Julius was still wandering about in uncertainty, holding Carrie by the hand, when the Indian came in sight of him. Stealthily creeping up, he seized our hero by the shoulder before he realized that the enemy was upon him. He had no time to draw his pistol, nor did he deem it prudent to do so now, as the Indian could easily wrest it from him, and turn it against him.
“Me got you!” exclaimed the savage, in accents of fierce exultation.
Little Carrie uttered a dismal cry when she looked up and saw that her dreaded captor was near.
“Don’t be frightened, Carrie,” said Julius, soothingly, though, to tell the truth, he felt rather uncomfortable himself.
“What do you want?” he demanded, putting a bold face on.
“Want little girl,” answered the Indian.
“I am taking her home. Her father sent me for her.”
“No matter; no go,” said the Indian, frowning.
“What good will it do you to keep her?” asked{185} Julius, though he suspected argument would be of no avail.
“No matter; come!” said the savage, and he seized Carrie by the hand.
“Oh, Julius, don’t let him carry me off,” said Carrie, beginning to cry.
“We must go, Carrie,” said our hero, in a low voice. “Perhaps he will let us go after a while.”
“But I want to go to mamma!” said the little girl, piteously.
“No go. Mother bad,” said the Indian.
“She isn’t bad,” said Carrie, forgetting her fear in her indignation. “She’s good. You are bad.”
“Hush, Carrie!” said Julius, who foresaw that it would not be prudent to provoke the savage.
“You come, too,” said the Indian to Julius. “What for you steal little girl?”
Julius felt that he might with great propriety have put this question to his companion, but he forebore. He was trying to think of some way of escape.
The Indian plunged into the thick wood, holding Carrie by the hand. Julius followed close after him.
“So it seems,” he said to himself, “instead of recovering Carrie I am caught myself. I wish Mr. Taylor and Abner would come along. We should be too much for the Indian, then.”{186}
This gave him an idea. He took a piece of paper quietly from his pocket, and wrote on it:
“I am with Carrie and the Indian. He is leading us into the middle of the wood. I will drop pieces of paper here and there on the way.
Julius.”
This he dropped casually in the path, without the knowledge of the Indian.
“There,” he said to himself; “if either of them comes this way, it may be the means of saving us.”
But though John did not observe this, he did notice the pieces of paper which Julius dropped, and he was sharp enough to detect his motive for doing this.
“What for drop paper?” he demanded, seizing Julius roughly by the shoulder.
Julius knew that it would be of no use to equivocate, and he answered, manfully. “To let Mr. Taylor know where we are.”
“Umph!” grunted the Indian. “Pick up.”
Julius was forced to pick up all the bits of paper he had scattered, but the original one containing the message he left where it lay.
“Now come.”
The Indian made Julius go in front, and the three went on till they reached the pile of leaves where Carrie and the Indian had rested before.
The Indian resumed his reclining position, and made Julius and Carrie sit down also. Our hero, who still{187} had the pistol, was in doubt whether to use it, but a moment’s reflection satisfied him that it would be of no use. If he wounded the Indian, the latter in his rage might kill them both. Another idea came to him. He had heard from Mrs. Taylor that the Indian had demanded money, and had probably taken offense because it was not given him. He had two dollars in his pocket. If he should give this to their captor, he would probably be eager to invest it in “fire water,” and this would make it necessary to go to the village. While he was absent Carrie and he could start again on their way home.
Upon this hint he spoke.
“Let us go,” he said, “and I will give you money.”
As he spoke he drew four silver half-dollars from his pocket.
“Give me,” said the Indian, his dull eye lighting up.
Julius surrendered them, but said, “Can we go home?”
“No go,” said the Indian. “Stay here.”
Our hero expected nothing better. Still he felt disappointed.
By and by the anticipated effect was produced. The Indian was eager to exchange the money for drink, but he did not want his captives to escape.
He arose to his feet, and approached Julius.
He took the wondering boy by the shoulder, and placed his back against a tree.
“What is he going to do?” thought our hero, rather alarmed.
He was not long left in uncertainty.
The Indian drew from some hiding place in his raiment a stout cord, and proceeded dexterously to tie Julius to the tree.
“Don’t hurt him!” exclaimed Carrie, terrified, thinking that something dreadful was going to be done to Julius.
The Indian did not deign to reply, but proceeded to perform his task so thoroughly that Julius felt uncomfortably cramped.
When it was accomplished, the Indian turned to go.
“Go ’way,” he said. “Soon come back. Stay here.”
Julius felt that he was likely to obey the command, as there was not much chance of his breaking his bonds. But there was one hope yet that somewhat encouraged him.
“Feel in my pocket, Carrie,” he said, “and see if I have a knife.”
Carrie obeyed, but the search was unavailing.
“How unlucky!” said Julius. “I usually have it with me, but I remember leaving it in my other pants. If I only had it, you could cut the string, and we could escape.”{189}
“Do you think he will keep us always, Julius?” asked Carrie, disconsolately.
“No, Carrie; I will find a way to get you home, before long,” said Julius in a tone that expressed more cheerfulness than he felt.
“It’s provoking,” he thought, “to be tied up here, when there is such a good chance to escape. I’ll never go without a knife again. I didn’t think how much good it might do me.”{190}
Meanwhile Mr. Taylor and Abner had pursued the search in vain. From opposite directions they met at the entrance to the wood.
“Have you found no traces of Carrie, Abner?” asked the father, anxiously.
“No, sir,” said Abner.
“Have you met Julius?”
“No, sir.”
“I, too, have been unsuccessful; but I am impressed with the belief that my dear child is somewhere in this wood.”
“Very likely, sir. It would be nat’ral for an Indian to make for the woods; that is, if he’s got her.”
“I am afraid there is no doubt of that,” sighed Mr. Taylor. “Do you think he would hurt her, Abner?” he asked, anxiously.
“No, I reckon not. He’d keep her to get money out of you.”
“I would rather give half my fortune than lose my darling.”
“It won’t be necessary to go as high as that, Mr. Taylor. Most likely he’s got her in here somewhere.{191} If we go together, we’ll be too much for the red rascal.”
“Come on, then, and may God speed us.”
So they entered the wood, and plunged deeper and deeper into its gloom. By and by Abner’s attention was drawn to a white fragment of paper, half concealed in the grass. Elsewhere it would not have been noticed, but in the woods it must evidently have been dropped by some one.
He picked it up, and glanced at it.
“Hurrah!” he shouted. “It’s the boy’s hand-writing.”
“What boy?”
“Julius.”
