Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling (e manga reader .txt) đ
- Author: Rudyard Kipling
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âFeelinâ better?â said the boy, with a grin. âHev some coffee?â He brought a tin cup full and sweetened it with molasses.
âIsnât there milk?â said Harvey, looking round the dark double tier of bunks as if he expected to find a cow there.
âWell, no,â said the boy. âNer there ainât likely to be till âbaout mid-September. âTainât bad coffee. I made it.â
Harvey drank in silence, and the boy handed him a plate full of pieces of crisp fried pork, which he ate ravenously.
âIâve dried your clothes. Guess theyâve shrunk some,â said the boy. âThey ainât our style much â none of âem. Twist round anâ see if youâre hurt any.â
Harvey stretched himself in every direction, but could not report any injuries.
âThatâs good,â the boy said heartily. âFix yerself anâ go on deck. Dad wants to see you. Iâm his son,âDan, they call me,âanâ Iâm cookâs helper anâ everything else aboard thatâs too dirty for the men. There ainât no boy here âcepâ me sence Otto went overboard â anâ he was only a Dutchy, anâ twenty year old at that. Howâd you come to fall off in a dead flat caâam?â
ââTwasnât a calm,â said Harvey, sulkily. âIt was a gale, and I was seasick. Guess I must have rolled over the rail.â
âThere was a little common swell yesâday anâ last night,â said the boy. âBut ef thetâs your notion of a galeâ-â He whistled. âYouâll know more âfore youâre through. Hurry! Dadâs waitinâ.â
Like many other unfortunate young people, Harvey had never in all his life received a direct orderânever, at least, without long, and sometimes tearful, explanations of the advantages of obedience and the reasons for the request. Mrs. Cheyne lived in fear of breaking his spirit, which, perhaps, was the reason that she herself walked on the edge of nervous prostration. He could not see why he should be expected to hurry for any manâs pleasure, and said so. âYour dad can come down here if heâs so anxious to talk to me. I want him to take me to New York right away. Itâll pay him.â
Dan opened his eyes as the size and beauty of this joke dawned on him. âSay, Dad!â he shouted up the focâsle hatch, âhe says you kin slip down anâ see him ef youâre anxious that way. âHear, Dad?â
The answer came back in the deepest voice Harvey had ever heard from a human chest: âQuit foolinâ, Dan, and send him to me.â
Dan sniggered, and threw Harvey his warped bicycle shoes. There was something in the tones on the deck that made the boy dissemble his extreme rage and console himself with the thought of gradually unfolding the tale of his own and his fatherâs wealth on the voyage home. This rescue would certainly make him a hero among his friends for life. He hoisted himself on deck up a perpendicular ladder, and stumbled aft, over a score of obstructions, to where a small, thick-set, clean-shaven man with gray eyebrows sat on a step that led up to the quarterdeck. The swell had passed in the night, leaving a long, oily sea, dotted round the horizon with the sails of a dozen fishing-boats. Between them lay little black specks, showing where the dories were out fishing. The schooner, with a triangular riding-sail on the mainmast, played easily at anchor, and except for the man by the cabin-roof ââhouseâ they call itâshe was deserted.
âMorninââGood afternoon, I should say. Youâve nigh slepâ the clock round, young feller,â was the greeting.
âMorninâ,â said Harvey. He did not like being called âyoung fellerâ; and, as one rescued from drowning, expected sympathy. His mother suffered agonies whenever he got his feet wet; but this mariner did not seem excited.
âNaow letâs hear all abaout it. Itâs quite providential, first anâ last, fer all concerned. What might be your name? Where from (we mistrust itâs Noo York), anâ where baound (we mistrust itâs Europe)?â
Harvey gave his name, the name of the steamer, and a short history of the accident, winding up with a demand to be taken back immediately to New York, where his father would pay anything any one chose to name.
âHâm,â said the shaven man, quite unmoved by the end of Harveyâs speech. âI canât say we think special of any man, or boy even, that falls overboard from that kind oâ packet in a flat caâam. Least of all when his excuse is that heâs seasick.â
âExcuse!â cried Harvey. âDâyou suppose Iâd fall overboard into your dirty little boat for fun?â
âNot knowinâ what your notions oâ fun may be, I canât rightly say, young feller. But if I was you, I wouldnât call the boat which, under Providence, was the means oâ savinâ ye, names. In the first place, itâs blame irreligious. In the second, itâs annoyinâ to my feelinâsâanâ Iâm Disko Troop oâ the âWeâre Hereâ oâ Gloucester, which you donât seem rightly to know.â
âI donât know and I donât care,â said Harvey. âIâm grateful enough for being saved and all that, of course! but I want you to understand that the sooner you take me back to New York the better itâll pay you.â
âMeaninââhaow?â Troop raised one shaggy eyebrow over a suspiciously mild blue eye.
âDollars and cents,â said Harvey, delighted to think that he was making an impression. âCold dollars and cents.â He thrust a hand into a pocket, and threw out his stomach a little, which was his way of being grand. âYouâve done the best dayâs work you ever did in your life when you pulled me in. Iâm all the son Harvey Cheyne has.â
âHeâs bin favoured,â said Disko, dryly.
âAnd if you donât know who Harvey Cheyne is, you donât know muchâthatâs all. Now turn her around and letâs hurry.â
Harvey had a notion that the greater part of America was filled with people discussing and envying his fatherâs dollars.
