Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling (e manga reader .txt) đ
- Author: Rudyard Kipling
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âSeems kinder unneighbourly,â he said at last, his eye travelling down to Harvey. âI â donât blame you, not a mite, young feeler, nor you wonât blame me when the bileâs out oâ your systim. Be sure you sense what I say? Ten anâ a haâaf fer second boy on the schoonerâanâ all foundâfer to teach you anâ fer the sake oâ your health. Yes or no?â
âNo!â said Harvey. âTake me back to New York or Iâll see youââ
He did not exactly remember what followed. He was lying in the scuppers, holding on to a nose that bled while Troop looked down on him serenely.
âDan,â he said to his son, âI was sot agin this young feeler when I first saw him on account oâ hasty jedgments. Never you be led astray by hasty jedgments, Dan. Naow Iâm sorry for him, because heâs clear distracted in his upper works. He ainât responsible fer the names heâs give me, nor fer his other statementsânor fer jumpinâ overboard, which Iâm abaout haâaf convinced he did. You he gentle with him, Dan, âr Iâll give you twice what Iâve give him. Them hemmeridges clears the head. Let him sluice it off!â
Troop went down solemnly into the cabin, where he and the older men bunked, leaving Dan to comfort the luckless heir to thirty millions.
âI warned ye,â said Dan, as the drops fell thick and fast on the dark, oiled planking. âDad ainât noways hasty, but you fair earned it. Pshaw! thereâs no sense takinâ on so.â Harveyâs shoulders were rising and falling in spasms of dry sobbing. âI know the feelinâ. First time Dad laid me out was the lastâand that was my first trip. Makes ye feel sickish anâ lonesome. I know.â
âIt does,â moaned Harvey. âThat manâs either crazy or drunk, andâand I canât do anything.â
âDonât say that to Dad,â whispered Dan. âHeâs set agin all liquor, anââwell, he told me you was the madman. What in creation made you call him a thief? Heâs my dad.â
Harvey sat up, mopped his nose, and told the story of the missing wad of bills. âIâm not crazy,â he wound up. âOnlyâyour father has never seen more than a five-dollar bill at a time, and my father could buy up this boat once a week and never miss it.â
âYou donât know what the âWeâre Hereâsâ worth. Your dad must hev a pile oâ money. How did he git it? Dad sez loonies canât shake out a straight yarn. Go ahead.â
âIn gold mines and things, West.â
âIâve read oâ that kind oâ business. Out West, too? Does he go around with a pistol on a trick-pony, same ez the circus? They call that the Wild West, and Iâve heard that their spurs anâ bridles was solid silver.â
âYou are a chump!â said Harvey, amused in spite of himself. âMy father hasnât any use for ponies. When he wants to ride he takes his car.â
âHaow? Lobster-car?â
âNo. His own private car, of course. Youâve seen a private car some time in your life?â
âSlatin Beeman he hez one,â said Dan, cautiously. âI saw her at the Union Depot in Boston, with three niggers hogginâ her run.â, (Dan meant cleaning the windows.) âBut Slatin Beeman he owns âbaout every railroad on Long Island, they say, anâ they say heâs bought âbaout haâaf Noo Hampshire anâ run a line fence around her, anâ filled her up with lions anâ tigers anâ bears anâ buffalo anâ crocodiles anâ such all. Slatin Beeman heâs a millionaire. Iâve seen his car. Yes?â
âWell, my fatherâs what they call a multimillionaire, and he has two private cars. Oneâs named for me, the âHarveyâ, and one for my mother, the âConstanceâ.â
âHold on,â said Dan. âDad donât ever let me swear, but I guess you can. âFore we go ahead, I want you to say hope you may die if youâre lyinâ.â
âOf course,â said Harvey.
âThe ainât âniff. Say, âHope I may die if I ainât speakingâ truth.ââ
âHope I may die right here,â said Harvey, âif every word Iâve spoken isnât the cold truth.â
âHundred anâ thirty-four dollars anâ all?â said Dan. âI heard ye talkinâ to Dad, anâ I haâaf looked youâd be swallered up, sameâs Jonah.â
Harvey protested himself red in the face. Dan was a shrewd young person along his own lines, and ten minutesâ questioning convinced him that Harvey was not lyingâmuch. Besides, he had bound himself by the most terrible oath known to boyhood, and yet he sat, alive, with a red-ended nose, in the scuppers, recounting marvels upon marvels.
âGosh!â said Dan at last from the very bottom of his soul when Harvey had completed an inventory of the car named in his honour. Then a grin of mischievous delight overspread his broad face. âI believe you, Harvey. Dadâs made a mistake fer once in his life.â
âHe has, sure,â said Harvey, who was meditating an early revenge.
âHeâll be mad clear through. Dad jest hates to be mistook in his jedgments.â Dan lay back and slapped his thigh. âOh, Harvey, donât you spile the catch by lettinâ on.â
âI donât want to be knocked down again. Iâll get even with him, though.â
âNever heard any man ever got even with dad. But heâd knock ye down again sure. The more he was mistook the more heâd do it. But gold-mines and pistols ââ
âI never said a word about pistols,â Harvey cut in, for he was on his oath.
âThetâs so; no more you did. Two private cars, then, one named fer you anâ one fer her; anâ two hundred dollars a month pocket-money, all knocked into the scuppers fer not workinâ fer ten anâ a haâaf a month! Itâs the top haul oâ the season.â He exploded with noiseless chuckles.
âThen I was right?â said Harvey, who thought he had found a sympathiser.
