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. The Young Trawler by R. M. Ballantyne (i read books txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Young Trawler by R. M. Ballantyne (i read books txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“Hallo! Gunter, what pretty little thing is that you’ve got?”
The words were uttered by Dick Herring of the White Cloud, who, being like-minded with John, had remained on deck like him to smoke and lounge.
“You’ve got no business wi’ that,” growled Gunter, as he closed his hand on the watch, and thrust it back into his pocket.
“I didn’t say I had, mate,” retorted Herring, with a puff of contempt, which at the same time emptied his mouth and his spirit.
Herring said no more; but when the service was over, and the men were chatting about the deck, he quietly mentioned what he had seen, and some of the waggish among the crew came up to Gunter and asked him, with significant looks and laughs, what time o’ day it was.
At first Gunter replied in his wonted surly manner; but at last, feeling that the best way would be to put a bold face on the matter, he said with an off-hand laugh—
“Herring thinks he’s made a wonderful discovery, but surely there’s nothing very strange in a man buyin’ a little watch for his sweetheart.”
“You don’t mean to say that you have a sweetheart do you?” said a youth of about seventeen, who had a tendency to be what is styled cheeky.
Gunter turned on him with contempt. “Well, now,” he replied, “if I had a smooth baby-face like yours I would not say as I had, but bein’ a man, you see, I may ventur’ to say that I have.”
“Come, Gunter, you’re too hard on ’im,” cried Spivin; “I don’t believe you’ve bought a watch for her at all; at least if you have, it must be a pewter one.”
Thus taunted, Gunter resolved to carry out the bold line of action. “What d’ee call that?” he cried, pulling out the watch and holding it up to view.
Captain Bream chanced to be an amused witness of this little scene, but his expression changed to one of amazement when he beheld the peculiar and unmistakable watch which, years before, he had given to Ruth Dotropy’s father. Recovering himself quickly he stepped forward.
“A very pretty little thing,” he said, “and looks uncommonly like silver. Let me see it.”
He held out his hand, and Gunter gave it to him without the slightest suspicion, of course, that he knew anything about it. “Yes, undoubtedly it is silver, and a very curious style of article too,” continued the captain in a low off-hand tone. “You’ve no objection to my taking it to the cabin to look at it more carefully?”
Of course Gunter had no objection, though a sensation of uneasiness arose within him, especially when Captain Bream asked him to go below with him, and whispered to Joe Davidson in a low tone, as he passed him, to shut the cabin skylight.
No sooner were they below, with the cabin-door shut, than the captain looked steadily in the man’s face, and said—
“Gunter, you stole this watch from a young lady in Yarmouth.”
An electric shock could not have more effectually stunned the convicted fisherman. He gazed at the captain in speechless surprise. Then his fists clenched, a rush of blood came to his face, and a fierce oath rose to his white lips as he prepared to deny the charge.
“Stop!” said the captain, impressively, and there was nothing of severity or indignation in his voice or look. “Don’t commit yourself, Gunter. See, I place the watch on this table. If you bought it to give to your sweetheart, take it up. If you stole it from a pretty young lady in one of the rows of Yarmouth some months ago, and would now wish me to restore it to her—for I know her and the watch well—let it lie.”
Gunter looked at the captain, then at the watch, and hesitated. Then his head drooped, and in a low voice he said—
“I am guilty, sir.”
Without a word more, Captain Bream laid his hand on the poor man’s shoulder and pressed it. Gunter knew well what was meant. He went down on his knees. The captain kneeled beside him, and in a deep, intensely earnest voice, claimed forgiveness of the sin that had been confessed, and prayed that the sinner’s soul might be there and then cleansed in the precious blood of Jesus.
John Gunter was completely broken down; tears rolled over his cheeks, and it required all his great physical strength to enable him to keep down the sobs that well-nigh choked him.
Fishermen of the North Sea are tough. Their eyes are not easily made to swell or look red by salt water, whether it come from the ocean without or the mightier ocean within. When Gunter had risen from his knees and wiped his eyes with the end of a comforter, which had probably been worked under the superintendence of Ruth herself; there were no signs of emotion left—only a subdued look in his weatherworn face.
“I give myself up, sir,” he said, “to suffer what punishment is due.”
“No punishment is due, my man. Jesus has borne all the punishment due to you and me. In regard to man, you have restored that which you took away, and well do I know that the young lady—like her Master—forgives freely. I will return the watch to her. You can go back to your comrades—nobody shall ever hear more about this. If they chaff you, or question you, just say nothing, and smile at them.”
“But—but, sir,” said Gunter, moving uneasily.
