Many Cargoes

“Well, to tell the truth, sir,” said Ted, “I’m like the mate. I’m only a poor sailor-man, but I wouldn’t lend my clothes to the Queen of England.”

“You fetch up them clothes,” roared the skipper snatching off his bonnet and flinging it on the deck. “Fetch ‘em up at once. D’ye think I’m going about in these petticuts?”

“They’re my clothes,” muttered Ted doggedly.

“Very well, then, I’ll have Bill’s,” said the skipper. “But mind you, my lad, I’ll make you pay for this afore I’ve done with you. Bill’s the only honest man aboard this ship. Gimme your hand, Bill, old man.”

“I’m with them two,” said Bill gruffly, as he turned away.

The skipper, biting his lips with fury, turned from one to the other, and then, with a big oath, walked forward. Before he could reach the fo’c’sle Bill and Ted dived down before him, and, by the time he had descended, sat on their chests side by side confronting him. To threats and appeals alike they turned a deaf ear, and the frantic skipper was compelled at last to go on deck again, still encumbered with the hated skirts.

“Why don’t you go an’ lay down,” said the mate, “an’ I’ll send you down a nice cup o’ hot tea. You’ll get histericks, if you go on like that.”

“I’ll knock your ‘ead off if you talk to me,” said the skipper.

“Not you,” said the mate cheerfully; “you ain’t big enough. Look at that pore fellow over there.”

The skipper looked in the direction indicated, and, swelling with impotent rage, shook his fist fiercely at a red-faced man with grey whiskers, who was wafting innumerable tender kisses from the bridge of a passing steamer.

“That’s right,” said the mate approvingly; “don’t give ‘im no encouragement. Love at first sight ain’t worth having.”

The skipper, suffering severely from suppressed emotion, went below, and the crew, after waiting a little while to make sure that he was not coming up again, made their way quietly to the mate.

“If we can only take him to Battlesea in this rig it’ll be all right,” said the latter. “You chaps stand by me. His slippers and sou’-wester is the only clothes he’s got aboard. Chuck every needle you can lay your hands on overboard, or else he’ll git trying to make a suit out of a piece of old sail or something. If we can only take him to Mr. Pearson like this, it won’t be so bad after all.”

While these arrangements were in hand above, the skipper and the boy were busy over others below. Various startling schemes propounded by the skipper for obtaining possession of his men’s attire were rejected by the youth as unlawful, and, what was worse, impracticable. For a couple of hours they discussed ways and means, but only ended in diatribes against the mean ways of the crew; and the skipper, whose head ached still from his excesses, fell into a state of sullen despair at length, and sat silent.

“By Jove, Tommy, I’ve got it,” he cried suddenly, starting up and hitting the table with his fist. “Where’s your other suit?”

“That ain’t no bigger that this one,” said Tommy.

“You git it out,” said the skipper, with a knowing toss of his head. “Ah, there we are. Now go in my state-room and take those off.”

The wondering Tommy, who thought that great grief had turned his kinsman’s brain, complied, and emerged shortly afterwards in a blanket, bringing his clothes under his arm.

“Now, do you know what I’m going to do?” inquired the skipper, with a big smile.

“No.”

“Fetch me the scissors, then. Now do you know what I’m going to do?”

“Cut up the two suits and make ‘em into one,” hazarded the horror-stricken Tommy. “Here, stop it! Leave off!”

The skipper pushed him impatiently off, and, placing the clothes on the table, took up the scissors, and, with a few slashing strokes, cut them garments into their component parts.

“What am I to wear,” said Tommy, beginning to blubber. “You didn’t think of that?”

“What are you to wear, you selfish young pig?” said the skipper sternly. “Always thinking about yourself. Go and git some needles and thread, and if there’s any left over, and you’re a good boy, I’ll see whether I can’t make something for you out of the leavings.”

“There ain’t no needles here,” whined Tommy, after a lengthened search.

