Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Under the Waves: Diving in Deep Waters by R. M. Ballantyne (read book txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Under the Waves: Diving in Deep Waters by R. M. Ballantyne (read book txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
He moved about from place to place in that slow leaning fashion which the resistance of water renders unavoidable, but he found nothing whatever to repay him for his trouble. There were beams and twisted iron-work, and overturned guns, and a few bales, but nothing that bore the least resemblance to boxes or bags of money.
One or two large cases he discovered, and forced them open with the crowbar, which Maxwell had dropped when he was struck insensible, but they contained nothing worth the labour of having them hoisted up. At last he was about to leave, after a careful search of more than an hour, when he espied something shining in a corner of what had once been the pirate-chief’s cabin. He took it up and found it to be a small box of unusual weight for its size. His sense of touch told him that it was ornamented with carving on its surface, but the light was not sufficient to enable him to see it distinctly. His heart beat hopefully, however, as he hastened as fast as the water would permit out of the cabin, and then, to his joy he found that it was Aileen Hazlit’s jewel-box! How it came there he could not guess; but the reader partly knows the truth, and can easily imagine that when the pirate-chief sent his other valuables to the swift prow, as before mentioned, he kept this—the most precious of them all—close to his own person to the last, desiring, no doubt, to have it always under his own eye.
Not troubling himself much, however, with such speculations, Edgar returned to the cabin, placed the box where he found it, and spent full half-an-hour more in plying his crowbar in the hope of discovering more of the pirate’s horde. While thus engaged he received two or three signals to “Come up” from Joe Baldwin, who held his life-line; but he signalled back “All right—let me alone,” and went on with his work.
At last there came the signal “Come up!” given with such a peremptory tug that he was fain, though unwilling, to comply. Taking the box under his arm he began to ascend slowly. On gaining the surface he was made at once aware of the reason of the repeated signalling, for a sudden squall had burst upon the eastern sea, which by that time, although perfectly calm below, was tumbling about in waves so large that the gun-boat was tossing like a cork at her anchor, and it was found to be almost impossible to work the air-pump. In fact it was only by having two men stationed to keep Ram-stam on his legs that the thing could be done!
With some difficulty Edgar was got on board, and the order was immediately given to weigh anchor.
Expressing great surprise at the state of things he found above water, and regret that he had not sooner attended to orders, Edgar placed the box on the deck. Then he unrobed, and drawing on his trousers and a canvas jacket he issued from behind the funnel—which had been his robing-room—and went aft, where he found Aileen seated between her friend Miss Pritty and her father.
“Miss Hazlit,” he said with a peculiar smile, “allow me to introduce you to an old friend.”
He held up before her the carved steel box.
“My mother’s jewel-case!” she exclaimed, with a look of intense surprise.
“My—my wife’s jewels!” stammered Mr Hazlit, in equal surprise; “whereon earth—why—how—where—young man, did you find them?”
“I found them at the bottom of the sea,” replied Edgar. “It is the second time, strange to say, that I have had the pleasure of fishing them up from that vast repository of riches where, I doubt not, many another jewel-case still lies, and will continue to lie, unclaimed for ever. Meanwhile, I count myself peculiarly fortunate in being the means of restoring this case to its rightful owner.”
So saying he placed it in the hands of Aileen.
The captain, who had watched the whole scene with quiet interest and a peculiar curl about his black moustache, as well as a twinkle in his sharp black eye, uttered a short laugh, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked away to give the order that the steamer’s head should be laid precisely “sou’, sou’-west, and by south, half-south,” with a slight—almost a shadowy—leaning in the direction of “southerly.”
Note 1. We may as well state here that our information on this subject was obtained from Captain John Hewat, formerly in command of the steam gun-boat Rainbow,—belonging to Sir James Brooke, K.C.B., Rajah of Sarawak,—in which he had six years’ experience of pirate-hunting in the eastern seas, and now captain of one of Donald Currie and Company’s magnificent line of Cape steamers. Perhaps we ought to apologise for thus dragging the gallant captain into fiction, but we trust he will find that, in regard to his own particular doings, we have stuck pretty closely to fact.
We are back again in Hong-Kong—in the pagoda—with our old friends seated comfortably round their little table enjoying a good supper.
Pretty little Mrs Machowl has prepared it, and is now assisting at the partaking of it. Young Master Teddy Machowl is similarly engaged on his father’s knee. The child has grown appallingly during its father’s absence! Ram-stam and Chok-foo are in waiting—gazing at each other with the affection of Chinese lovers re-united.
“What a sight you are, Rooney!” said Mrs Machowl, pausing between bites to look at her husband.
“Sure it’s the same may be said of yoursilf, cushla!” replied Rooney, stuffing his child’s mouth with sweet potato.
“Yes, but it’s what a fright you are, I mane,” said Mrs Machowl.
“An’ it’s what a purty cratur you are that I mane,” replied Rooney, repeating the dose to Teddy, who regarded his father with looks of deep affection.
“Ah! Go ’long wid you. Sure it’s your nose is spoilt entirely,” said Mrs Machowl.