“Give it to me, quick,” said Mr. Taylor.
“Read it out loud,” said Abner, almost equally interested.
Mr. Taylor read:
“I am with Carrie and the Indian. He is leading us into the middle of the wood. I will drop pieces of paper here and there on the way.”
“Bully for Julius!” said Abner. “We’ve got the Indian now, sure.”
“I am glad he is with Carrie. She would be so frightened,” said Mr. Taylor.
“That’s true. She thinks a heap of Julius.”{192}
“He is a good boy—quick-witted, too, or he wouldn’t have thought of the paper.”
“I don’t see the scraps of paper he told about,” said Abner, who had been very anxiously peering about him.
“It may be that he was afraid to drop them, lest it should attract the Indian’s attention,” said Mr. Taylor, coming very near the truth.
“Maybe so. There is another way we can track them.”
“How is that?”
“Noticing where the grass and sticks are trodden over. That’s the Indian way. We’ll fight the red man in his own way.”
“Well thought of, Abner. Your eyes are better than mine. Lead the way, and I will follow.”
Abner was sharp-sighted, nor was he wholly ignorant of the Indians and their ways; and thus it was that he led the anxious father almost directly to the place where Carrie and Julius were waiting in fear and anxiety for the Indian’s return.
Abner spied them first.
“There they are!” he exclaimed, “and the Indian isn’t with them.”
Unable to control his impatience, Mr. Taylor, with a cry of joy, rushed to the spot, and in a moment his beloved little daughter, Carrie, was in his arms.{193}
“My dear little girl,” he said, kissing her again and again, “I thought I had lost you altogether. Were you very much frightened?”
“I was so frightened, papa, till Julius came. I didn’t mind it so much then.”
Meanwhile Abner was loosening the cord by which our hero was tied.
“I s’pose the redskin did this,” said he. “Looks like his work.”
“Yes; he liked my company so much he didn’t want to let me go,” said Julius.
“Where is he?”
“Gone to the village to buy rum, I expect.”
“Where did he get his money?”
“I offered him money to let Carrie and me go, but he took it, and then tied me up here. That’s what I call mean.”
“So do I,” said Abner; “but he’ll find the bird flown when he gets back, I reckon.”
“The birds, you mean.”
“Julius,” said Mr. Taylor, grasping the hand of our hero, now released from his uncomfortable situation, “you have earned my heartfelt gratitude. But for you my darling would still be in the power of that miserable Indian.”
“I didn’t do much,” said Julius, modestly. “I only managed to get taken, too.”{194}
“It was the paper which you had the forethought to drop that led us here.”
“Did you find it?” asked Julius, eagerly. “Then it did some good after all. I was afraid it wouldn’t. The Indian saw me dropping bits of paper, and he was sharp enough to know what it meant. He made me pick them up, but I left the paper with writing on it. He didn’t see that.”
“That’s the way I thought it was,” said Mr. Taylor. “I told Abner you were prevented from giving us the clew, as you promised.”
“Well, it’s all right now,” said Julius. “Our copper-colored friend will have to dispense with our company to-night.”
“We must be getting home,” said Mr. Taylor. “Your mother is terribly anxious about you, Carrie. Are you tired?”
“Yes, papa; the Indian made me walk so fast.”
“I will take you in my arms, my poor child. He shan’t get hold of you again.”
“I’ll take her part of the time, Mr. Taylor,” said Abner.
But the glad father did not seem to feel the weight of his recovered treasure. Quickly they retraced their steps, and when they came near the house Mrs. Taylor ran out to meet them, clasping Carrie to her bosom with grateful joy. It was a day of thanksgiving, for the lost had been found.{195}
An hour later the Indian was found drunk by the roadside. After procuring a supply of liquor with the money which he had taken from Julius, he set out on his return to the woods, but stopped from time to time to drink. His potations were so deep that he was finally incapable of proceeding farther.
His agency in kidnapping little Carrie having become known, he was arrested, and brought before a justice. The magistrate sentenced him to a month’s imprisonment, assuring him that when it was over it would not be expedient for him to visit the neighborhood again. The savage endured his imprisonment with the stoicism characteristic of his race, and on the day of his release departed, and was not seen again in Brookville.
On the day succeeding Carrie’s adventure, Mr. Taylor said to Julius, “I shall to-day place to your credit in the savings bank two hundred and fifty dollars, in acknowledgment of your service in rescuing my little girl, though it involved risk to yourself.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Julius, gratefully; “but I don’t think I deserve so much.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”{196}
“Abner did as much as I.”
“Abner will not go unrewarded. I shall deposit a similar sum in the bank for him.”
“Then, sir, I can only thank you for your kindness. I hope I shall deserve it.”
“I hope and believe you will,” said his patron, warmly. “Only keep on as you have begun, and you will win the respect and good-will of all.”
Though Julius said little, this commendation gave him great satisfaction. Little more than a year before he had been a poor and ignorant street boy, the companion of two burglars, with no prospects in life except to grow up in ignorance, and perhaps vice. To-day he was a member of a family of social position, as well educated as most boys of his age, with every encouragement to keep on in the right path, worth three hundred dollars in money, and with a prosperous future before him.
“How fortunate I am,” he thought. “It was a lucky thing for me when I made up my mind to come out West.”
But his good fortune was not exhausted. One morning, a few months later, Mr. Taylor called him back as he was leaving the breakfast table.
“Julius,” he said, “I want to speak to you on a matter of business.”
“Yes, sir,” said Julius, inquiringly.{197}
“You have three hundred dollars in the savings bank.”
“It is more now, sir, as some interest was added in January.”
“Very true. Now, I am going to give you some advice about investing it.”
“I shall be very glad to follow your advice, Mr. Taylor.”
“This is what I have in view: You know Mr. Cathcart’s place, about a mile from here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There is a small house and barn on the place, and about ten acres of land are connected with it. He is anxious to sell, as he has had a very good offer of employment in Minnesota. Now, I advise you to buy the place. It is sure to rise in value on account of its location. I should not be surprised if it doubled in value in five years.”
“But,” said Julius, rather bewildered, “he won’t sell for three hundred dollars, will he?”
“No, probably not,” answered Mr. Taylor, smiling.
“That is all the money I have.”
“He asks fifteen hundred dollars, which is cheap for it, in my opinion.”
“Then I don’t see how I can buy it.”
“Suppose he should be willing to take three hundred{198} dollars down, and the remainder at the end of a few years, you paying the interest in the meantime.”
“Yes, I see,” said Julius.
“The twelve hundred dollars would be secured by a mortgage, which you would eventually pay off.”