“Go down the fo’c’sle and git the case of sail-makers’ needles, then,” said the skipper, “Don’t let anyone see what you’re after, an’ some thread.”

“Well, why couldn’t you let me go in my clothes before you cut ‘em up,” moaned Tommy. “I don’t like going up in this blanket. They’ll laugh at me.”

“You go at once!” thundered the skipper, and, turning his back on him, whistled softly, and began to arrange the pieces of cloth.

“Laugh away, my lads,” he said cheerfully, as an uproarious burst of laughter greeted the appearance of Tommy on deck. “Wait a bit.”

He waited himself for nearly twenty minutes, at the end of which time Tommy, treading on his blanket, came flying down the companion-ladder, and rolled into the cabin.

“There ain’t a needle aboard the ship,” he said solemnly, as he picked himself up and rubbed his head. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

“What?” roared the skipper, hastily concealing the pieces of cloth. “Here, Ted! Ted!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” said Ted, as he came below.

“I want a sail-maker’s needle,” said the skipper glibly. “I’ve got a rent in this skirt.”

“I broke the last one yesterday,” said Ted, with an evil grin.

“Any other needle then,” said the skipper, trying to conceal his emotion.

“I don’t believe there’s such a thing aboard the ship,” said Ted, who had obeyed the mate’s thoughtful injunction. “NOR thread. I was only saying so to the mate yesterday.”

The skipper sank again to the lowest depths, waved him away, and then, getting on a corner of the locker, fell into a gloomy reverie.

“It’s a pity you do things in such a hurry,” said Tommy, sniffing vindictively. “You might have made sure of the needle before you spoiled my clothes. There’s two of us going about ridiculous now.”

The master of the Sarah Jane allowed this insolence to pass unheeded. It is in moments of deep distress that the mind of man, naturally reverting to solemn things, seeks to improve the occasion by a lecture. The skipper, chastened by suffering and disappointment, stuck his right hand in his pocket, after a lengthened search for it, and gently bidding the blanketed urchin in front of him to sit down, began:

“You see what comes of drink and cards,” he said mournfully. “Instead of being at the helm of my ship, racing all the other craft down the river, I’m skulkin’ down below here like—like”—

“Like an actress,” suggested Tommy.

The skipper eyed him all over. Tommy, unconscious of offence, met his gaze serenely.

“If,” continued the skipper, “at any time you felt like taking too much, and you stopped with the beer-mug half-way to your lips, and thought of me sitting in this disgraceful state, what would you do?”

“I dunno,” replied Tommy, yawning.

“What would you do?” persisted the skipper, with great expression.

“Laugh, I s’pose,” said Tommy, after a moment’s thought.

The sound of a well-boxed ear rang through the cabin.

“You’re an unnatural, ungrateful little toad,” said the skipper fiercely. “You don’t deserve to have a good, kind uncle to look after you.”

“Anybody can have him for me,” sobbed the indignant Tommy, as he tenderly felt his ear. “You look a precious sight more like an aunt than an uncle.”

After firing this shot he vanished in a cloud of blanket, and the skipper, reluctantly abandoning a hastily-formed resolve of first flaying him alive and then flinging him overboard, sat down again and lit his pipe.

Once out of the river he came on deck again, and, ignoring by a great effort the smiles of the crew and the jibes of the mate, took command. The only alteration he made in his dress was to substitute his sou’-wester for the bonnet, and in this guise he did his work, while the aggrieved Tommy hopped it in blankets. The three days at sea passed like a horrid dream. So covetous was his gaze, that the crew instinctively clutched their nether garments and looked to the buttoning of their coats as they passed him. He saw coats in the mainsail, and fashioned phantom trousers out of the flying jib, and towards the end began to babble of blue serges and mixed tweeds. Oblivious of fame, he had resolved to enter the harbour of Battlesea by night; but it was not to be. Near home the wind dropped, and the sun was well up before Battlesea came into view, a grey bank on the starboard bow.

