Philosopher Jack by R. M. Ballantyne (the best electronic book reader TXT) 📖

won’t engage you; men with kid gloves and white hands don’t suit me.”

From the mere force of habit the young student had pulled on his gloves on leaving his lodging, and had only removed that of the right hand on entering the captain’s dwelling. He now inserted a finger at the wrist of the left-hand glove, ripped it off, and flung it with its fellow under the grate. Thereafter he gathered some ashes and soot from the fireplace, with which he put his hands on a footing with those of a coal-heaver.

“Will you take me now, captain?” he said, returning to the hammock, and spreading out his hands.

The captain gave vent to a short laugh, which brought on a tremendous fit, at the conclusion of which he gasped, “Yes, my lad, p’r’aps I will; but first I must know something about you.”

“Certainly,” said the philosopher, and at once gave the captain a brief outline of his circumstances.

“Well, you know your own affairs best” said Captain Samson when he had finished; “I’m no judge of such a case, but as you’re willin’ to ship, I’m willin’ to ship you. Come here before ten to-morrow. Good night. There, it’s a-comin’—hash—k—!”

In the midst of another furious paroxysm Edwin Jack retired.

Not long after, the captain raised himself on one elbow, listened intently for a few seconds, and, having satisfied himself that Polly was asleep, slipped from his hammock—as only seamen know how—and proceeded to dress with the utmost caution. He was evidently afraid of the little sleeper among the rubbish. It was quite interesting to observe the quiet speed with which he thrust his great limbs into his ample garments, gazing anxiously all the time at Polly’s corner.

Issuing from his own door with the step of an elephantine mouse, the captain went rapidly through several streets to the house of an intimate friend, whom he found at supper with his wife and family.

“Evenin’, Bailie Trench; how are ’ee, Mrs T? how’s everybody?” said the captain, in a hearty rasping voice, as he shook hands right and left, while one of his huge legs was taken possession of, and embraced, by the bailie’s only daughter, a pretty little girl of six.

“Why, Samson,” exclaimed the bailie, after quiet had been restored, and his friend had been thrust into a chair with little Susan on his knee, “I thought you were laid up with influenza—eh?”

“So I was, bailie, an’ so I am,” replied the captain; “leastwise I’m still on the sick-list, and was in my hammock till about half an hour ago, but I’m gettin’ round fast. The night air seems to do me a world o’ good—contrariwise to doctor’s expectations.”

“Have some supper?” said Mrs Trench, who was a weakish lady with watery eyes.

“No supper, Mrs T, thank ’ee; the fact is, I’ve come on business. I should be on my beam-ends by rights. I’m absent without leave, an’ have only a few minutes to spare. The passenger I spoke of has changed his mind and his berth is free, so I’m glad to be able to take your son Ben after all. But he’ll have to get ready quick, for the Lively Poll sails the day after to-morrow or next day—all bein’ well.”

The eyes of young Benjamin Trench sparkled. He was a tall, thin, rather quiet lad of eighteen.

“I can be ready to-night if you wish it, Captain Samson,” he said, with a flush on his usually pale face.

Beside Mrs Trench there sat a sturdy little boy. He was the bosom friend of Ben—a bright ruddy fellow of fourteen, overflowing with animal spirits, and with energy enough for three lads of his size. This youth’s countenance fell so visibly when Ben spoke of going away, that Mrs Trench could not help noticing it.

“Why, what’s the matter, Wilkins?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing!” returned the boy, “only I don’t like to hear Ben speak of leaving us all and going to Australia. And I would give all the world to go with him. Won’t you take me as a cabin boy, Captain Samson?”

“Sorry I can’t, lad,” said the captain, with a grin, “got a cabin boy already.”

“Besides, your father would not let you,” said Mrs Trench, “and it would never do to go without his leave. Only misfortune could come of that.”

“Humph! it’s very hard,” pouted the boy. “I wanted him to get me into the navy, and he wouldn’t; and now I want him to get me into the merchant service, and he won’t. But I’ll go in spite of him.”

