The Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands by R. M. Ballantyne (the reading list .txt) 📖

Morley Jones found himself suddenly deserted by his ally Billy Towler, he retired to the privacy of a box in a low public-house in Thames Street, and there, under the stimulus of a stiff glass of grog, consulted with himself as to the best mode of procedure under the trying circumstances in which he found himself placed. He thought it probable, after half an hour of severe meditation, that Billy would return to the Grotto, but that, for his own sake, he would give a false account of his absence, and say nothing about the loss of the Skylark. Feeling somewhat relieved in mind by his conclusions on this head, he drank off his grog, called for another glass, and then set himself to the consideration of how far the disappearance of the boy would interfere with his obtaining payment of the various sums due by the Insurance Offices. This point was either more knotty and difficult to unravel than the previous one, or the grog began to render his intellect less capable of grappling with it. At all events it cost him an hour to determine his course of action, and required another glass of grog to enable him to put the whole matter fairly before his mental vision in one comprehensive view. This, however, accomplished, he called for a fourth glass of grog “for luck,” and reeled out of the house to carry out his deep-laid plans.

His first act was to proceed to Greenwich, where a branch of his fish-curing business existed, or was supposed to exist. Here he met a friend who offered to treat him. Unfortunately for the success of his schemes he accepted this offer, and, in the course of a debauch, revealed so much of his private affairs that the friend, after seeing him safely to his lodging, and bidding him an affectionate farewell, went up to London by the first boat on the following morning, and presented himself to the managers of various Insurance Companies, to whom he made revelations which were variously received by these gentlemen; some of them opening their eyes in amazement, while others opened their mouths in amusement, and gave him to understand that he was very much in the position of a man who should carry coals to Newcastle—they being then in possession of all the information given, and a great deal more besides.

The manager of the Submarine Insurance Company was the most facetious among these gentlemen on hearing the revelations of Mr Jones’s “friend.”

“Can you tell me,” said that gentleman, when he had pumped the “friend” dry, “which of us is likely to receive the distinguished honour of the first visit from Mr Jones?”

“He said summat about your own office, sir,” replied the informer; “leastwise I think he did, but I ain’t quite sartin.”

“H’m! not unlikely,” observed the manager; “we have had the pleasure of paying him something before to-day. Come here, I will introduce you to an acquaintance of Mr Jones, who takes a deep interest in him. He has just arrived from Ramsgate.”

Opening a door, the manager ushered the informer into a small room where a stout man with peculiarly keen grey eyes was warming himself at the fire.

“Allow me to introduce you, Mr Larks, to a friend of Mr Jones, who may be of some use. I will leave you together for a little,” said the manager, with a laugh, as he retired and shut the door.

It is not necessary that we should enter into details as to how Mr Jones went about the business of drawing his nets ashore—so to speak,—and how those who took a special interest in Mr Jones carefully assisted him, and, up to a certain point, furthered all his proceedings. It is sufficient to say that, about a fortnight after his arrival in London—all the preliminary steps having been taken—he presented himself one fine forenoon at the office of the Submarine Insurance Company.

He was received very graciously, and, much to his satisfaction, was told that the claim could now be settled without further delay. Former experience had taught him that such a piece of business was not unusually difficult of settlement, but he was quite charmed by the unwonted facilities which seemed to be thrown in his way in regard to the present affair. He congratulated himself internally, and the manager congratulated him externally, so to speak, by referring to his good fortune in having insured the vessel and cargo to the full amount.

Even the clerks of the establishment appeared to manifest unwonted interest in the case, which gratified while it somewhat surprised Mr Jones. Indeed, the interest deepened to such an extent, and was so obtrusive, that it became almost alarming, so that feelings of considerable relief were experienced by the adventurous man when he at length received a cheque for 300 pounds and left the office with it in his pocket.

In the outer lobby he felt a touch on his arm, and, looking round, met the gaze of a gentleman with peculiarly keen grey eyes. This gentleman made some quiet remarks with reference to Mr Jones being “wanted,” and when Mr Jones, not relishing the tone or looks of this gentleman, made a rush at the outer glass door of the office, an official stepped promptly in front of it, put one hand on the handle, and held up the other with the air of one who should say, “Excuse me, there is no thoroughfare this way.” Turning abruptly to the left, Mr Jones found himself confronted by another grave gentleman of powerful frame and resolute aspect, who, by a species of magic or sleight of hand known only to the initiated, slipped a pair of steel bracelets on Mr Jones’s wrists, and finally, almost before he knew where he was, Mr Jones found himself seated in a cab with the strong gentleman by his side, and the keen grey-eyed gentleman in front of him.

Soon afterwards he found himself standing alone in the midst of an apartment, the chief characteristics of which were, that the furniture was scanty, the size inconveniently little, and the window unusually high up, besides being heavily barred, and ridiculously small.

Here let us leave him to his meditations.