Until within a mile of the harbour, the skipper held on, and then his grasp on the wheel relaxed somewhat, and he looked round anxiously for the mate.

“Where’s Bob?” he shouted.

“He’s very ill, sir,” said Ted, shaking his head.

“Ill?” gasped the startled skipper. “Here, take the wheel a minute.”

He handed it over, and grasping his skirts went hastily below. The mate was half lying, half sitting, in his bunk, groaning dismally.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the skipper.

“I’m dying,” said the mate. “I keep being tied up all in knots inside. I can’t hold myself straight.”

The other cleared his throat. “You’d better take off your clothes and lie down a bit,” he said kindly. “Let me help you off with them.”

“No—don’t—trouble,” panted the mate.

“It ain’t no trouble,” said the skipper, in a trembling voice.

“No, I’ll keep ‘em on,” said the mate faintly. “I’ve always had an idea I’d like to die in my clothes. It may be foolish, but I can’t help it.”

“You’ll have your wish some day, never fear, you infernal rascal,” shouted the overwrought skipper. “You’re shamming sickness to make me take the ship into port.”

“Why shouldn’t you take her in,” asked the mate, with an air of innocent surprise. “It’s your duty as cap’n. You’d better get above now. The bar is always shifting.”

The skipper, restraining himself by a mighty effort, went on deck again, and, taking the wheel, addressed the crew. He spoke feelingly of the obedience men owed their superior officers, and the moral obligation they were under to lend them their trousers when they required them. He dwelt on the awful punishments awarded for mutiny, and proved clearly, that to allow the master of a ship to enter port in petticoats was mutiny of the worst type. He then sent them below for their clothing. They were gone such a long time that it was palpable to the meanest intellect that they did not intend to bring it. Meantime the harbour widened out before him.

There were two or three people on the quay as the Sarah Jane came within hailing distance. By the time she had passed the lantern at the end of it there were two or three dozen, and the numbers were steadily increasing at the rate of three persons for every five yards she made. Kind-hearted, humane men, anxious that their friends should not lose so great and cheap a treat, bribed small and reluctant boys with pennies to go in search of them, and by the time the schooner reached her berth, a large proportion of the population of the port was looking over each other’s shoulders and shouting foolish and hilarious inquiries to the skipper. The news reached the owner, and he came hurrying down to the ship, just as the skipper, regardless of the heated remonstrances of the sightseers, was preparing to go below.

Mr. Pearson was a stout man, and he came down exploding with wrath. Then he saw the apparition, and mirth overcame him. It became necessary for three stout fellows to act as buttresses, and the more indignant the skipper looked the harder their work became. Finally he was assisted, in a weak state, and laughing hysterically, to the deck of the schooner, where he followed the skipper below, and in a voice broken with emotion demanded an explanation.

“It’s the finest sight I ever saw in my life, Bross,” he said when the other had finished. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I’ve been feeling very low this last week, and it’s done me good. Don’t talk nonsense about leaving the ship. I wouldn’t lose you for anything after this, but if you like to ship a fresh mate and crew you can please yourself. If you’ll only come up to the house and let Mrs. Pearson see you—she’s been ailing—I’ll give you a couple of pounds. Now, get your bonnet and come.”

THE BOATSWAIN’S WATCH

Captain Polson sat in his comfortable parlour smiling benignly upon his daughter and sister. His ship, after an absence of eighteen months, was once more berthed in the small harbour of Barborough, and the captain was sitting in that state of good-natured affability which invariably characterised his first appearance after a long absence.

“No news this end, I suppose,” he inquired, after a lengthy recital of most extraordinarily uninteresting adventures.

“Not much,” said his sister Jane, looking nervously at her niece. “Young Metcalfe has gone into partnership with his father.”

“I don’t want to hear about those sharks,” said the captain, waxing red. “Tell me about honest men.”