“No, you won’t, Watty,” said Ben, laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Yes, Ben, I will,” returned little Wilkins, with such an air of determination that every one except Ben laughed.

“Now, bailie,” said the captain, rising, “I’m off. The truth is, I wouldn’t have come if it had not been important to let you know at once to get your boy ready; but I had no one to send except Polly, and I wouldn’t send her out at night by herself for all the wealth of Indy. Moreover, she wouldn’t have let me out to-night for any consideration whatever. She’s very strict with me, is my little keeper. I wouldn’t for the world she should wake and find me gone. So, good-night all.”

Ten minutes more, and the guilty man entered his dwelling on tiptoe. In order to get into his hammock with extreme caution he forsook his ancient method of a spring, and mounted on an empty cask. The cask was not equal to the emergency. He went through the head of it with a hideous crash! Spurning it from him, he had just time to plunge into his place of repose and haul the clothes over him, when Polly emerged from her lair with wondering eyes.

“What ever was that, father?”

“Nothin’, my dear, nothin’ in partickler—only a cask I kicked over. Now, then, Poll, since you’re keepin’ me awake in this fashion, it’s your dooty to soothe me with an extra panful, and another nor’-wester—so, up wi’ the pyramid; and after you’ve done it you must turn into your crib. I’ll not want you again to-night; the cough’s much better. There—thank ’ee. Pollyfy me now—that’s right. Good-night.”

Oh, base mariner! little did you merit such a pleasant termination to your evening’s work; but you are not the only wicked man in this world who receives more than he deserves.

Two days after the incidents just related a noble ship spread her canvas to a favouring breeze, and bowing farewell to her port of departure, commenced the long long voyage to the Antipodes.

She was not a passenger ship, but a trader; nevertheless there were a few passengers on her quarter-deck, and among these towered the colossal figure of Captain Samson. Beside him, holding his hand, stood a fairy-like little creature with brown curls and pretty blue eyes. Not far from her, leaning over the bulwarks, Benjamin Trench frantically waved a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. The signal was responded to, with equal feeling, by the bailie, his wife, and little Susan. A good number of people, young and old, assembled at the pier-head, among whom many waved handkerchiefs, and hands, and scarfs, and hats to the crew.

Among the sailors who gazed wistfully towards the pier was one who made no farewell signal, and received no parting wave. Philosopher Jack had concealed his intention of going to sea from all his college chums, and a bitter feeling of loneliness oppressed his heart as he thought of his old father and mother, and the lowly cottage on the Border hills. He had not, indeed, acted in direct opposition to the wishes of his parents, but he had disobeyed the well-known Scripture command to do them “honour,” for he had resolved on his course of action without consulting them, or asking their advice. He felt that he had very selfishly forsaken them in their old age; in the hour of their sore distress, and at a time when they stood woefully in need of his strong muscles, buoyant spirit, and energetic brain. In short, Edwin Jack began to feel that he required all his philosophy, and something more, to enable him to face the future with the unflinching courage of a man.

So the ship moved slowly on, revealing on her stern the “Lively Poll” in letters of burnished gold—past the pier-head, down the broad river, out upon the widening firth, beyond lighthouse, buoy, and beacon, until at last the fresh Atlantic breezes filled her snowy sails.

And ever as she rose and sank upon the rolling waves, their swish and thud fell strangely on the ear of one who lay deep down in the recesses of the hull, where—among barrels of pork, and casks of tar, and cans of oil, and coils of rope, and other unsavoury stores—he consorted with rats and mice and an uneasy conscience, in thick darkness. This was a “stowaway.” He was a sturdy, bright, ruddy little fellow of fourteen. Down in that unwholesome place, with a few ship-biscuits and a bottle of water to keep him alive, he would have looked like a doubled-up overgrown hedgehog if there had been light enough to reveal him.

Thus, with its little world of hopes and fears, its cares and pleasures, and its brave, trembling, trusting, sorrowing, joyful, anxious, reckless hearts, the good ship passed from the shores of Britain, until her sails quivered like a petrel’s wings on the horizon, and then vanished into the boundless bosom of the mighty sea.