One fine forenoon—many weeks after the capture of Morley Jones—Dick Moy, Jack Shales, and Jerry MacGowl were engaged in painting and repairing buoys in the Trinity store on the pier at Ramsgate. The two former were enjoying their month of service on shore, the latter was on sick-leave, but convalescent. Jack was painting squares of alternate black and white on a buoy of a conical shape. Dick was vigorously scraping sea-weed and barnacles off a buoy of a round form. The store, or big shed, was full of buoys of all shapes; some new and fresh, others old and rugged; all of them would have appeared surprisingly gigantic to any one accustomed to see buoys only in their native element. The invalid sat on the shank of a mushroom anchor, and smoked his pipe while he affected to superintend the work.

“Sure I pity the poor craturs as is always sick. The mouth o’ man can niver tell the blessedness of bein’ well, as the pote says,” observed Jerry, with a sigh, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe and proceeded to refill it. “Come now, Jack Shales,” he added, after a short pause, “ye don’t call that square, do ’ee?”

“I’ll paint yer nose black if you don’t shut up,” said Jack, drawing the edge of a black square with intense caution, in order to avoid invading the domain of a white one.

“Ah! you reminds me of the owld proverb that says somethin’ about asses gittin impudent an’ becomin’ free with their heels when lions grow sick.”

“Well, Jerry,” retorted Jack, with a smile, as he leaned back and regarded his work with his head very much on one side, and his eyes partially closed, after the manner of knights of the brush, “I’m not offended, because I’m just as much of an ass as you are of a lion.”

“I say, mates,” remarked Dick Moy, pausing in his work, and wiping his brow, “are ’ee aweer that the cap’n has ordered us to be ready to start wi’ the first o’ the tide at half after five to-morrow?”

“I knows it,” replied Jack Shales, laying down the black brush and taking up the white one.

“I knows it too,” said Jerry MacGowl, “but it don’t make no manner of odds to me, ’cause I means to stop ashore and enjoy meself. I mean to amoose meself with the trial o’ that black thief Morley Jones.”

Dick Moy resumed his work with a grunt, and said that Jerry was a lucky fellow to be so long on sick-leave, and Jack said he wished he had been called up as a witness in Jones’s case, for he would have cut a better figure than Jim Welton did.

“Ay, boy,” said Dick Moy, “but there wos a reason for that. You know the poor feller is in love wi’ Jones’s daughter, an’ he didn’t like for to help to convict his own father-in-law to be, d’ye see? That’s where it is. The boy Billy Towler was a’most as bad. He’s got a weakness for the gal too, an’ no wonder, for she’s bin as good as a mother to ’im. They say that Billy nigh broke the hearts o’ the lawyers, he wos so stoopid at sometimes, an’ so oncommon cute at others. But it warn’t o’ no use. Jim’s father was strong in his evidence agin him, an’ that Mr Larks, as comed aboard of the Gull, you remember, he had been watching an’ ferreting about the matter to that extent that he turned Jones’s former life inside out. It seems he’s bin up to dodges o’ that kind for a long time past.”

“No! has he?” said Jack Shales.

“Arrah, didn’t ye read of it?” exclaimed Jerry MacGowl.

“No,” replied Jack drily; “not bein’ on the sick-list I han’t got time to read the papers, d’ye see?”

“Well,” resumed Dick Moy, “it seems he has more than once set fire to his premises in Gravesend, and got the insurance money. Hows’ever, he has got fourteen years’ transportation now, an’ that’ll take the shine pretty well out of him before he comes back.”

“How did the poor gal take it?” asked Jack.

Dick replied that she was very bad at first, but that she got somewhat comforted by the way her father behaved to her and listened to her readin’ o’ the Bible after he was condemned. It might be that the death of his old mother had softened him a bit, for she died with his name on her lips, her last words being, “Oh Morley, give it up, my darling boy, give it up; it’s your only chance to give it up, for you inherit it, my poor boy; the passion and the poison are in your blood; oh, give it up, Morley, give it up!”

“They do say,” continued Dick, “that Jones broke down altogether w’en he heard that, an’ fell on his gal’s neck an’ cried like a babby. But for my part I don’t much believe in them deathbed repentances—for it’s much the same thing wi’ Jones now, he bein’ as good as dead. It’s not wot a man says, but how a man lives, as’ll weigh for or against him in the end.”

“An’ what more did he say?” asked Jerry MacGowl, stopping down the tobacco in his pipe with one of his fire-proof fingers; “you see, havin’ bin on the sick-list so long, I haven’t got up all the details o’ this business.”

“He didn’t say much more,” replied Dick, scraping away at the sea-weed and barnacles with renewed vigour, “only he made his darter promise that she’d marry Jim Welton as soon after he was gone as possible. She did nothing but cry, poor thing, and wouldn’t hear of it at first, but he was so strong about it, saying that the thought