, pulling a paper hastily from his pocket and unfolding it. “I think you’ll admit that sharp men o’ bussiness are pretty good judges o’ hypocrites as well as of good men. Listen to what one of the largest firms of smack-owners says: ‘Our men have been completely revolutionised, and we gladly become subscribers of ten guineas to the funds of the Mission.’ Another firm says, ‘What we have stated does not convey anything like our sense of the importance of the work you have undertaken.’”
“Ay, there’s something in that,” said Martha, who, like all sceptics, was slow to admit truth.
We say not this to the discredit of sceptics. On the contrary, we think that people who swallow what is called “truth” too easily, are apt to imbibe a deal of error along with it. Doubtless it was for the benefit of such that the word was given— “Prove all things. Hold fast that which is good.”
Fred then went to show the immense blessing that mission ships had already been to the North Sea fishermen—alike to their souls and bodies; but we may not follow him further, for Bob Lumsden and Pat Stiver claim individual attention just now.
When these enterprising heroes observed that the shades of evening were beginning to fall, they rose to take their leave.
“Why so soon away, lads?” asked Fred.
“We’re goin’ to see Eve Mooney,” answered Bob. “Whatever are the boys goin’ to do wi’ them thick sticks?” exclaimed Martha Lockley.
“Fit main an fore masts into a man-o’-war, I suppose,” suggested her husband.
The boys did not explain, but went off laughing, and Lockley called after them—
“Tell Eve I’ve got a rare lot o’ queer things for her this trip.”
“And give her my dear love,” cried Mrs Fred Martin.
“Ay, ay,” replied the boys as they hurried away on their self-imposed mission.
The lads had to pass the “Blue Boar” on their way to Widow Mooney’s hut, and they went in just to see, as Bob said, how the land lay, and whether there was a prospect of help in that quarter if they should require it.
Besides a number of strangers, they found in that den of iniquity Joe Stubley, Ned Bryce, and Groggy Fox—which last had, alas! forgotten his late determination to “leave the poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore.” He and his comrades were still out among the breakers, clinging fondly to the old wreck.
The boys saw at a glance that no assistance was to be expected from these men. Stubley was violently argumentative, Fox was maudlinly sentimental, and Bryce was in an exalted state of heroic resolve. Each sought to gain the attention and sympathy of the other, and all completely failed, but they succeeded in making a tremendous noise, which seemed partially to satisfy them as they drank deeper.
“Come, nothin’ to be got here,” whispered Bob Lumsden, in a tone of disgust, as he caught hold of his friend’s arm. “We’ll trust to ourselves—”
“An’ the thumpin’ sticks,” whispered Pat, as they reached the end of the road.
Alas for the success of their enterprise if it had depended on those formidable weapons of war!
When the hut was reached the night had become so nearly dark that they ventured to approach it with the intention of peeping in at the front window, but their steps were suddenly arrested by the sight of a man’s figure approaching from the opposite direction. They drew back, and, being in the shadow of a wall, escaped observation. The man advanced noiselessly, and with evident caution, until he reached the window, and peeped in.
“It’s Dick,” whispered Bob. “Can’t see his figure-head, but I know the cut of his jib, even in the dark.”
“Let’s go at ’im, slick!” whispered Pat, grasping his cudgel and looking fierce.
“Not yet. We must make quite sure, an’ nab him in the very act.”
As he spoke the man went with stealthy tread to the door of the hut, which the drunken owner had left on the latch. Opening it softly, he went in, shut it after him, and, to the dismay of the boys, locked it on the inside.
“Now, Pat,” said Bob, somewhat bitterly, “there’s nothin’ for it but the police.”
Pat expressed strong dissent. “The p’leece,” he said, “was useless for real work; they was on’y fit to badger boys an’ old women.”
“But what can we do?” demanded Bob anxiously, for he felt that time was precious. “You an’ I ain’t fit to bu’st in the door; an’ if we was Dick would be ready for us. If we’re to floor him he must be took by surprise.”