“I ain’t used to smilin’. I—I’ve bin so used to look gruff that—”
“Look gruff, then, my man,” interrupted the captain, himself unable to repress a smile. “If you’re not gruff in your heart, it won’t matter much what you look like. Just look gruff, an’ keep your mouth shut, and they’ll soon let you alone.”
Acting on this advice, John Gunter returned to his mates looking gruffer, if possible, and more taciturn than ever, but radically changed, from that hour, in soul and spirit.
As the calm weather continued in the afternoon, Joe Davidson tried to persuade Captain Bream to pay the Evening Star a visit, but the latter felt that the excitement and exertion of preaching to such earnest and thirsting men had been more severe than he had expected. He therefore excused himself, saying that he would lie down in his bunk for a short time, so as to be ready for the evening service.
It was arranged that the skipper of the mission smack should conduct that service, and he was to call the captain when they were ready to begin. When the time came, however, it was found that the exhausted invalid was so sound asleep that they did not like to disturb him.
But although Captain Bream was a heavy sleeper and addicted to sonorous snoring, there were some things in nature through which even he could not slumber; and one of these things proved to be a hymn as sung by the fishermen of the North Sea!
When, therefore, the Lifeboat hymn burst forth in tones that no cathedral organ ever equalled, and shook the timbers of the mission-ship from stem to stern, the captain turned round, yawned, and opened his eyes wide, and when the singers came to—
“Leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore,”
he leaped out of his bunk with tremendous energy.
Pulling his garments into order, running his fingers through his hair, and trying to look as if he had not been asleep, he slipped quietly into the hold and sat down on a box behind the speaker, where he could see the earnest faces of the rugged congregation brought into strong relief by the light that streamed down the open hatchway.
What the preacher said, or what his subject was, Captain Bream never knew, for, before he could bring his mind to bear on it, his eyes fell on an object which seemed to stop the very pulsations of his heart, while his face grew pale. Fortunately he was himself in the deep shadow of the deck, and could not be easily observed.
Yet the object which created such a powerful sensation in the captain’s breast was not in itself calculated to cause amazement or alarm, for it was nothing more than a pretty-faced, curly-haired fisher-boy, who, with lips parted and his bright eyes gazing intently, was listening to the preacher with all his powers. Need we say that it was our friend Billy Bright, and that in his fair face Captain Bream thought, or rather felt, that he recognised the features of his long-lost sister?
With a strong effort the captain restrained his feelings and tried to listen, but in vain. Not only were his eyes riveted on the young face before him, but his whole being seemed to be absorbed by it. The necessity of keeping still, however, gave him time to make up his mind as to how he should act, so that when the service was brought to a close, he appeared on deck without a trace of his late excitement visible.
“What lad is this?” he asked, going up to Joe, who was standing close to Billy.
“This,” said Joe, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder, “is Billy Bright, son of the late owner of the old Evenin’ Star.”
“What!” exclaimed the captain, unable to repress his surprise, “son of the widow who owns the new Evening Star? then that proves that your mother must be alive?”
“In course she is!” returned Billy, with a look of astonishment.
“Come down to the cabin with me, Billy,” said the captain, with increasing excitement. “I want to have a chat with you about your mother.”
Our little hero, although surprised, at once complied with the invitation, taking the opportunity, however, to wink at Zulu in passing, and whisper his belief that the old gen’l’man was mad.
Setting Billy on a locker in front of him, Captain Bream began at once.
“Is your mother alive, Billy,—tut, of course she’s alive; I mean, is she well—in good health?”
Billy became still more convinced that Captain Bream was mad, but answered that his mother was well, and that she had never been ill in her life to the best of his knowledge.
While speaking, Billy glanced round the cabin in some anxiety as to how he should escape if the madman should proceed to violence. He made up his mind that if the worst should come to the worst, he would dive under the table, get between the old gentleman’s legs, trip him up, and bolt up the companion before he could regain his feet. Relieved by the feeling that his mind was made up, he waited for more.
“Billy,” resumed the captain, after a long gaze at the boy’s features, “is your mother like you?”
“I should think not,” replied Billy with some indignation. “She’s a woman, you know, an’ I’m a—a—man.”
“Yes—of course,” murmured the captain to himself, “there can be no doubt about it—none whatever—every gesture—every look!”
Then aloud: “What was her name, my boy?”
“Her name, sir? why, her name’s Bright, of course.”
“Yes, yes, but I mean her maiden name.”
Billy was puzzled. “If you mean the name my father used to call ’er,” he said, “it was Nell.”
“Ah! that’s it—nearly, at least. Nellie she used to be known by. Yes, yes, but that’s not what I want to know. Can you tell me what her name was before she was married?”
“Well now, that is odd,” answered Billy, “I’ve bin pumped somethink in this way before, though nuffin’ good came of it as I knows on. No, I don’t know what she was called afore she was married.”
“Did
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