Here Mr. Taylor explained to Julius, whose knowledge of real estate transactions was limited, the nature of a mortgage, and the laws relating to it.
“I should like to buy it, if you think best,” said our hero, at length.
“Then I will arrange matters, as your guardian. By the time you are twenty-one, you will, I venture to say, be worth quite a little property.”
“But what shall I do with the place?” asked Julius. “I can’t go to live there.”
“You may as well defer that till you are married,” said Mr. Taylor; a suggestion which made Julius smile. “The proper course is to find a tenant for it. The rent will enable you to pay taxes and the interest on the mortgage, and probably yield you a profit beside. Even if not, you will be richly repaid in time by the increased value of the property.”
No time was lost in effecting this transaction, as Mr. Cathcart was anxious to leave Brookville as soon as possible. The money was drawn from the savings bank, and almost before he knew it Julius found himself the owner of a house and outbuildings, and ten acres of{199} land. He went out to see it, and it gave him a peculiar feeling to think that he, late a ragged New York street boy, was now the proprietor of a landed estate.
“I wonder what Jack and Marlowe would say if they knew it,” he thought. “It would make Marlowe mad, I know. He never at any time liked me very much, and now he hates me bad enough, I am afraid.”
A week after the property passed into our hero’s hands, a respectable-looking man called at Mr. Taylor’s door. He was a young mechanic, a carpenter, who had recently established himself in Brookville.
“Take a seat, Mr. Brown,” said Mr. Taylor, politely.
“I came on a little business,” said the young man. “I would like to hire the Cathcart place. I hear you are the purchaser.”
“You are perfectly right, Mr. Brown,” said Mr. Taylor. “I purchased it, but it was in behalf of my ward Julius, here. You will have to speak to him about hiring it.”
“Indeed!” said the young man. “I hope,” turning to Julius, “you won’t object to me as a tenant.”
“I have so little experience as a landlord,” said Julius, laughing, “that I don’t quite know what to say. What rent are you willing to give?”
“I could afford to pay ten dollars a month.”
“That is a fair price, Julius,” said Mr. Taylor.{200}
“Then I shall be glad to accept your offer,” said Julius. “You can move in as soon as you please.”
“That is satisfactory. I hope you will find me a desirable tenant.”
“And I hope you will find me a good landlord,” said Julius.
“I think we shall agree pretty well,” said the young man. “After we get settled, we shall be glad to receive a visit from our landlord.”
Julius laughingly agreed to call.
“It seems like a joke,” he said afterward to Mr. Taylor, “my being a landlord. I don’t know how to act.”
“I hope it will prove a profitable joke, Julius,” said Mr. Taylor. “I have reason to think it will.”
“I think I will write to Mr. O’Connor and tell him how I am getting along,” said Julius.
“Do so,” said Mr. Taylor.
Julius wrote that very day, not without pride and satisfaction.{201}
We must now carry forward the story two years. It has been a profitable time for Julius. His excellent natural abilities, stimulated by ambition, have advanced him very considerably in the education which comes from books, while the hours spent in labor on the farm have strengthened his muscles, and developed his figure, so that he presents a strong contrast to the undersized and slender boy who came from the city streets in Mr. O’Connor’s company. The effort of generous diet also may be seen in his improved looks. He would now be regarded as quite a good-looking boy, though he privately considers himself entitled to the more dignified appellation of a young man.
I am glad to be able to record that in other ways also he has improved. As a street boy, he was not wholly free from the errors common to his class. Now he has a regard for truth, and Mr. Taylor has come to have implicit confidence in his word. He has even come to feel a paternal interest in the once neglected waif, and treats him in all respects like a son. Little Carrie, too, calls him Brother Julius, and probably feels as much affection for him as if he were her own brother.{202}
Thus happily situated, Julius is not troubled as to his real parentage. There is a mystery attending his origin, which he will probably never be able to solve. But he is content to regard Mr. and Mrs. Taylor as his parents, since they have allowed him to do so, and will always be known by the name of Julius Taylor.
Of course he has not forgotten his old associates, Jack Morgan and Marlowe. About two years after his arrival in Brookville a paragraph was copied into the county paper from the New York Herald, recording the daring attempts of these two criminals to escape from the prison at Sing Sing. Jack Morgan was caught and brought back, but Marlowe managed to make good his escape.
“I suppose,” thought Julius, “Jack was too fat. He couldn’t get over the ground as fast as Marlowe.”
In this he was correct. Jack Morgan’s size and clumsiness had interfered with his escape, while Marlowe, who was not so incumbered, got away.
“Marlowe would be glad to know where I am,” said our hero to himself. “He’d like to punish me for getting him caught. But he isn’t likely to find me out here. And even if he did, I think I can take care of myself better than I could when he knew me.”
Julius surveyed his figure in the glass complacently as he said this. He was five feet eight inches in height, and weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. His arm was powerful; and though he could not contend on{203} equal terms with the tall burglar, he felt that the time would soon come when he could do so.
“I wonder if he’d know me now,” thought our hero.
This question was soon to be solved, though Julius did not know it.
In the month of October Mr. Taylor proposed to Julius to set out on a collecting tour, among the towns in the neighborhood.
“I have claims against a dozen persons,” he said, “which ought to be presented and paid. At present, however, it is not convenient for me to leave home. If you will take my place, it will be quite a relief.”
“There is nothing I should like better,” said Julius, elated at the prospect of a journey.
“I thought you might like it,” said Mr. Taylor.
“I am glad you feel sufficient confidence in me to send me,” said our hero.
“You have given me reason to confide in you,” said Mr. Taylor, quietly. “You will judge of the extent of my confidence when I say that the bills which I shall give you to collect amount to a thousand dollars, or, perhaps, a little more.”
“I will bring back every cent,” said Julius, promptly.
“Every cent you succeed in collecting. I have no doubt of it. The only caution I have to give you is, to guard against being robbed. If it is supposed that{204} you have a considerable sum of money, you might be in danger of having it stolen.”
“It’ll take a smart thief to get it away from me,” said Julius, confidently. “I didn’t live fifteen years in the streets of New York for nothing. When do you want me to start?”
“To-morrow morning. I shall give you the horse and buggy, and we will plan the order of your journey to-night. You will stop at hotels, and expend whatever is needful. I will ask you only to keep an account of your expenses, to be submitted to me on your return.”
“Very well, sir. How long do you expect me to be gone?”
“That will depend on how much success you meet with. I should think a week might be sufficient. If you find it necessary to stay longer, do so; but let me know from time to time what progress you make in your mission.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll write to you every day.”