âYou was wrong; the wrongest kind oâ wrong! You take right hold anâ pitch in âlongside oâ me, or youâll catch it, anâ Iâll catch it fer backinâ you up. Dad always gives me double helps âcause Iâm his son, anâ he hates favourinâ folk. âGuess youâre kinder mad at dad. Iâve been that way time anâ again. But dadâs a mighty jest man; all the fleet says so.â
âLooks like justice, this, donât it?â Harvey pointed to his outraged nose.
âThetâs nothinâ. Lets the shore blood outer you. Dad did it for yer health. Say, though, I canât have dealinâs with a man that thinks me or dad or any one on the âWeâre Hereâsâ a thief. We ainât any common wharf-end crowd by any manner oâ means. Weâre fishermen, anâ weâve shipped together for six years anâ more. Donât you make any mistake on that! I told ye dad donât let me swear. He calls âem vain oaths, and pounds me; but ef I could say what you said âbaout your pap anâ his fixinâs, Iâd say that âbaout your dollars. I dunno what was in your pockets when I dried your kit, fer I didnât look to see; but Iâd say, using the very same words ez you used jest now, neither me nor dad â anâ we was the only two that teched you after you was brought aboard â knows anythinâ âbaout the money. Thetâs my say. Naow?â
The bloodletting had certainly cleared Harveyâs brain, and maybe the loneliness of the sea had something to do with it. âThatâs all right,â he said. Then he looked down confusedly. ââSeems to me that for a fellow just saved from drowning I havenât been over and above grateful, Dan.â
âWell, you was shook up and silly,â said Dan. âAnyway, there was only dad anâ me aboard to see it. The cook he donât count.â
âI might have thought about losing the bills that way,â Harvey said, half to himself, âinstead of calling everybody in sight a thief. Whereâs your father?â
âIn the cabin. What dâ you want oâ him again?â
âYouâll see,â said Harvey, and he stepped, rather groggily, for his head was still singing, to the cabin steps where the little shipâs clock hung in plain sight of the wheel. Troop, in the chocolate-and-yellow painted cabin, was busy with a notebook and an enormous black pencil which he sucked hard from time to time.
âI havenât acted quite right,â said Harvey, surprised at his own meekness.
âWhatâs wrong naow?â said the skipper. âWalked into Dan, hev ye?â
âNo; itâs about you.â
âIâm here to listen.â
âWell, IâIâm here to take things back,â said Harvey very quickly. âWhen a manâs saved from drowningââ he gulped.
âEy? Youâll make a man yet ef you go on this way.â
âHe oughtnât begin by calling people names.â
âJest anâ rightâright anâ jest,â said Troop, with the ghost of a dry smile.
âSo Iâm here to say Iâm sorry.â Another big gulp.
Troop heaved himself slowly off the locker he was sitting on and held out an eleven-inch hand. âI mistrusted âtwould do you sights oâ good; anâ this shows I werenât mistook in my jedgments.â A smothered chuckle on deck caught his ear. âI am very seldom mistook in my jedgments.â The eleven-inch hand closed on Harveyâs, numbing it to the elbow. âWeâll put a little more gristle to that âfore weâve done with you, young feller; anâ I donât think any worse of ye fer anythinâ theâs gone by. You wasnât fairly responsible. Go right abaout your business anâ you wonât take no hurt.â
âYouâre white,â said Dan, as Harvey regained the deck, flushed to the tips of his ears.
âI donât feel it,â said he.
âI didnât mean that way. I heard what Dad said. When Dad allows he donât think the worse of any man, Dadâs give himself away. He hates to be mistook in his jedgments too. Ho! ho! Onct Dad has a jedgment, heâd sooner dip his colours to the British than change it. Iâm glad itâs settled right eend up. Dadâs right when he says he canât take you back. Itâs all the livinâ we make hereâfishinâ. The menâll be back like sharks after a dead whale in haâaf an hour.â
âWhat for?â said Harvey.
âSupper, oâ course. Donât your stummick tell you? Youâve a heap to learn.â
âGuess I have,â said Harvey, dolefully, looking at the tangle of ropes and blocks overhead.
âSheâs a daisy,â said Dan, enthusiastically, misunderstanding the look. âWait till our mainsailâs bent, anâ she walks home with all her salt wet. Thereâs some work first, though.â He pointed down into the darkness of the open main-hatch between the two masts.
âWhatâs that for? Itâs all empty,â said Harvey.
âYou anâ me anâ a few more hev got to fill it,â said Dan. âThatâs where the fish goes.â
âAlive?â said Harvey.
âWell, no. Theyâre soâs to be ruther deadâanâ flatâanâ salt. Thereâs a hundred hogshead oâ salt in the bins, anâ we hainât moreân covered our dunnage to now.â
âWhere are the fish, though?â
ââIn the sea they say, in the boats we pray,ââ said Dan, quoting a fishermanâs proverb. âYou come in last night with âbaout forty of âem.â
He pointed to a sort of wooden pen just in front of the quarterdeck.
âYou anâ me weâll sluice that out when theyâre through. âSend weâll hev full pens to-night! Iâve seen her down haâaf a foot with fish waitinâ to clean, anâ we stood to the tables till we was splittinâ ourselves instid oâ them, we was so sleepy. Yes, theyâre commâ in naow.â Dan looked over the low bulwarks at half a dozen dories rowing towards them over the shining, silky sea.
âIâve never seen the sea from so low down,â said Harvey. âItâs fine.â
The low sun made the water all purple and pinkish, with golden lights on the barrels of the long swells, and blue
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