âMebbe I do, anâ mebbe I donât. Take a reef in your stummick, young feller. Itâs full oâ my vittles.â
Harvey heard a chuckle from Dan, who was pretending to be busy by the stump-foremast, and blood rushed to his face. âWeâll pay for that too,â he said. âWhen do you suppose we shall get to New York?â
âI donât use Noo York any. Ner Boston. We may see Eastern Point about September; anâ your paâIâm real sorry I hainât heerd tell of himâmay give me ten dollars efter all your talk. Then oâ course he maynât.â
âTen dollars! Why, see here, Iââ Harvey dived into his pocket for the wad of bills. All he brought up was a soggy packet of cigarettes.
âNot lawful currency; anâ bad for the lungs. Heave âem overboard, young feller, and try agin.â
âItâs been stolen!â cried Harvey, hotly.
âYouâll hev to wait till you see your pa to reward me, then?â
âA hundred and thirty-four dollarsâall stolen,â said Harvey, hunting wildly through his pockets. âGive them back.â
A curious change flitted across old Troopâs hard face. âWhat might you have been doinâ at your time oâ life with one hundred anâ thirty-four dollars, young feller?â
âIt was part of my pocket-moneyâfor a month.â This Harvey thought would be a knock-down blow, and it wasâindirectly.
âOh! One hundred and thirty-four dollars is only part of his pocket-moneyâfor one month only! You donât remember hittinâ anything when you fell over, do you? Crack agin a stanchion, leâs say. Old man Hasken oâ the East WindââTroop seemed to be talking to himselfââhe tripped on a hatch anâ butted the mainmast with his headâhardish. âBaout three weeks afterwards, old man Hasken he would hev it that the âEast Windâ was a commerce-destroyinâ man-oâ-war, anâ so he declared war on Sable Island because it was Bridish, anâ the shoals run aout too far. They sewed him up in a bed-bag, his head anâ feet appearinâ, fer the rest oâ the trip, anâ now heâs to home in Essex playinâ with little rag dolls.â
Harvey choked with rage, but Troop went on consolingly: âWeâre sorry fer you. Weâre very sorry fer youâanâ so young. We wonât say no more abaout the money, I guess.â
ââCourse you wonât. You stole it.â
âSuit yourself. We stole it ef itâs any comfort to you. Naow, abaout goinâ back. Allowinâ we could do it, which we canât, you ainât in no fit state to go back to your home, anâ weâve jest come on to the Banks, workinâ fer our bread. We donât see the haâaf of a hundred dollars a month, let alone pocket-money; anâ with good luck weâll be ashore again somewheres abaout the first weeks oâ September.â
âButâbut itâs May now, and I canât stay here doinâ nothing just because you want to fish. I canât, I tell you!â
âRight anâ jest; jest anâ right. No one asks you to do nothinâ. Thereâs a heap as you can do, for Otto he went overboard on Le Have. I mistrust he lost his grip in a gale we fâund there. Anyways, he never come back to deny it. Youâve turned up, plain, plumb providential for all concerned. I mistrust, though, thereâs ruther few things you kin do. Ainât thet so?â
âI can make it lively for you and your crowd when we get ashore,â said Harvey, with a vicious nod, murmuring vague threats about âpiracy,â at which Troop almostânot quiteâsmiled.
âExcepâ talk. Iâd forgot that. You ainât asked to talk moreân youâve a mind to aboard the âWeâre Hereâ. Keep your eyes open, anâ help Dan to do ez heâs bid, anâ sechlike, anâ Iâll give youâyou ainât wuth it, but Iâll giveâten anâ a haâaf a month; say thirty-five at the end oâ the trip. A little work will ease up your head, and you kin tell us all abaout your dad anâ your ma anâ your money afterwards.â
âSheâs on the steamer,â said Harvey, his eyes flling with tears. âTake me to New York at once.â
âPoor womanâpoor woman! When she has you back sheâll forgit it all, though. Thereâs eight of us on the âWeâre Hereâ, anâ ef we went back naowâitâs moreân a thousand mileâweâd lose the season. The men they wouldnât hev it, allowinâ I was agreeable.â
âBut my father would make it all right.â
âHeâd try. I donât doubt heâd try,â said Troop; âbut a whole seasonâs catch is eight menâs bread; anâ youâll be better in your health when you see him in the fall. Go forward anâ help Dan. Itâs ten anâ a haâaf a month, e I said, anâ oâ course, all fâund, same e the rest oâ us.â
âDo you mean Iâm to clean pots and pans and things?â said Harvey.
âAnâ other things. Youâve no call to shout, young feller.â
âI wonât! My father will give you enough to buy this dirty little fish-kettleââHarvey stamped on the deckââten times over, if you take me to New York safe; andâandâyouâre in a hundred and thirty by me, anyhow.â
âHaow?â said Troop, the iron face darkening.
âHow? You know how, well enough. On top of all that, you want me to do menial workââHarvey was very proud of that adjectiveââtill the Fall. I tell you I will not. You hear?â
Troop regarded the top of the mainmast with deep interest for a while, as Harvey harangued fiercely all around him.
âHsh!â he said at last. âIâm figurinâ out my responsibilities in my own mind. Itâs a matter oâ jedgment.â
Dan stole up and plucked Harvey by the elbow. âDonât go to tamperinâ with Dad any more,â he pleaded. âYouâve called him a thief two or three times over, anâ he donât take that from any livinâ beinâ.â
âI wonât!â Harvey almost shrieked, disregarding
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