There are few boys of seventeen who would not have experienced pleasure in such an expedition. To have the command of a horse and buggy, to drive from town to town, putting up at hotels by night, would to most be a pleasant prospect. But Julius thoroughly understood that, however pleasant it might be, the motive of his journey was business; and he resolved to exert himself to the utmost in the interests of his guardian and benefactor.{205}
Four days later Julius arrived about dusk in the village of Lawrenceburg. There was a citizen of this place against whom Mr. Taylor had given him a note to collect. He put up at the hotel, and after entering his name inquired where Mr. Philip Thompson resided.
“Two miles distant, on the Northcote road,” said the landlord. “Have you business with him?”
Julius answered in the affirmative.
“If you want to go over there after supper, I will send my boy to show you the way.”
“I think I will wait till morning,” said Julius, who felt tired. “My business will wait till then.”
There was a man sitting on the piazza of the tavern when Julius drove up. He was a tall man, rather shabbily built, with a slouching gait, who kept his eyes bent downward, while his face was partly shaded by a soft felt hat. Julius did not notice him, or rather did not do so particularly; but the stranger fixed his eyes eagerly on the boy’s face, and started perceptibly, while a look partly of recognition, partly of hatred, swept over his countenance.
I do not intend to make this man’s personality a mystery.{206} It was Dan Marlowe, the burglar, whom, three years before, Julius had been instrumental in trapping, and who, until within two or three months, had been confined in Sing Sing prison. His escape has already been referred to.
He had now two ends to accomplish. One was to elude capture, the other to revenge himself on Julius.
While in prison he had heard from a fellow-prisoner that Julius was somewhere in the West. He could not ascertain where. Till to-day he had no clew whereby he might discover him; when all at once chance brought him face to face with his young enemy. In spite of his growth he recognized the boy, for he seldom forgot a face; but, to make certainty more certain, he lounged into the office after Julius had recorded his name, and examined the signature.
“Julius Taylor,” he repeated to himself. “The young cub has picked up another name since he left us. But it’s he—it’s the same Julius. I thought I couldn’t be mistaken. His face is the same, though he’s almost twice as large as he was. He little dreams that Dan Marlowe is on his track. I’d like to wring the boy’s neck!” he muttered to himself. “He’s cost me over two years in Sing Sing; and poor Jack’s there yet.”
Having satisfied himself, he went back to his seat on the piazza.
Pretty soon Julius came out, and gave a casual look{207} at Marlowe. But the latter had his hat pulled down over his eyes, and not enough of his features could be seen for our hero to distinguish him. Besides, Julius was not thinking of Marlowe. He had no reason to suspect that his old companion was in the neighborhood. If not caught, he supposed that he was somewhere in hiding in the city of New York, or nearby.
Marlowe did not, however, care to run even a small risk of discovery. He had not changed as much as Julius, and the latter might probably recognize him. So, finding that our hero had also seated himself outside, he quietly arose from his chair, and went out to walk.
“An ill-looking fellow,” thought Julius, casually. “He looks like a tramp.”
Marlowe strolled off at random, not caring where he went. His sole object was to keep out of the way of Julius. He went perhaps a mile, and then, turning into a field, sat down on the grass. Here he remained for a long time. He did not set out on his return till he judged that it was near ten o’clock. When he entered the inn, not Julius alone, but all the other guests had retired; for in the country late hours are not popular.
“We were just going to shut up, Mr. Jones,” said the landlord.
Jones was the assumed name by which Marlowe now passed.{208}
“I went out for a walk,” said, Marlowe, “and didn’t know how time was passing, having no watch with me.”
“You must like walking in the dark better than I do.”
“I wasn’t walking all the time,” said Marlowe. “I had some business on my mind, and went out to think it over. Who was that young fellow that came about six o’clock.
“Julius Taylor. He’s from Brookville. Do you wish to know him? If so, I will introduce you to him.”
“I only asked from curiosity,” said Marlowe, carelessly.
“His room is next to yours, No. 8. Yours is No. 7.”
This was what Marlowe wanted to know, and he heard the information with satisfaction. He proposed to make Julius a visit that night. What might be the result he did not stop to consider. He only knew that this was the boy to whom he owed two years of imprisonment, and that he would have him in his power. He did not ask himself what he should do. He did not consider whether he was about to endanger his own safety, and expose himself to the risk of recapture. His spirit was fierce and revengeful, and he had made up his mind to gratify it.
He called for a light, and ascended the staircase to his room, No. 7. He noticed the number over the door which Julius occupied, and outside he saw a pair of shoes, which had been left to be blacked.{209}
“He’s been prospering,” he said to himself, gloomily, “while Jack and me have been shut up. He’s had a good home, and good fare, and grown up to consider himself a gentleman; while me and Jack, that brought him up, have been confined like wild beasts. That’s his pay for selling us to the cops. But the end is not yet. Marlowe’s on his track, and this night there’ll be a reckoning.”
He sat down on the side of the bed and waited. He wanted to make sure that all were asleep in the inn, that he might carry out his dark designs without interruption.{210}
Julius was tired, and fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. He slept so soundly that he did not hear Marlowe fumbling at the lock with some of the burglar’s tools which he always carried with him. Curiously he was dreaming of his old life, when he was under the guardianship of Jack and Morgan, and Marlowe was a constant visitor. It seemed to him that the latter had been accusing him to Jack, and was threatening him with uplifted arm, when, all at once, he was aroused from sleep by a violent shaking, and, opening his eyes, his first glance rested on the man of whom he had been dreaming.
He stared at him in bewilderment and alarm, but said nothing, such was his surprise.
“Well, boy,” said Marlowe, growing impatient, “why are you staring at me so hard? Don’t you know me?”
“Yes,” said Julius, the spell broken, “you are Dan Marlowe.”
“Did you see me downstairs?”
“Were you the man that was sitting on the piazza when I drove up?”{211}
“Yes.”
“I wish I had known it,” thought Julius. “I should have been on my guard.”
“It is some time since we met,” said Marlowe.
“Yes, it is.”
“And I suppose,” he added, sneeringly, “you wish it had been longer.”
“You are right there; I didn’t care to see you again,” returned Julius, boldly.
“I don’t wonder at that, after your base treachery, you rascally hound!” said Marlowe, furiously. “Do you know how Jack and me spent the last two years?”
“In prison?” said Julius, hesitating.
“Yes; in prison, and we have you to thank for it. You might as well have turned against your own father as against Jack.”