“Joe Lewis has had a month’s imprisonment for stealing fowls,” said Miss Polson meekly. “Mrs. Purton has had twins—dear little fellows they are, fat as butter!—she has named one of them Polson, after you. The greedy one.”

“Any deaths?” inquired the captain snappishly, as he eyed the innocent lady suspiciously.

“Poor old Jasper Wheeler has gone,” said his sister; “he was very resigned. He borrowed enough money to get a big doctor from London, and when he heard that there was no hope for him he said he was just longing to go, and he was sorry he couldn’t take all his dear ones with him. Mary Hewson is married to Jack Draper, and young Metcalfe’s banns go up for the third time next Sunday.”

“I hope he gets a Tartar,” said the vindictive captain. “Who’s the girl? Some silly little fool, I know. She ought to be warned!”

“I don’t believe in interfering in marriages,” said his daughter Chrissie, shaking her head sagely.

“Oh!” said the captain, staring, “YOU don’t! Now you’ve put your hair up and taken to wearing long frocks, I suppose you’re beginning to think of it.”

“Yes; auntie wants to tell you something!” said his daughter, rising and crossing the room.

“No, I don’t!” said Miss Polson hastily.

“You’d better do it,” said Chrissie, giving her a little push, “there’s a dear; I’ll go upstairs and lock myself in my room.”

The face of the captain, whilst this conversation was passing, was a study in suppressed emotions. He was a firm advocate for importing the manners of the quarter-deck into private life, the only drawback being that he had to leave behind him the language usual in that locality. To this omission he usually ascribed his failures.

“Sit down, Chrissie,” he commanded; “sit down, Jane. Now, miss, what’s all this about?”

“I don’t like to tell you,” said Chrissie, folding her hands in her lap. “I know you’ll be cross. You’re so unreasonable.”

The captain stared—frightfully.

“I’m going to be married,” said Chrissie suddenly,—“there! To Jack Metcalfe—there! So you’ll have to learn to love him. He’s going to try and love you for my sake.” To his sister’s dismay the captain got up, and brandishing his fists walked violently to and fro. By these simple but unusual means decorum was preserved.

“If you were only a boy,” said the captain, when he had regained his seat, “I should know what to do with you.”

“If I were a boy,” said Chrissie, who, having braced herself up for the fray, meant to go through with it, “I shouldn’t want to marry Jack. Don’t be silly, father!”

“Jane,” said the captain, in a voice which made the lady addressed start in her chair, “what do you mean by it?”

“It isn’t my fault,” said Miss Polson feebly. “I told her how it would be. And it was so gradual; he admired my geraniums at first, and, of course, I was deceived. There are so many people admire my geraniums; whether it is because the window has a south aspect”—

“Oh!” said the captain rudely, “that’ll do, Jane. If he wasn’t a lawyer, I’d go round and break his neck. Chrissie is only nineteen, and she’ll come for a year’s cruise with me. Perhaps the sea air’ll strengthen her head. We’ll see who’s master in this family.”

“I’m sure I don’t want to be master,” said his daughter, taking a weapon of fine cambric out of her pocket, and getting ready for action. “I can’t help liking people. Auntie likes him too, don’t you, auntie?”

“Yes,” said Miss Polson bravely.

“Very good,” said the autocrat promptly, “I’ll take you both for a cruise.”

“You’re making me very un—unhappy,” said Chrissie, burying her face in her handkerchief.

“You’ll be more unhappy before I’ve done with you,” said the captain grimly. “And while I think of it, I’ll step round and stop those banns.” His daughter caught him by the arm as he was passing, and laid her face on his sleeve. “You’ll make me look so foolish,” she wailed.

“That’ll make it easier for you to come to sea with me,” said her father. “Don’t cry all over my sleeve. I’m going to see a parson. Run upstairs and play with your dolls, and if you’re a good girl, I’ll bring you in some sweets.” He put on his hat, and closing the front door with a bang, went off to the new rector to knock two years off the age which his daughter kept for purposes of matrimony. The rector, grieved at such duplicity in one so young, met him more than half way, and he came out from him smiling placidly, until his attention was attracted by a young man on the other side of the road, who was regarding him with manifest awkwardness.