“An’ it’s your own that is swaiter than iver, which more than makes up the difference,” retorted her lord.—“Howld it open as wide as ye can this time, Ted, me boy; there, that’s your sort—but don’t choke, ye spalpeen.”
There seemed indeed some occasion for the latter admonition, for Teddy, unused to such vigorous treatment, was beginning to look purple in the face and apoplectic about the eyes. In short, there is every probability that an attack of croup, or something dreadful, would have ensued if the child’s mother had not risen hastily and snatched it away from the would-be infanticide.
“Now then, Ram-stam and Chok-foo,” said Edgar Berrington, putting down his spoon, “clear away the rat’s-tail soup, and bring on the roast puppy.”
Grinning from ear to ear, and with almost closed eyes, the Chinese servitors obeyed.
While they cleared the table and laid the second course, the conversation became general. Previously it had been particular, referring chiefly to the soup and the free circulation of the salt.
“So, then,” observed Joe Baldwin, leaning back in his chair, “we must make up our minds to be content with what we have got. Well, it an’t so bad after all! Let me see. How much did you say the total is, Mister Eddy?”
“Close upon eight thousand five hundred pounds.”
“A tidy little sum,” observed Rooney, with an air of satisfaction.
“Eight thousand—eh?” repeated Joe; “hum, well, we’ll cut off the five hundred for expenses and passage home, and that leaves eight thousand clear, which, according to agreement, gives each of us two thousand pounds.”
Maxwell, who still looked pale and thin from the effects of his late accident, nodded his head slowly, and growled, “Two thousand—jus’ so.”
“An’ that, Molly, my dear,” said Rooney, “if properly invisted, gives you an’ me a clair income—only think, an income, Molly—of wan hundred a year! It’s true, cushla! That ye won’t be able to rowl in yer carridge an’ walk in silks an’ satins on that income, but it’ll pay the rint an’ taxes, owld girl, an’ help Teddy to a collidge eddication—to say nothin’ o’ pipes an’ baccy. Ochone!—if we’d only not lost the first haul, we’d have bin millerinaires be this time. I wouldn’t have called the Quane me grandmother.”
“Come, Rooney, be grateful for what you’ve got,” said Edgar. “Enough is as good as a feast.”
“Ah! Sur, it’ll be time to say that when we’ve finished the puppy,” replied the Irishman, as Chok-foo placed on the board a savoury roast which bore some resemblance to the animal named, though, having had its head and legs amputated, there could be no absolute certainty on the point. Whatever it was, the party attacked it with relish, and silence reigned until it was finished, after which conversation flowed again—somewhat languidly at first. When, however, pipes were got out by those who smoked, and chairs were placed in the verandah, and no sound was heard around save the yelling of Chinese children who were romping in the Chinese kennel that skirted the pagoda, and the champing of the jaws of Ram-stam and Chok-foo as they masticated inside—then came the feast of reason, not to mention the flow of soul.
“I wonder what our friends at Whitstable will say to this ventur’ of ours,” said Maxwell.
“Have you many friends there?” asked Edgar.
“Many?—of course I has. W’y, I suppose every English diver must have friends there.”
“Where is it?” asked Edgar.
“Why, sir, don’t you know Whitstable?” exclaimed Joe Baldwin, in surprise.
“You forget, Joe,” replied Edgar, with a smile, “that although I have learnt how to dive, and have read a good deal about the history of diving, I am only an amateur after all, and cannot be supposed to know everything connected with the profession. All I know about Whitstable is that it is a port somewhere in the south of England.”
“Right, sir,” said Joe, “but it’s more than that; it lies on the coast of Kent, and is famous for its oyster-beds and its divers. How it came to be a place of resort for divers I don’t know, but so it is, an’ I have heard say it was divin’ for oysters in days of old that gave the natives a taste for the work. Anyhow, they’ve got the taste very decided somehow, an’ after every spell o’ dirty weather they’re sure to have telegrams from all parts of the coast, and you’ll see Lloyds’ agents huntin’ up the divers in the public-houses an’ packin’ ’em off wi’ their gear right and left by rail to look after salvage.
“These men,” continued Joe, “are most of ’em handicraftmen as well as divers, because you know, sir, it would be of no use to send down a mere labourer to repair the bottom of a ship, no matter how good he was at divin’; so, you’ll find among ’em masons, and shipbuilders, and carpenters, and engineers—”
“Ah!” interrupted Edgar, “I was just wondering how they would manage if it were found necessary to have the engines of a sunk steamer taken to pieces and sent up.”
“Well, sir,” rejoined Joe, “they’ve got men there who can dive, and who know as much about marine engines as you do yourself. And these men make lots of tin, for a good diver can earn a pound a day, an’ be kept in pretty regular employment in deep water. In shallow water he can earn from ten to fifteen shillings a day. Besides this, they make special arrangements for runnin’ extra risks. Then the savin’ they sometimes effect is amazin’. Why, sir, although you do know somethin’ of the advantages of diving, you can never know fully what good they do in the world at large. Just take the case of the Agamemnon at Sebastopol—”
“Och!” interrupted Rooney, whose visage was perplexed by reason of his pipe refusing to draw well, “wasn’t (puff) that a good job intirely (puff! There; you’re all right at last!)
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