“No,” said Julius, firmly. “I am sorry for Jack. I wouldn’t have gone against him, if there was any other way of saving Paul. Paul had been kind to me when I needed it. What did Jack ever do for me? We lived together when he was out of prison, but it was I that brought him all my earnings. I paid my own way and more, too, even when I was a boy of eight. I owe Jack nothing. But I am sorry for him all the same. I wish he could get free.”
“And what about me?” asked Marlowe, sneeringly. “Are you glad I am free?”{212}
“No, I’m not,” said Julius, boldly. “I never liked you as well as Jack. He’s bad enough, but you’re worse. Though he didn’t take care of me, he was generally kind to me. Even if I owe him something, I owe you nothing.”
“But I owe you something, my chicken,” said Marlowe, between his teeth. “Do you know why I am here? No? Well, I’ll tell you. I met Ned Sanders soon after I got out, and he told me the tricks you played on him. I found out from him that you had come out West, and that’s why I came here. I hadn’t forgotten who sent me up. I swore, at the time, I’d be revenged, and now I’ve got the chance.”
The man looked so malicious—so possessed by the spirit of evil—that Julius could not help shuddering as he met his baleful gaze.
“What do you mean to do to me?” he asked, feeling helpless, as he realized that in spite of his increased strength he was no match for the stalwart ruffian.
“I mean to kill you,” said Marlowe, fiercely.
Julius shuddered, as well he might; but he answered: “If you do, your life will be in danger.”
“What do you mean?” quickly asked Marlowe, taking it as a threat.
“You will be hung.”
“They must catch me first,” said he, coolly. “But first{213} you must answer me a question. How much money have you?”
“I can’t tell without counting.”
“Don’t dare to trifle with me, boy!”
“I am telling you the truth.”
It may be mentioned that, apart from his personal apprehension, Julius was anxious about his money. He had in a wallet six hundred dollars belonging to Mr. Taylor, which he had collected in various places. He was ambitious to justify his benefactor’s confidence, and carry it to him in safety; but Marlowe threatened to take both the money and his life. He was only a boy, but emergencies make men out of boys. He had been provided by Mr. Taylor with a revolver, not with any supposition that he would need it, but as a safeguard in case robbery should be attempted on the road. He had forgotten to put it under his pillow, but it was in the pocket of his coat, and that coat was hanging over a chair on the opposite side of the bed from that on which Marlowe was standing. He could only obtain possession of it by stratagem.
“Give me your money,” said Marlowe, fiercely.
“Then spare my life,” said Julius, assuming a tone of entreaty.
“I cannot promise,” said Marlowe; “but I will assuredly kill you at once unless you give me the money.”
“Then wait till I get it for you,” said Julius.{214}
He jumped out of bed, Marlowe suspecting nothing, and put his hand in the pocket of his coat. He drew out, not a pocketbook, but the revolver, which he deliberately pointed at Marlowe.
“Dan Marlowe,” he said, quietly, “you are stronger than I, but this pistol is loaded, and I know how to use it. Come toward me, and I fire.”
“Confusion!” exclaimed the burglar, furiously, and his impulse was to spring upon Julius. But there was something in the boy’s resolute tone which made him pause.
“He wouldn’t be so cool if it wasn’t loaded,” he thought.
A doubt in the mind of Julius was solved. Marlowe had no pistol, or he would have produced it. Disagreeable as it was, the burglar stopped to parley. He could postpone his revenge, and only exact money now.
“Put up your pistol,” he said. “I only wanted to frighten you a bit. You’ve done me a bad turn, and you owe me some return. Give me all the money you have with you, and I’ll say quits.”
“I can’t do that,” said Julius, “for the money isn’t mine.”
“Whose is it?”
“It belongs to my guardian.”
“Is he rich?”
“Then he can spare it. Tell him it was stolen from you.”
“I shall do no such thing,” said Julius, firmly. “It hasn’t been stolen yet, and won’t be, as I believe.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Marlowe, furiously, making a dash toward our hero.
“Hold!” shouted Julius. “One step farther and I fire.”
There is a popular impression that men of violence are brave; but it is a mistaken one. Marlowe had not the nerve to carry out his threat, while covered by a pistol in the hands of a resolute antagonist. There was another reason also. The partitions were thin, and the noise had aroused the gentleman sleeping in No. 9. He came out into the entry, and knocked at the door of No. 8.
“Put up your pistol, boy,” said Marlowe, hurriedly, “and I will open the door.”
Julius did not put it up, but hastily concealed it, and the door was opened.
The visitor was an elderly man in his nightclothes.
“How do you expect a man to sleep?” he said, peevishly, “when you are making such an infernal noise?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Marlowe, politely, “but I am just leaving my friend here, and shall retire at once. You won’t hear any more noise.”{216}
“It is time it stopped,” said the visitor, not quite appeased. “Why, it’s after midnight!”
“Is it, really?” said Marlowe. “I did not think it so late. Good-night, Julius.”
“Good-night,” said our hero.
The visitor retired, and so did Marlowe. But Julius, distrusting his neighbor, not only locked, but barricaded the door, and put the revolver under his pillow. But he had no further visit from Marlowe. The latter, for prudential reasons, postponed the revenge which he still meant to take.
In the morning Julius looked for his enemy, but he was nowhere to be seen. Inquiring in a guarded way, he ascertained that Marlowe had taken an early breakfast and had gone away. It might be that he feared Julius would cause his arrest. At any rate, he was gone.
Julius never saw him again, but read in a newspaper, not long afterward, the closing incidents in the career of this dangerous ruffian. He made his way to Milwaukee, and resumed his old business. While engaged in entering a house by night, he was shot dead by the master of the house, who had heard him enter. It was a fitting end to a misspent life. From a boy he had warred against society, and now he had fallen at the hands of one of his intended victims.
* * * * * * * * *
But little remains to be told—too little for a separate{217} chapter. Julius has redeemed the promise of his youth, and now in his early manhood possesses the respect and attachment, not only of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, but of all who know him. His real estate speculation has turned out favorably. The property for which he paid fifteen hundred dollars is now worth three times that sum, owing to the rapid growth and increasing population of Brookville; but as it is likely to become still more valuable, he has decided not to sell yet. He has repaid Mr. Taylor the amount of the mortgage out of his earnings, and is now sole proprietor. He has assumed the management of Mr. Taylor’s large farm, and is likely in time to grow rich. It is reported that he is engaged to be married to a niece of Mrs. Taylor, who recently came from the East to visit her aunt; and it is not unlikely that the report is true. Though he can boast no proud lineage, and is even indebted to strangers for a name, the Taylors feel that the good qualities which he possesses will compensate for these deficiencies.