“Good evening, Captain Polson,” he said, crossing the road.

“Oh,” said the captain, stopping, “I wanted to speak to you. I suppose you wanted to marry my daughter while I was out of the way, to save trouble. Just the manly thing I should have expected of you. I’ve stopped the banns, and I’m going to take her for a voyage with me. You’ll have to look elsewhere, my lad.”

“The ill feeling is all on your side, captain,” said Metcalfe, reddening.

“Ill feeling!” snorted the captain. “You put me in the witness-box, and made me a laughing-stock in the place with your silly attempts at jokes, lost me five hundred pounds, and then try and marry my daughter while I’m at sea. Ill feeling be hanged!”

“That was business,” said the other.

“It was,” said the captain, “and this is business too. Mine. I’ll look after it, I’ll promise you. I think I know who’ll look silly this time. I’d sooner see my girl in heaven than married to a rascal of a lawyer.”

“You’d want good glasses,” retorted Metcalfe, who was becoming ruffled.

“I don’t want to bandy words with you,” said the captain with dignity, after a long pause, devoted to thinking of something worth bandying. “You think you’re a clever fellow, but I know a cleverer. You’re quite welcome to marry my daughter—if you can.”

He turned on his heel, and refusing to listen to any further remarks, went on his way rejoicing. Arrived home, he lit his pipe, and throwing himself into an armchair, related his exploits. Chrissie had recourse to her handkerchief again, more for effect than use, but Miss Polson, who was a tender soul, took hers out and wept unrestrainedly. At first the captain took it well enough. It was a tribute to his power, but when they took to sobbing one against the other, his temper rose, and he sternly commanded silence.

“I shall be like—this—every day at sea,” sobbed Chrissie vindictively, “only worse; making us all ridiculous.”

“Stop that noise directly!” vociferated the captain.

“We c-c-can’t,” sobbed Miss Polson.

“And we d-don’t want to,” said Chrissie. “It’s all we can do, and we’re going to do it. You’d better g-go out and stop something else. You can’t stop us.”

The captain took the advice and went, and in the billiard-room of the “George” heard some news which set him thinking, and which brought him back somewhat earlier than he had at first intended. A small group at his gate broke up into its elements at his approach, and the captain, following his sister and daughter into the room, sat down and eyed them severely.

“So you’re going to run off to London to get married, are you, miss?” he said ferociously. “Well, we’ll see. You don’t go out of my sight until we sail, and if I catch that pettifogging lawyer round at my gate again, I’ll break every bone in his body, mind that.”

For the next three days the captain kept his daughter under observation, and never allowed her to stir abroad except in his company. The evening of the third day, to his own great surprise, he spent at a Dorcas. The company was not congenial, several of the ladies putting their work away, and glaring frigidly at the intruder; and though they could see clearly that he was suffering greatly, made no attempt to put him at his ease. He was very thoughtful all the way home, and the next day took a partner into the concern, in the shape of his boatswain.

“You understand, Tucker,” he concluded, as the hapless seaman stood in a cringing attitude before Chrissie, “that you never let my daughter out of your sight. When she goes out you go with her.”

“Yessir,” said Tucker; “and suppose she tells me to go home, what am I to do then?”

“You’re a fool,” said the captain sharply. “It doesn’t matter what she says or does; unless you are in the same room, you are never to be more than three yards from her.”

“Make it four, cap’n,” said the boatswain, in a broken voice.

“Three,” said the captain; “and mind, she’s artful. All girls are, and she’ll try and give you the slip. I’ve had information given me as to what’s going on. Whatever happens, you are not to leave her.”

“I wish you’d get somebody else, sir,” said Tucker, very respectfully. “There’s a lot of chaps aboard that’d like the job.”

