A Master Of Craft. William Wymark Jacobs
queried the interested mate.
“I daresay,” snapped the visitor; “anything to tell me, I suppose. We were to be married by special license. I’d even got my trousseau ready.”
“Got your what ready?” enquired the mate, to whom the word was new, leaning out of his bunk.
“Everything to wear,” explained the visitor. “All my relations bought new clothes, too; leastways, those that could afford it did. He even went and helped me choose the cake.”
“Well, is that wrong?” asked the puzzled mate.
“He didn’t buy it, he only chose it,” said the other, having recourse to her handkerchief again. “He went outside the shop to see whether there was one he would like better, and when I came out he had disappeared.”
“He must have met with an accident,” said the mate, politely.
“I saw him to-night,” said the lady, tersely.
“Once or twice he had mentioned Wapping in conversation, and then seemed to check himself. That was my clue. I’ve been round this dismal heathenish place for a fortnight. To-night I saw him; he came on this wharf, and he has not gone off.... It’s my belief he’s in that room.”
Before the mate could reply the hoarse voice of the watchman came down the company-way. “Ha’ past eleven, sir; tide’s just on the turn.”
“Aye, aye,” said the mate. He turned imploringly to the visitor.
“Would you do me the favour just to step on deck a minute?”
“What for?” enquired the visitor, shortly.
“Because I want to get up,” said the mate.
“I sha’n’t move,” said the lady.
“But I’ve got to get up, I tell you,” said the mate; “we’re getting under way in ten minutes.”
“And what might that be?” asked the lady.
“Why, we make a start. You’d better go ashore unless you want to be carried off.”
“I sha’n’t move,” repeated the visitor.
“Well, I’m sorry to be rude,” said the mate. “George.”
“Sir,” said the watchman from above.
“Bring down a couple o’ men and take this lady ashore,” said the mate sternly.
“I’ll send a couple down, sir,” said the watchman, and moved off to make a selection.
“I shall scream ‘murder and thieves,’” said the lady, her eyes gleaming. “I’ll bring the police up and cause a scandal. Then perhaps I shall see into that room.”
In the face of determination like this the mate’s courage gave way, and in a voice of much anxiety he called upon his captain for instruction.
“Cast off,” bellowed the mighty voice. “If your sweetheart won’t go ashore she must come, too. You must pay her passage.”
“Well, of all the damned impudence,” muttered the incensed mate. “Well, if you’re bent on coming,” he said, hotly, to the visitor, “just go on deck while I dress.”
The lady hesitated a moment and then withdrew. On deck the men eyed her curiously, but made no attempt to interfere with her, and in a couple of minutes the mate came running up to take charge.
“Where are we going?” enquired the lady with a trace of anxiety in her voice.
“France,” said Fraser, turning away.
The visitor looked nervously round. At the adjoining wharf a sailing barge was also getting under way, and a large steamer was slowly turning in the middle of the river. She took a pace or two towards the side.
“Cast off,” said Fraser, impatiently, to the watchman.
“Wait a minute,” said the visitor, hastily, “I want to think.”
“Cast off,” repeated the mate.
The watchman obeyed, and the schooner’s side moved slowly from the wharf. At the sight the visitor’s nerve forsook her, and with a frantic cry she ran to the side and, catching the watchman’s outstretched hand, sprang ashore.
“Good-bye,” sang out the mate; “sorry you wouldn’t come to France with us. The lady was afraid of the foreigners, George. If it had been England she wouldn’t have minded.”
“Aye, aye,” said the watchman, significantly, and, as the schooner showed her stern, turned to answer, with such lies as he thought the occasion demanded, the eager questions of his fair companion.
CHAPTER III
Captain Flower, learning through the medium of Tim that the coast was clear, came on deck at Limehouse, and took charge of his ship with a stateliness significant of an uneasy conscience. He noticed with growing indignation that the mate’s attitude was rather that of an accomplice than a subordinate, and that the crew looked his way far oftener than was necessary or desirable.
“I told her we were going to France,” said the mate, in an impressive whisper.
“Her?” said Flower, curtly. “Who?”
“The lady you didn’t want to see,” said Fraser, restlessly.
“You let your ideas run away with you, Jack,” said Flower, yawning. “It wasn’t likely I was going to turn out and dress to see any girl you liked to invite aboard.”
“Or even to bawl at them through the speaking-trumpet,” said Fraser, looking at him steadily.
“What sort o’looking girl was she?” enquired Flower, craning his neck to see what was in front of him.
“Looked like a girl who meant to find the man she wanted, if she spent ten years over it,” said the mate grimly. “I’ll bet you an even five shillings, cap’n, that she finds this Mr. Robinson before six weeks are out—whatever his other name is.”
“Maybe,” said Flower, carelessly.
“It’s her first visit to the Foam, but not the last, you mark my words,” said Fraser, solemnly. “If she wants this rascal Robinson–”
“What?” interrupted Flower, sharply.
“I say if she wants this rascal Robinson,” repeated the mate, with relish, “she’ll naturally come where she saw the last trace of him.”
Captain Flower grunted.
“Women never think,” continued Fraser, judicially, “or else she’d be glad to get rid of such a confounded scoundrel.”
“What do you know about him?” demanded Flower.
“I know what she told me,” said Fraser; “the idea of a man leaving a poor girl in a cake-shop and doing a bolt. He’ll be punished for it, I know. He’s a thoughtless, inconsiderate fellow, but one of the best-hearted chaps in the world, and I guess I’ll do the best I can for him.”
Flower grinned safely in the darkness. “And any little help I can give you, Jack, I’ll give freely,” he said, softly. “We’ll talk it over at breakfast.”
The mate took the hint, and, moving off, folded his arms on the taffrail, and, looking idly astern, fell into a reverie. Like the Pharisee, he felt thankful that he was not as other men, and dimly pitied the skipper and his prosaic entanglements, as he thought of Poppy. He looked behind at the dark and silent city, and felt a new affection for it, as he reflected that she was sleeping there.
The two men commenced their breakfast in silence, the skipper eating with a zest which caused the mate to allude impatiently to the last breakfasts of condemned men.
“Shut the skylight, Jack,” said the skipper, at length, as he poured out his third cup of coffee.
Fraser complied, and resuming his seat gazed at him with