He has once visited New York. Last year he went to the East on business for Mr. Taylor, and sought out some of his old haunts. Among other places, he visited the Newsboys’ Lodging House, and, at the request of Mr. O’Connor, made a short speech to the boys, a portion of which will conclude this story:
“Boys,” he said, “it is but a few years since I was drifting about the streets like you, making my living{218} by selling papers and blacking boots, ragged, and with a dreary prospect before me. I used to swear and lie, I remember very well, as I know many of you do. If I had stayed in the city I might be no better off now. But in a lucky moment I was induced by Mr. O’Connor to go West. There I found kind friends and a good home, and had a chance to secure a good education. Now I carry on a large farm for my benefactor, and second father, as I consider him, and I hope in time to become rich. I tell you, boys, it will pay you to leave the city streets and go out West. You may not be as lucky as I have been in finding rich friends, but it will be your own fault if you don’t get along. There are plenty of homes waiting to receive you, and plenty of work for you to do. If you want to prosper and grow up respectable, I advise you to come out as soon as you get the chance.”
“And do you really mean that we are to cross by the steamer, Mr. Virtue, while you go over in the Seabird? I do not approve of that at all. Fanny, why do you not rebel and say we won’t be put ashore? I call it horrid, after a fortnight on board this dear little yacht, to have to get on to a crowded steamer, with no accommodation and lots of seasick women, perhaps, and crying children. You surely cannot be in earnest?”
“I do not like it any more than you do, Minnie; but, as Tom says we had better do it, and my husband agrees with him, I am afraid we must submit. Do you really think it is quite necessary, Mr. Virtue? Minnie and I are both good sailors, you know; and we would much rather have a little extra tossing about on board the Seabird than the discomforts of a steamer.”
“I certainly think that it will be best, Mrs. Grantham. You know very well we would rather have you on board, and that we shall suffer from your loss more than you will by going the other way; but there’s no doubt the wind is getting up, and though we don’t feel it much here, it must be blowing pretty{170} hard outside. The Seabird is as good a seaboat as anything of her size that floats; but you don’t know what it is to be out in anything like a heavy sea in a thirty-tonner. It would be impossible for you to stay on deck, and we should have our hands full, and should not be able to give you the benefit of our society. Personally, I should not mind being out in the Seabird in any weather, but I would certainly rather not have ladies on board.”
“You don’t think we should scream, or do anything foolish, Mr. Virtue?” Minnie Graham said indignantly.
“Not at all, Miss Graham. Still, I repeat, the knowledge that there are women on board, delightful at other times, does not tend to comfort in bad weather. Of course, if you prefer it, we can put off our start till this puff of wind has blown itself out. It may have dropped before morning. It may last some little time. I don’t think myself that it will drop, for the glass has fallen, and I am afraid we may have a spell of broken weather.”
“Oh, no; don’t put it off,” Mrs. Grantham said; “we have only another fortnight before James must be back again in London, and it would be a great pity to lose three or four days perhaps; and we have been looking forward to cruising about among the Channel Islands, and to St. Malo, and all those places. Oh, no; I think the other is much the better plan—that is, if you won’t take us with you?”{171}
“It would be bad manners to say that I won’t, Mrs. Grantham; but I must say I would rather not. It will be a very short separation. Grantham will take you on shore at once, and as soon as the boat comes back I shall be off. You will start in the steamer this evening, and get into Jersey at nine or ten o’clock to-morrow morning; and if I am not there before you, I shall not be many hours after you.”
“Well, if it must be it must,” Mrs. Grantham said, with an air of resignation. “Come, Minnie, let us put a few things into a hand-bag for to-night. You see the skipper is not to be moved by our pleadings.”
“That is the worst of you married women, Fanny,” Miss Graham said, with a little pout. “You get into the way of doing as you are ordered. I call it too bad. Here have we been cruising about for the last fortnight, with scarcely a breath of wind, and longing for a good brisk breeze and a little change and excitement, and now it comes at last, we are to be packed off in a steamer. I call it horrid of you, Mr. Virtue. You may laugh, but I do.”
Tom Virtue laughed, but he showed no signs of giving way, and ten minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Grantham and Miss Graham took their places in the gig, and were rowed into Southampton Harbor, off which the Seabird was lying.{172}
The last fortnight had been a very pleasant one, and it had cost the owner of the Seabird as much as his guests to come to the conclusion that it was better to break up the party for a few hours.
Tom Virtue had, up to the age of five-and-twenty, been possessed of a sufficient income for his wants. He had entered at the bar, not that he felt any particular vocation in that direction, but because he thought it incumbent upon him to do something. Then, at the death of an uncle, he had come into a considerable fortune, and was able to indulge his taste for yachting, which was the sole amusement for which he really cared, to the fullest.
He sold the little five-tonner he had formerly possessed, and purchased the Seabird. He could well have afforded a much larger craft, but he knew that there was far more real enjoyment in sailing to be obtained from a small craft than a large one, for in the latter he would be obliged to have a regular skipper, and would be little more than a passenger, whereas on board the Seabird, although his first hand was dignified by the name of skipper, he was himself the absolute master. The boat carried the aforesaid skipper, three hands, and a steward, and with them he had twice been up the Mediterranean, across to Norway, and had several times made the circuit of the British Isles.
He had unlimited confidence in his boat, and cared not what weather he was out in her. This{173} was the first time since his ownership of her that the Seabird had carried lady passengers. His friend Grantham, an old school and college chum, was a hard-working barrister, and Virtue had proposed to him to take a month’s holiday on board the Seabird.
“Put aside your books, old man,” he said. “You look fagged and overworked; a month’s blow will do you all the good in the world.”
“Thank you, Tom; I have made up my mind for a month’s holiday, but I can’t accept your invitation, though I should enjoy it of all things. But it would not be fair to my wife; she doesn’t get very much of my society, and she has been looking forward to our having a run together. So I must decline.”
Virtue hesitated a moment. He was not very fond of ladies’ society, and thought them especially in the way on board a yacht; but he had a great liking for his friend’s wife, and was almost as much at home in his house as in his own chambers.
“Why not bring the wife with you?” he said, as soon as his mind was made up. “It will be a nice change for her too; and I have heard her say that she is a good sailor. The accommodation is not extensive, but the after-cabin is a pretty good size, and I would do all I could to make her comfortable. Perhaps she would like another lady with her; if so by all means bring one. They could have the after-cabin, you could have the little stateroom, and I could sleep in the saloon.”{174}
“It is very good of you, Tom, especially as I know that it will put you out frightfully; but the offer is a very tempting one. I will speak to Fanny, and let you have an answer in the morning.”