“Let’s go an’ peep,” suggested the smaller warrior.
“Come on, then,” growled the big one.
The sight that met their eyes when they peeped was indeed one fitted to expand these orbs of vision to the uttermost, for they beheld the thief on his knees beside the invalid’s bed, holding her thin hand in his, while his head was bowed upon the ragged counterpane.
Bob Lumsden was speechless.
“Hold me; I’m a-goin’ to bu’st,” whispered Pat, by way of expressing the depth of his astonishment.
Presently Eve spoke. They could hear her faintly, yet distinctly, through the cracked and patched windows, and listened with all their ears.
“Don’t take on so, poor man,” she said in her soft loving tones. “Oh, I am so glad to hear what you say!”
Dick Martin looked up quickly.
“What!” he exclaimed, “glad to hear me say that I am the thief as stole your mother’s money! that I’m a low, vile, selfish blackguard who deserves to be kicked out o’ the North Sea fleet—off the face o’ the ’arth altogether?”
“Yes,” returned Eve, smiling through her tears—for she had been crying—“glad to hear you say all that, because Jesus came to save people like you; but He does not call them such bad names. He only calls them the ‘lost.’”
“Well, I suppose you’re right, dear child,” said the man, after a pause; “an’ I do think the Blessed Lord has saved me, for I never before felt as I do now—hatred of my old bad ways, and an awful desire to do right for His sake. If any o’ my mates had told me I’d feel an’ act like this a week ago, I’d have called him a fool. I can’t understand it. I suppose that God must have changed me altogether. My only fear is that I’ll fall back again into the old bad ways—I’m so helpless for anything good, d’ee see.”
“You forget,” returned Eve, with another of her tearful smiles; “He says, ‘I will never leave thee nor forsake thee’—”
“No, I don’t forget that,” interrupted Dick quickly; “that is what the young preacher in the mission smack said, an’ it has stuck to me. It’s that as keeps me up. But I didn’t come here to speak about my thoughts an’ feelin’s,” he continued, rising and taking a chair close to the bed, on which he placed a heavy bag. “I come here, Eve, to make restitootion. There’s every farthin’ I stole from your poor mother. I kep’ it intendin’ to go to Lun’on, and have a good long spree—so it’s all there. You’ll give it to her, but don’t tell her who stole it. That’s a matter ’tween you an’ me an’ the Almighty. Just you say that the miserable sinner who took it has bin saved by Jesus Christ, an’ now returns it and axes her pardon.”
Eve gladly promised, but while she was yet speaking, heavy footsteps were heard approaching the hut. The man started up as if to leave, and the two boys, suddenly awakening to the fact that they were eavesdropping, fled silently round the corner of the hut and hid themselves. The passer-by, whoever he was, seemed to change his mind, for the steps ceased to sound for a few moments, then they were heard again, with diminishing force, until they finally died away.
A moment later, and the key was heard to turn, and the door of the hut to open and close, after which the heavy tread of the repentant fisherman was heard as he walked quickly away.
The boys listened in silence till all was perfectly still.
“Well, now,” said Bob, drawing a long breath, “who’d have thought that things would have turned out like this?”
“Never heard of sich a case in my life before,” responded Pat Stiver with emphasis, as if he were a venerable magistrate who had been trying “cases” for the greater part of a long life. “Why, it leaves us nothin’ wotiver to do! Even a p’leeceman might manage it! The thief has gone an’ took up hisself, tried an’ condemned hisself without a jury, pronounced sentance on hisself without a judge, an’ all but hanged hisself without Jack Ketch, so there’s nothin’ for you an’ me to do but go an’ bury our thumpin’ sticks, as Red Injins bury the war-hatchet, retire to our wigwams, an’ smoke the pipe of peace.”
“Wery good; let’s go an’ do it, then,” returned Bob, curtly.
As it is not a matter of particular interest how the boys reduced this figurative intention to practice, we will leave them, and follow Dick Martin for a few minutes.