“You’re the only man I can trust,” said the captain shortly. “When I give you orders I know they’ll be obeyed; it’s your watch now.”

He went out humming. Chrissie took up a book and sat down, utterly ignoring the woebegone figure which stood the regulation three yards from her, twisting its cap in its hands.

“I hope, miss,” said the boatswain, after standing patiently for three-quarters of an hour, “as ‘ow you won’t think I sought arter this ‘ere little job.”

“No,” said Chrissie, without looking up.

“I’m just obeying orders,” continued the boatswain. “I always git let in for these ‘ere little jobs, somehow. The monkeys I’ve had to look arter aboard ship would frighten you. There never was a monkey on the Monarch but what I was in charge of. That’s what a man gets through being trustworthy.”

“Just so,” said Chrissie, putting down her book. “Well, I’m going into the kitchen now; come along, nursie.”

“‘Ere, I say, miss!” remonstrated Tucker, flushing.

“I don’t know how Susan will like you going in her kitchen,” said Chrissie thoughtfully; “however, that’s your business.”

The unfortunate seaman followed his fair charge into the kitchen, and, leaning against the door-post, doubled up like a limp rag before the terrible glance of its mistress.

“Ho!” said Susan, who took the state of affairs as an insult to the sex in general; “and what might you be wanting?”

“Cap’n’s orders,” murmured Tucker feebly.

“I’m captain here,” said Susan, confronting him with her bare arms akimbo.

“And credit it does you,” said the boatswain, looking round admiringly.

“Is it your wish, Miss Chrissie, that this image comes and stalks into my kitchen as if the place belongs to him?” demanded the irate Susan.

“I didn’t mean to come in in that way,” said the astonished Tucker. “I can’t help being big.”

“I don’t want him here,” said her mistress; “what do you think I want him for?”

“You hear that?” said Susan, pointing to the door; “now go. I don’t want people to say that you come into this kitchen after me.”

“I’m here by the cap’n’s orders,” said Tucker faintly. “I don’t want to be here—far from it. As for people saying that I come here after you, them as knows me would laugh at the idea.”

“If I had my way,” said Susan, in a hard rasping voice, “I’d box your ears for you. That’s what I’d do to you, and you can go and tell the cap’n I said so. Spy!”

This was the first verse of the first watch, and there were many verses. To add to his discomfort he was confined to the house, as his charge manifested no desire to go outside, and as neither she nor her aunt cared about the trouble of bringing him to a fit and proper state of subjection, the task became a labour of love for the energetic Susan. In spite of everything, however, he stuck to his guns, and the indignant Chrissie, who was in almost hourly communication with Metcalfe through the medium of her faithful handmaiden, was rapidly becoming desperate.

On the fourth day, time getting short, Chrissie went on a new tack with her keeper, and Susan, sorely against her will, had to follow suit. Chrissie smiled at him, Susan called him Mr. Tucker, and Miss Polson gave him a glass of her best wine. From the position of an outcast, he jumped in one bound to that of confidential adviser. Miss Polson told him many items of family interest, and later on in the afternoon actually consulted him as to a bad cold which Chrissie had developed.

He prescribed half-a-pint of linseed oil hot, but Miss Polson favoured chlorodyne. The conversation then turned on the deadly qualities of that drug when taken in excess, of the fatal sleep in which it lulled its victims. So disastrous were the incidents cited, that half an hour later, when, her aunt and Susan being out, Chrissie took a small bottle of chlorodyne from the mantel-piece, the boatswain implored her to try his nastier but safer remedy instead.

“Nonsense!” said Chrissie, “I’m only going to take twenty drops—one—two—three—”

The drug suddenly poured out in a little stream.

“I should think that’s about it,” said Chrissie, holding the tumbler up to the light.

“It’s about five hundred!” said the horrified Tucker. “Don’t take that, miss, whatever you do; let me measure it for you.”

