The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea by R. M. Ballantyne (best book clubs .TXT) đ
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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After holding it before him in silence long enough to impress him with the importance of the document, Dick Martin explained that it was a letter which he had stolen from his sisterâs house, because it contained âsomething to his advantage.â
âSee here,â he said, holding the letter close to his own eyes, still upside down, and evidently reading from memory: ââIf Mr Frederick Martin will câcall at this office any day next week between 10 anâ 12, hâhe will âear suthinâ to his adâadvantage. Bounce and Brag, sâlicitors.â There!â
âBut you ainât Fred Martin,â said Bryce, with a look of supreme contempt, for he had arrived at the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness.
âRight you are,â said Martin; âbut Iâm his uncle. Same name cââcause his mother mâmarried her câcousin; and there ainât much difference âtween Dick and Fredâfour letters, both of âemâso if I goes wiâ the letter, anâ says, âIâm Fred Martin,â wây, theyâll hand over the blunt, or the jewels, or wotiver it is, to meâdâee see?â
âNo, I donât see,â returned Bryce so irritatingly that his comrade left the confidential stage astern, and requested to know, with an affable air, when Bryce lost his eyesight.
âWhen I first saw you, and thought you worth your salt,â shouted Bryce, as he brought his fist heavily down on the table.
Both men were passionate. They sprang up, grappled each other by the throat, and fell on the floor. In doing so they let the letter fall. It fluttered to the ground, and Lockley, quietly picking it up, put it in his pocket.
âYouâd better look after them,â said Lockley to the landlord, as he paid his reckoning, and went out.
In a few minutes he stood in Widow Mooneyâs hut, and found Isa Wentworth already there.
âIâm glad you sent me here,â said the girl, âfor Mrs Mooney has gone outââ
She stopped and looked earnestly in Lockleyâs face. âYouâve been to the Blue Boar,â she said in a serious tone.
âYes, lass, I have,â admitted the skipper, but without a touch of resentment. âI did not mean to go, but itâs as well that I did, for Iâve rescued a letter from Dick Martin which seems to be of some importance, anâ he says he stole it from his sisterâs house.â
He handed the letter to the girl, who at once recognised it as the epistle over which she and Mrs Martin had puzzled so much, and which had finally been deciphered for them by Dick Martin.
âHe must have made up his mind to pretend that he is Fred,â said Isa, âand so get anything that was intended for him.â
âYouâre a sharp girl, Isa; youâve hit the nail fair on the head, for I heard him in his drunken swagger boast of his intention to do that very thing. Now, will you take in hand, lass, to give the letter back to Mrs Martin, and explain how you came by it?â
Of course Isa agreed to do so, and Lockley, turning to Eve, said he would tell her a story before going home.
The handsome young skipper was in the habit of entertaining the sick child with marvellous tales of the sea during his frequent visits, for he was exceedingly fond of her, and never failed to call during his periodical returns to land. His love was well bestowed, for poor Eve, besides being of an affectionate nature, was an extremely imaginative child, and delighted in everything marvellous or romantic. On this occasion, however, he was interrupted at the commencement of his tale by the entrance of his own shipâs cook, the boy Bob Lumsden, alias Lumpy.
âHullo, Lumpy, what brings you here?â asked the skipper.
But the boy made no answer. He was evidently taken aback at the unexpected sight of the sick child, and the skipper had to repeat his question in a sterner tone. Even then Lumpy did not look at his commander, but, addressing the child, saidâ
âBeg parding, miss; I wouldnât have come in if Iâd knowed you was in bed, butââ
âOh, never mind,â interrupted Eve, with a little smile, on seeing that he hesitated; âmy friends never see me except in bed. Indeed I live in bed; but you must not think Iâm lazy. Itâs only that my backâs bad. Come in and sit down.â
âWell, boy,â demanded the skipper again, âwere you sent here to find me?â
âYes, sir,â said Lumpy, with his eyes still fixed on the earnest little face of Eve. âMister Jay sent me to say he wants to speak to you about the heel oâ the noo bowsprit.â
âTell him Iâll be aboard in half an hour.â
âI didnât know before,â said Eve, âthat bowsprits have heels.â
At this Lumpy opened his large mouth, nearly shut his small eyes, and was on the point of giving vent to a rousing laugh, when his commander half rose and seized hold of a wooden stool. The boy shut his mouth instantly, and fled into the street, where he let go the laugh which had been thus suddenly checked.
âWell, she is a rum âun!â he said to himself, as he rolled in a nautical fashion down to the wharf where the Lively Poll was undergoing repairs.
âI think heâs a funny boy, that,â said Eve, as the skipper stooped to kiss her.
âYes, he is a funny dog. Good-bye, my pretty one.â
âStay,â said Eve solemnly, as she laid her delicate little hand on the huge brown fist of the fisherman; âyouâve often told me stories, Stephen; I want to tell one to you to-night. You need not sit down; itâs a very, very short one.â
But the skipper did sit down, and listened with a look of interest and expectation as the child beganâ
âThere was once a great, strong, brave man, who was very kind to everybody, most of all to little children. One day he was walking near a river, when a great, fearful, ugly beast, came out of the wood, and seized the man with its terrible teeth. It was far stronger than the dear, good man, and it threw him down, and held him down, tillâtill it killed him.â
She stopped, and tears filled her soft eyes at the scene she had conjured up.