His way led him past the “Blue Boar,” which at that moment, however, proved to be no temptation to him. He paused to listen. Sounds of revelry issued from its door, and the voice of Joe Stubley was heard singing with tremendous energy—“Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves,” although he and all his companions were at that very moment thoroughly—in one or two cases almost hopelessly—enslaved to the most terrible tyrant that has ever crushed the human race!
Dick went on, and did not pause till he reached his sister’s house. By that time the family party had broken up, but a solitary candle in the attic window showed that old Granny Martin was still on her watch-tower.
“Is that you, Dick?” said his sister, opening to his tap, and letting him in; but there was nothing of welcome or pleasure in the widow’s tone.
The fisherman did not expect a warm welcome. He knew that he did not deserve it, but he cared not, for the visit was to his mother. Gliding to her side, he went down on his knees, and laid his rugged head on her lap. Granny did not seem taken by surprise. She laid her withered hand on the head, and said: “Bless you, my boy! I knew you would come, sooner or later; praise be to His blessed name.”
We will not detail what passed between the mother and son on that occasion, but the concluding sentence of the old woman was significant: “He can’t be long of coming now, Dick, for the promises are all fulfilled at last, and I’m ready.”
She turned her head slowly again in the old direction, where, across the river and the sands, she could watch the moonbeams glittering on the solemn sea.
Three days later, and the skipper of the Sunbeam received a telegram telling him to prepare for guests, two of whom were to accompany him on his trip to the fleet.
It was a bright, warm day when the guests arrived—a dozen or more ladies and gentlemen who sympathised with the Mission, accompanied by the Director.
“All ready for sea, Martin, I suppose?” said the latter, as the party stepped on board from the wharf alongside of which the vessel lay.
“All ready, sir,” responded Fred. “If the wind holds we may be with the fleet, God willing, some time to-morrow night.”
The Sunbeam was indeed all ready, for the duties on board of her had been performed by those who did their work “as to the Lord, and not to men.” Every rope was in its place and properly coiled away, every piece of brass-work about the vessel shone like burnished gold. The deck had been scrubbed to a state of perfect cleanliness, so that, as Jim Freeman said, “you might eat your victuals off it.” In short, everything was trim and taut, and the great blue MDSF flag floated from the masthead, intimating that the Gospel ship was about to set forth on her mission of mercy, to fish for men.
Among the party who were conducted by Fred and the Director over the vessel were two clergymen, men of middle age, who had been labouring among all classes on the land: sympathising with the sad, rejoicing with the glad, praying, working, and energising for rich and poor, until health had begun to give way, and change of air and scene had become absolutely necessary. A week or so at the sea, it was thought, would revive them.
And what change of air could be more thorough than that from the smoke of the city to the billows of the North Sea? The Director had suggested the change. Men of God were sorely wanted out there, he said, and, while they renewed their health among the fresh breezes of ocean, they might do grand service for the Master among the long-neglected fishermen.
The reasoning seemed just. The offer was kind. The opportunity was good, as well as unique and interesting. The land-worn clergymen accepted the invitation, and were now on their way to the scene of their health-giving work, armed with waterproofs, sou’westers, and sea-boots.
“It will do you good, sir, both body and soul,” said Skipper Martin to the elder of the two, when presented to him. “You’ll find us a strange lot, sir, out there, but glad to see you, and game to listen to what you’ve got to say as long as ever you please.”
When the visitors had seen all that was to be seen, enjoyed a cup of coffee, prayed and sung with the crew, and wished them God-speed, they went on shore, and the Sunbeam, hoisting her sails and shaking out the blue flag, dropped quietly down the river.
Other smacks there were, very much like herself, coming and going, or moored to the wharves, but as the visitors stood on the river bank and waved their adieux, the thought was forced upon them how inconceivably vast was the difference between those vessels which laboured for time and this one which toiled for eternity.
Soon the Sunbeam swept out upon the sea, bent over to the freshening breeze, and steered on her beneficent course towards her double fishing-ground.