“That will be delightful, James,” Mrs. Grantham said, when the invitation was repeated to her. “I should like it of all things; and I am sure the rest and quiet and the sea air will be just the thing for you. It is wonderful, Tom Virtue making the offer; and I take it as a great personal compliment, for he certainly is not what is generally called a lady’s man. It is very nice, too, of him to think of my having another lady on board. Whom shall we ask? Oh, I know,” she said suddenly; “that will be the thing of all others. We will ask my cousin Minnie; she is full of fun and life, and will make a charming wife for Tom!”
James Grantham laughed.
“What schemers you all are, Fanny! Now I should call it downright treachery to take anyone on board the Seabird with the idea of capturing its master.”
“Nonsense, treachery!” Mrs. Grantham said indignantly; “Minnie is the nicest girl I know, and it would do Tom a world of good to have a wife to look after him. Why, he is thirty now, and will be settling down into a confirmed old bachelor before long. It’s the greatest kindness we could do him, to take Minnie on board; and I am sure he is the{175} sort of man any girl might fall in love with when she gets to know him. The fact is, he’s shy! He never had any sisters, and spends all his time in winter at that horrid club; so that really he has never had any women’s society, and even with us he will never come unless he knows we are alone. I call it a great pity, for I don’t know a pleasanter fellow than he is. I think it will be doing him a real service in asking Minnie; so that’s settled. I will sit down and write him a note.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose,” was Tom Virtue’s comment when he received Mrs. Grantham’s letter, thanking him warmly for the invitation, and saying that she would bring her cousin, Miss Graham, with her, if that young lady was disengaged.
As a matter of self-defense he at once invited Jack Harvey, who was a mutual friend of himself and Grantham, to be of the party.
“Jack can help Grantham to amuse the women,” he said to himself; “that will be more in his line than mine. I will run down to Cowes to-morrow and have a chat with Johnson; we shall want a different sort of stores altogether from those we generally carry, and I suppose we must do her up a bit below.”
Having made up his mind to the infliction of female passengers, Tom Virtue did it handsomely, and when the party came on board at Ryde they were{176} delighted with the aspect of the yacht below. She had been repainted, the saloon and ladies’ cabin were decorated in delicate shades of gray, picked out with gold; and the upholsterer, into whose hands the owner of the Seabird had placed her, had done his work with taste and judgment, and the ladies’ cabin resembled a little boudoir.
“Why, Tom, I should have hardly known her!” Grantham, who had often spent a day on board the Seabird, said.
“I hardly know her myself,” Tom said, rather ruefully; “but I hope she’s all right, Mrs. Grantham, and that you and Miss Graham will find everything you want.”
“It is charming!” Mrs. Grantham said enthusiastically. “It’s awfully good of you, Tom, and we appreciate it; don’t we, Minnie? It is such a surprise, too; for James said that while I should find everything very comfortable, I must not expect that a small yacht would be got up like a palace.”
So a fortnight had passed; they had cruised along the coast as far as Plymouth, anchoring at night at the various ports on the way. Then they had returned to Southampton, and it had been settled that as none of the party, with the exception of Virtue himself, had been to the Channel Islands, the last fortnight of the trip should be spent there. The weather had been delightful, save that there had been some deficiency in wind, and throughout the{177} cruise the Seabird had been under all the sail she could spread. But when the gentlemen came on deck early in the morning a considerable change had taken place; the sky was gray and the clouds flying fast overhead.
“We are going to have dirty weather,” Tom Virtue said at once. “I don’t think it’s going to be a gale, but there will be more sea on than will be pleasant for ladies. I tell you what, Grantham; the best thing will be for you to go on shore with the two ladies, and cross by the boat to-night. If you don’t mind going directly after breakfast I will start at once, and shall be at St. Helier’s as soon as you are.”
And so it had been agreed, but not, as has been seen, without opposition and protest on the part of the ladies.
Mrs. Grantham’s chief reason for objecting had not been given. The little scheme on which she had set her mind seemed to be working satisfactorily. From the first day Tom Virtue had exerted himself to play the part of host satisfactorily, and had ere long shaken off any shyness he may have felt towards the one stranger of the party, and he and Miss Graham had speedily got on friendly terms. So things were going on as well as Mrs. Grantham could have expected.
No sooner had his guests left the side of the yacht than her owner began to make his preparations for a start.{178}
“What do you think of the weather, Watkins?” he asked his skipper.
“It’s going to blow hard, sir; that’s my view of it, and if I was you I shouldn’t up anchor to-day. Still, it’s just as you likes; the Seabird won’t mind it if we don’t. She has had a rough time of it before now; still, it will be a case of wet jackets, and no mistake.”
“Yes, I expect we shall have a rough time of it, Watkins, but I want to get across. We don’t often let ourselves be weather-bound, and I am not going to begin it to-day. We had better house the top-mast at once, and get two reefs in the mainsail. We can get the other down when we get clear of the island. Get number three jib up, and the leg-of-mutton mizzen; put two reefs in the foresail.”
Tom and his friend Harvey, who was a good sailor, assisted the crew in reefing down the sails, and a few minutes after the gig had returned and been hoisted in, the yawl was running rapidly down Southampton waters.
“We need hardly have reefed quite so closely,” Jack Harvey said, as he puffed away at his pipe.
“Not yet, Jack; but you will see she has as much as she can carry before long. It’s all the better to make all snug before starting; it saves a lot of trouble afterwards, and the extra canvas would not have made ten minutes’ difference to us at the outside. We shall have pretty nearly a dead beat down{179} the Solent. Fortunately the tide will be running strong with us, but there will be a nasty kick-up there. You will see we shall feel the short choppy seas there more than we shall when we get outside. She is a grand boat in a really heavy sea, but in short waves she puts her nose into it with a will. Now, if you will take my advice, you will do as I am going to do; put on a pair of fisherman’s boots and oilskin and sou’-wester. There are several sets for you to choose from below.”
As her owner had predicted, the Seabird put her bowsprit under pretty frequently in the Solent; the wind was blowing half a gale, and as it met the tide it knocked up a short, angry sea, crested with white heads, and Jack Harvey agreed that she had quite as much sail on her as she wanted. The cabin doors were bolted, and all made snug to prevent the water getting below before they got to the race off Hurst Castle; and it was well that they did so, for she was as much under water as she was above.