âDo you know,â she asked in a deeper tone, âwhat sort of awful beast it was?â
âNo; what was it?â
âA Blue Boar,â said the child, pressing the strong hand which she detained.
Lockleyâs eyes fell for a moment before Eveâs earnest gaze, and a flush deepened the colour of his bronzed countenance. Then he sprang suddenly up and kissed Eveâs forehead.
âThank you, my pretty one, for your story, but it anât just correct, for the man is not quite killed yet and, please God, heâll escape.â
As he spoke the door of the hut received a severe blow, as if some heavy body had fallen against it. When Isa opened it, a dirty bundle of rags and humanity rolled upon the floor. It was Eveâs mother!
Lifting her up in his strong arms, Lockley carried her into the closet which opened off the outer room, and laid her tenderly on a mattress which lay on the floor. Then, without a word, he left the hut and went home.
It is scarcely necessary to add that he took the longer road on that occasion, and gave a very wide berth indeed to the Blue Boar.
Fly with us now, good reader, once more out among the breeze-ruffled billows of the North Sea.
It was blowing a fine, fresh, frosty fishing breeze from the norâ-west on a certain afternoon in December. The AdmiralâManx Bradleyâwas guiding his fleet over that part of the German Ocean which is described on the deep-sea fishermanâs chart as the Swarte, or Black Bank. The trawls were down, and the men were taking it easyâat least, as easy as was compatible with slush-covered decks, a bitter blast, and a rolling sea. If we had the power of extending and intensifying your vision, reader, so as to enable you to take the whole fleet in at one stupendous glance, and penetrate planks as if they were plate glass, we might, perhaps, convince you that in this multitude of deep-sea homes there was carried on that night a wonderful amount of vigorous action, good and badâlargely, if not chiefly badâunder very peculiar circumstances, and that there was room for improvement everywhere.
Strong and bulky and wiry men were gambling and drinking, and singing and swearing; story-telling and fighting, and skylarking and sleeping. The last may be classed appropriately under the head of action, if we take into account the sonorous doings of throats and noses. As if to render the round of human procedure complete, there was at least one manâperhaps moreâpraying.
Yes, Manx Bradley, the admiral, was praying. And his prayer was remarkably brief, as well as earnest. Its request was that God would send help to the souls of the men whose home was the North Sea. For upwards of thirty years Manx and a few like-minded men had persistently put up that petition. During the last few years of that time they had mingled thanksgiving with the prayer, for a gracious answer was being given. God had put it into the heart of the present Director of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen to inaugurate a system of evangelisation among the heretofore neglected thousands of men and boys who toil upon the North Sea from January to December. Mission or Gospel smacks were purchased, manned by Christian skippers and crews, and sent out to the various fleets, to fish with them during the week, and supply them with medicine for body and soul, with lending libraries of wholesome Christian literature, and with other elevating influences, not least among which was a floating church or meeting-house on Sundays.
But up to the time we write of, Manx Bradley had only been able to rejoice in the blessing as sent to others. It had not yet reached his own fleet, the twelve or thirteen hundred men and boys of which were still left in their original condition of semi-savagery, and exposure to the baleful influences of that pest of the North Seaâthe coper.
âYou see, Jacob Jones,â said the admiral to the only one of his âhandsâ who sympathised with him in regard to religion, âif it warnât for the baccy, them accursed copers wouldnât be able to keep sich a hold of us. Why, bless you, thereâs many a young feller in this fleet as donât want no grogâespecially the vile, fiery stuff the copers sell âem; but when the Dutchmen offers the baccy so cheap as 1 shilling 6 pence a pound, the boys are only too glad to go aboard and git it. Then the Dutchmen, being uncommon sly dogs, gives âem a glass oâ their vile brandy for good-fellowship by way of, anâ that flies to their heads, anâ makes âem want moreâdâee see? Anâ so they go on till many of âem becomes regular topersâthatâs where it is, Jacob.â
âWhy donât the mission smacks sell baccy too?â asked Jacob, stamping his feet on the slushy deck to warm them, and beating his right hand on the tiller for the same purpose.
âYouâre a knowing fellow,â returned the admiral, with a short laugh; âwhy, thatâs just what theyâve bin considerinâ about at the Head Officeâleastwise, so Iâm told; anâ if they manage to supply the fleets wiâ baccy at 1 shilling a pound, which is 6 pence less than the Dutchmen do, theyâll soon knock the copers off the North Sea altogether. But the worst of it is that we wonât git no benefit oâ that move till a mission smack is sent to our own fleet, anâ to the half-dozen other fleets that have got none.â
At this point the state of the weather claiming his attention, the admiral went forward, and left Jacob Jones, who was a new hand in the fleet, to his meditations.
One of the smacks which drew her trawl that night over the Swarte Bank not far from the admiral was the Lively Pollârepaired,
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