The Lifeboat. Robert Michael Ballantyne
yes, Bax,” interposed Mr Denham, “I know what you would say. Pray calm yourself. It is a pity you should have been kept waiting outside, but the fact is that my boy is a new one, and apparently he is destitute of common sense. Sit down. I sent for you to say that I wish you to take the ‘Nancy’ to Liverpool. You will be ready to start at once, no doubt—”
“Before the schooner is overhauled?” inquired Bax, in surprise.
“Of course,” said Denham, stiffly; “I see no occasion for another overhaul. That schooner will cost us more than she is worth if we go on repairing at the rate we have been doing the last two years.”
“She needs it all, sir,” rejoined Bax, earnestly. “The fact is, Mr Denham, I feel it to be my duty to tell you that there ain’t a sound plank or timber in her from stem to stern, and I’m pretty sure that if she costs you money, she’s likely to cost me and the men aboard of her our lives. I strongly advise you to strike her off the books, and get a new one.”
“Mr Bax,” said Denham, pompously, “you are too young a man to offer your advice unless it is asked. I believe the engineer employed by me to examine into the condition of my vessels is quite competent to judge in these matters, and I have unbounded confidence in him. When I placed you in command of the ‘Nancy,’ I meant you to navigate, not to criticise her; but if you are afraid to venture—”
“Afraid!” cried the young sailor, reddening. “Is anxiety about the lives of your men and the safety of your property to be called fear? I am willing to sail in the ‘Nancy’ as long as a plank of her will hold to her ribs, but—”
Bax paused and bit his lip, as if to keep back words which had better not be spoken.
“Well, then,” rejoined Mr Denham, affecting to disregard the pause, “let me hear no more about repairs. When these require to be done, they shall be done. Meanwhile, go and make preparation to sail by the morning tides which serves about—what hour, think you?”
“Flood at half after six,” said Bax, curtly.
“Very well, come up here at half-past five, one of the clerks will see you. You will have to run down to Dover in the first place, and when there my agent will give you further instructions. Good afternoon!”
Bax rose and quitted the room with a stern “Good day, sir.”
As he passed through the outer office he was arrested by one of the clerks laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Well, Mr Foster,” said Bax, a bright smile chasing the frown from his face, “it seems we’re to swim if we can, or sink if we can’t this winter;—but what want ye with me?”
“You are to call me Guy, not Mister Foster,” said the lad, gaily. “I want to know where you are to be found after six this evening.”
“At the ‘Three Jolly Tars,’” answered Bax, clapping on his glazed hat.
“All right, I’ll look you up. Good-day.”
“Guy Foster,” shouted Mr Denham from the inner room.
“Yes, uncle,” and in another moment the youth was standing, pen in hand, in the august presence of his relative, who regarded him with a cold stare of displeasure.
There could scarcely have been conceived a stronger contrast in nature than that which existed between the starched, proud, and portly uncle, and the tall, handsome, and hearty young nephew, whose age was scarcely twenty years.
“How often am I to tell you, sir,” said Mr Denham, “that ‘yes, uncle,’ is much too familiar and unbusinesslike a phrase to be used in this office in the hearing of your fellow-clerks?”
“I beg pardon, uncle, I’m sure I had no intention of—”
“There, that will do, I want no apology, I want obedience and attention to my expressed wishes. I suppose that you expect to get away for a few days’ holiday?”
“Well, unc—, sir, I mean, if it is quite convenient I should—”
“It is not quite convenient,” interrupted the uncle. “It cannot possibly, at any time, be convenient to dispense with the services of a clerk in a house where no supernumeraries are kept to talk slang and read the newspapers. I see no reason whatever in young men in ordinary health expecting as a right, two or three weeks’ leave each year without deduction of salary. I never go to the country or to the sea-side from one year’s end to the other.”
“You’d be much the better for it if you did, uncle,” interposed Guy.
“That, sir,” retorted Denham with emphasis, “is your opinion, and you will allow me to say that it is erroneous, as most of your opinions, I am sorry to find, are. I find that no change is necessary for my health. I am in better condition than many who go to Margate every summer. I thrive on town air, sir, and on city life.”
There was much truth in these observations. The worthy merchant did indeed seem to enjoy robust health, and there could be no question that, as far as physical appearances went, he did thrive on high living, foul air, and coining money. Tallow and tar sent forth delicious odours to him, and thick smoke was pleasant to his nostrils, for he dealt largely in coal, and all of these, with many kindred substances, were productive of the one great end and object of his life—gold.
“However,” pursued Mr Denham, leaning back on the mantle-piece, “as the tyrannical customs of society cannot be altogether set at nought, I suppose I must let you go.”
“Thank you, unc— sir,” said Guy, who, having been chained to the desk in the office of Redwharf Lane for the last eleven months, felt his young heart bounding wildly within him at the prospect of visiting, even for a brief period, his mother’s cottage on the coast of Kent.
“You have no occasion to thank me,” retorted Mr Denham; “you are indebted entirely to the tyrannical customs and expectations of society for the permission. Good-bye, you may convey my respects to your mother.”
“I will, sir.”
“Have you anything further to say?” asked Mr Denham, observing that the youth stood looking perplexedly at the ground, and twirling his watch-key.
“Yes, uncle, I have,” answered Guy, plucking up courage. “The fact is—that, is to say—you know that wrecks are very common off the coast of Kent.”
“Certainly, I do,” said Denham with a frown. “I have bitter cause to know that. The loss occasioned by the wreck of the ‘Sea-gull’ last winter was very severe indeed. The subject is not a pleasant one; have you any good reason for alluding to it?”
“I have, uncle; as you say, the loss of the ‘Sea-gull’ was severe, for, besides the loss of a fine vessel and a rich cargo, there was the infinitely more terrible loss of the lives of twenty-two human beings.”
As Mr Denham had not happened to think of the loss of life that occurred on the occasion, and had referred solely to the loss of ship and cargo, which, by a flagrant oversight on the part of one of his clerks, had not been insured; he made no rejoinder, and Guy, after a moment’s pause, went on—
“The effect of this calamity was so powerful on the minds of the people of Deal and Walmer, near which the wreck took place, that a public meeting was called, and a proposal made that a lifeboat should be established there.”
“Well?” said Mr Denham.
“Well,” continued the youth, “my mother gave a subscription; but being poor she could not give much.”
“Well, well,” said Mr Denham impatiently.
“And—and I gave a little, a very little, towards it too,” said Guy.
“Your salary is not large; it was very foolish of you to waste your money in this way.”
“Waste it, uncle!”
“Come, sir, what does all this tend to?” said Denham, sternly.
“I thought—I hoped—indeed I felt