The girl waved him away, and, before he could interfere, drank off the contents of the glass and resumed her seat. The boatswain watched her uneasily, and taking up the phial carefully read through the directions. After that he was not at all surprised to see the book fall from his charge’s hand on to the floor, and her eyes close.

“I knowed it,” said Tucker, in a profuse perspiration, “I knowed it. Them blamed gals are all alike. Always knows what’s best. Miss Polson! Miss Polson!”

He shook her roughly, but to no purpose, and then running to the door, shouted eagerly for Susan. No reply forthcoming he ran to the window, but there was nobody in sight, and he came back and stood in front of the girl, wringing his huge hands helplessly. It was a great question for a poor sailor-man. If he went for the doctor he deserted his post; if he didn’t go his charge might die. He made one more attempt to awaken her, and, seizing a flower-glass, splashed her freely with cold water. She did not even wince.

“It’s no use fooling with it,” murmured Tucker; “I must get the doctor, that’s all.”

He quitted the room, and, dashing hastily downstairs, had already opened the hall door when a thought struck him, and he came back again. Chrissie was still asleep in the chair, and, with a smile at the clever way in which he had solved a difficulty, he stooped down, and, raising her in his strong arms, bore her from the room and downstairs. Then a hitch occurred. The triumphant progress was marred by the behaviour of the hall door, which, despite his efforts, refused to be opened, and, encumbered by his fair burden, he could not for some time ascertain the reason. Then, full of shame that so much deceit could exist in so fair and frail a habitation, he discovered that Miss Polson’s foot was pressing firmly against it. Her eyes were still closed and her head heavy, but the fact remained that one foot was acting in a manner that was full of intelligence and guile, and when he took it away from the door the other one took its place. By a sudden manoeuvre the wily Tucker turned his back on the door, and opened it, and, at the same moment, a hand came to life again and dealt him a stinging slap on the face.

“Idiot!” said the indignant Chrissie, slipping from his arms and confronting him. “How dare you take such a liberty?”

The astonished boatswain felt his face, and regarded her open-mouthed.

“Don’t you ever dare to speak to me again,” said the offended maiden, drawing herself up with irreproachable dignity. “I am disgusted with your conduct. Most unbearable!”

“I was carrying you off to the doctor,” said the boatswain. “How was I to know you was only shamming?”

“SHAMMING?” said Chrissie, in tones of incredulous horror. “I was asleep. I often go to sleep in the afternoon.”

The boatswain made no reply, except to grin with great intelligence as he followed his charge upstairs again. He grinned at intervals until the return of Susan and Miss Polson, who, trying to look unconcerned, came in later on, both apparently suffering from temper, Susan especially. Amid the sympathetic interruptions of these listeners Chrissie recounted her experiences, while the boatswain, despite his better sense, felt like the greatest scoundrel unhung, a feeling which was fostered by the remarks of Susan and the chilling regards of Miss Poison.

“I shall inform the captain,” said Miss Polson, bridling. “It’s my duty.”

“Oh, I shall tell him,” said Chrissie. “I shall tell him the moment he comes in at the door.”

“So shall I,” said Susan; “the idea of taking such liberties!”

Having fired this broadside, the trio watched the enemy narrowly and anxiously.

“If I’ve done anything wrong, ladies,” said the unhappy boatswain, “I am sorry for it. I can’t say anything fairer than that, and I’ll tell the cap’n myself exactly how I came to do it when he comes in.”

“Pah! tell-tale!” said Susan.

“Of course, if you are here to fetch and carry,” said Miss Polson, with withering emphasis.

“The idea of a grown man telling tales,” said Chrissie scornfully. “Baby!”

“Why, just now you were all going to tell him yourselves,” said the bewildered boatswain.

The two elder women rose and regarded him with looks of pitying disdain. Miss Polson’s glance said “Fool!” plainly; Susan, a simple child of nature, given to expressing her mind freely, said “Blockhead!” with conviction.