“I think if I had given way to the ladies and brought them with us they would have changed their minds by this time, Jack,” Tom Virtue said, with a laugh.
“I should think so,” his friend agreed; “this is not a day for a fair-weather sailor. Look what a sea is breaking on the shingles!”
“Yes, five minutes there would knock her into matchwood. Another ten minutes and we shall be{180} fairly out; and I shan’t be sorry; one feels as if one was playing football, only just at present the Seabird is the ball and the waves the kickers.”
Another quarter of an hour and they had passed the Needles.
“That is more pleasant, Jack,” as the short, chopping motion was exchanged for a regular rise and fall; “this is what I enjoy—a steady wind and a regular sea. The Seabird goes over it like one of her namesakes; she is not taking a teacupful now over her bows.
“Watkins, you may as well take the helm for a spell, while we go down to lunch. I am not sorry to give it up for a bit, for it has been jerking like the kick of a horse.
“That’s right, Jack, hang up your oilskin there. Johnson, give us a couple of towels; we have been pretty well smothered up there on deck. Now what have you got for us?”
“There is some soup ready, sir, and that cold pie you had for dinner yesterday.”
“That will do; open a couple of bottles of stout.”
Lunch over, they went on deck again.
“She likes a good blow as well as we do,” Virtue said enthusiastically, as the yawl rose lightly over each wave. “What do you think of it, Watkins? Is the wind going to lull a bit as the sun goes down?”{181}
“I think not, sir. It seems to me it’s blowing harder than it was.”
“Then we will prepare for the worst, Watkins; get the try-sail up on deck. When you are ready we will bring her up into the wind and set it. That’s the comfort of a yawl, Jack; one can always lie to without any bother, and one hasn’t got such a tremendous boom to handle.”
The try-sail was soon on deck, and then the Seabird was brought up into the wind, the weather fore-sheet hauled aft, the mizzen sheeted almost fore and aft, and the Seabird lay, head to wind, rising and falling with a gentle motion, in strong contrast to her impetuous rushes when under sail.
“She would ride out anything like that,” her owner said. “Last time we came through the Bay on our way from Gib. we were caught in a gale strong enough to blow the hair off one’s head, and we lay to for nearly three days, and didn’t ship a bucket of water all the time. Now let us lend a hand to get the mainsail stowed.”
Ten minutes’ work and it was securely fastened and its cover on; two reefs were put in the try-sail. Two hands went to each of the halliards, while, as the sail rose, Tom Virtue fastened the toggles round the mast.
“All ready, Watkins?”
“All ready, sir.”
“Slack off the weather fore-sheet, then, and haul{182} aft the leeward. Slack out the mizzen-sheet a little, Jack. That’s it; now she’s off again, like a duck.”
The Seabird felt the relief from the pressure of the heavy boom to leeward and rose easily and lightly over the waves.
“She certainly is a splendid seaboat, Tom; I don’t wonder you are ready to go anywhere in her. I thought we were rather fools for starting this morning, although I enjoy a good blow; but now I don’t care how hard it comes on.”
By night it was blowing a downright gale.
“We will lie to till morning, Watkins. So that we get in by daylight to-morrow evening, that is all we want. See our side-lights are burning well, and you had better get up a couple of blue lights, in case anything comes running up Channel and don’t see our lights. We had better divide into two watches; I will keep one with Matthews and Dawson, Mr. Harvey will go in your watch with Nicholls. We had better get the try-sail down altogether, and lie to under the foresail and mizzen, but don’t put many lashings on the try-sail, one will be enough, and have it ready to cast off in a moment, in case we want to hoist the sail in a hurry. I will go down and have a glass of hot grog first, and then I will take my watch to begin with. Let the two hands with me go down; the steward will serve them out a tot each. Jack, you had better turn in at once.”{183}
Virtue was soon on deck again, muffled up in his oilskins.
“Now, Watkins, you can go below and turn in.”
“I shan’t go below to-night, sir—not to lie down. There’s nothing much to do here, but I couldn’t sleep, if I did lie down.”
“Very well; you had better go below and get a glass of grog; tell the steward to give you a big pipe with a cover like this, out of the locker; and there’s plenty of chewing tobacco, if the men are short.”
“I will take that instead of a pipe,” Watkins said; “there’s nothing like a quid in weather like this, it aint never in your way, and it lasts. Even with a cover a pipe would soon be out.”
“Please yourself, Watkins; tell the two hands forward to keep a bright lookout for lights.”
The night passed slowly. Occasionally a sea heavier than usual came on board, curling over the bow and falling with a heavy thud on the deck, but for the most part the Seabird breasted the waves easily; the bowsprit had been reefed in to its fullest, thereby adding to the lightness and buoyancy of the boat. Tom Virtue did not go below when his friend came up to relieve him at the change of watch, but sat smoking and doing much talking in the short intervals between the gusts.
The morning broke gray and misty, driving sleet came along on the wind, and the horizon was closed in as by a dull curtain.{184}
“How far can we see, do you think, Watkins?”
“Perhaps a couple of miles, sir.”
“That will be enough. I think we both know the position of every reef to within a hundred yards, so we will shape our course for Guernsey. If we happen to hit it off, we can hold on to St. Helier, but if when we think we ought to be within sight of Guernsey we see nothing of it, we must lie to again, till the storm has blown itself out or the clouds lift. It would never do to go groping our way along with such currents as run among the islands. Put the last reef in the try-sail before you hoist it. I think you had better get the foresail down altogether, and run up the spit-fire jib.”
The Seabird was soon under way again.
“Now, Watkins, you take the helm; we will go down and have a cup of hot coffee, and I will see that the steward has a good supply for you and the hands; but first, do you take the helm, Jack, whilst Watkins and I have a look at the chart, and try and work out where we are, and the course we had better lie for Guernsey.”
Five minutes were spent over the chart, then Watkins went above and Jack Harvey came below.
“You have got the coffee ready, I hope, Johnson?”
“Yes, sir, coffee and chocolate. I didn’t know which you would like.”{185}
“Chocolate, by all means. Jack, I recommend the chocolate. Bring two full-sized bowls, Johnson, and put that cold pie on the table, and a couple of knives and forks; never mind about a cloth; but first of all bring a couple of basins of hot water, we shall enjoy our food more after a wash.”
The early breakfast was eaten, dry coats and mufflers put on, pipes lighted, and they then went up upon deck. Tom took the helm.
“What time do you calculate we ought to make Guernsey, Tom?”
“About twelve. The wind is freer than it was, and we are walking along at a good pace. Matthews, cast the log, and let’s see what we are doing. About seven knots, I should say.”