Men of the Deep Waters by William Hope Hodgson (best book club books of all time TXT) 📖

as memory stirred in him. He faced round again.

“Eh,” he continued, “she wer’ great on chips in batter, she wer’. Me ‘n ‘er used ter ‘ave ‘em every Sunday night as ever was. Like as they was good to sleep on, so she said. An’ I guess they was all cooked in this ‘ere ole pan.”

He finished his curious eulogy, rather lamely, and pulled out his old red handkerchief. After he had blown his nose, and furtively wiped his eyes, he used the handkerchief to polish the interior and exterior of the pan; after which he held it up once more to the view of the silent and sympathetic crowd.

“What’ll ye give for it?” he asked, looking round anxiously at the many faces.

“Sixpence,” said a low voice, and the old man, after a quick glance round the crowd, said: “It’s yours, Mrs. Mike Callan,” and handed it across to a woman in the front of the crowd. The money was paid into his hand in coppers, as I could tell by the chink.

I looked towards the purchaser, feeling that I should like to buy back the saucepan, and return it to the old man. This way, I saw Father Johnson moving here and there through the little crowd, with a calico bag in his hand. From this, in a surreptitious manner, he drew something constantly—which I conceived, by the faint chinking, to be money—and distributed it to a man here and a woman there among the onlookers, accompanying each act with a few whispered words.

I understood much and guessed the rest. It was obvious that the people had little money to spare; for both their clothes and their little huts, all told of an utter poverty. This poverty, Father Johnson was remedying for the occasion, and his whispered words were probably hints concerning the articles for which to bid, and the amount to be bid for each. This, of course, is only a guess; but I believe that I am correct, in the main.

Once, I bid for a little old crock, offering double or treble its original value; but the old man took not the slightest notice, and continued to offer the article to bids that counted pence to the shillings of my offer. I was astonished, and began to see newly, if I may put it in that way. The man next to me, bid fivepence; then turned and put up his finger, shaking his head in a friendly fashion, but warningly. Evidently, I was to be allowed no part in this function of neighbourly help, which was obviously ordered by rules of which I lacked a fundamental knowledge. A woman, near to me, made things somewhat clearer. She bent my-wards, and whispered:

“‘E’d not take it back from you, Sir, nor the price you offered, neither. ‘E’s got a inderpendent ‘eart, ‘e ‘as, Sir. Poor old man.”

So the things were going to be given back, after all. I wondered how they would arrange the returning. It was evident that he had no conceiving of the intentions of his neighbours; for the emotion of distress was too plainly writ in his face, with each familiar article that he auctioned. I learned afterwards that he was detained in chapel by Father Johnson for a few “worrds,” during which the household gear was replaced in his cottage.

When everything else had been sold, there remained only a poor bundle of something, done up in a faded shawl. It was as if the old man had put off, to the very end, the selling of this. Now, he got down clumsily on to his knees, and began to undo the knots, fumbling stupidly, and bending his head low over the bundle. He got the knots undone at last, and presently, after a little turning over of the few things, in a way that I perceived to be more a dumb caressing, than because he sought any particular article, he rose to his feet, holding an old worn skirt.

“This ‘ere,” he said, slowly, “wer’ my missus’s best, an’ she wer’ very spechul ‘bout it, these ‘ere thirty year. I mind w’en she first wor’ it.” (His face lined a moment with emotion, grotesquely.) “She wer’ that slim ‘s she hed ter put a tuck in ther waistban’; not that it ‘armed it; she tuk pertickler care, an–-”

I lost the old man’s low-voiced explanation at this point; for I was aware suddenly that Father Johnson was almost at my side. I glanced an instant at him; but he was staring at the old man, with the oddest expression on his face. I noticed, subconsciously, that he was clenching and unclenching his hands rapidly. Then the old man’s quaver caught my ear again:—

“It’s fine an’ good cloth, an’ them stain-marks couldn’t be ‘elped. As she said, it wer’ ther Lord’s will, an’ she mustn’t complain. This ‘ere one on the ‘em wer’ done fifteen year back–-” Again my attention was distracted. I caught the sharp flip of a finger and thumb, and a man looked round and sidled out of the crowd, up to Father Johnson, in obedience to his signal.

“Sthop ut, Mike! Sthop ut this instant!” I heard the priest whisper, his brogue coming out strong, because he was stirred. “Offer tin bob for the lot, an’ sthop ut; ‘tis breakin’ the hearts av us.”

He handed the man some money, and Mike bid for the shawl-full. But, even then, it was horrible to see old Cardallon’s fight, before he could relinquish the garments to the buyer.

The sale was over. The latter part of it had been attended by an ever increasing audience, from those who at first had been content to sit and talk and rest quietly on the benches; and who—coming from the outlying districts—were not intimate neighbours of old Tom. As they broke up to return to their seats, I saw one or two women crying openly.

James Pelple and I stayed for the service of the Rosary, in all reverence, though of another persuasion. Afterwards, as we stood in the doorway, waiting for Father Johnson, I looked across at him.

“Well?” I queried, “a den of thieves?”

But Pelple, “the Stickler,” shook his head.

“A wonderful man,” he said, “a wonderful man. I should like to know him better.”

I laughed outright.

“So you’ve come under the banner too,” I said. “I wondered whether you would.” And just then, Father Johnson joined us in his cassock, and we began our return journey to his house.

On the way, we passed the door of Cardallon’s cottage, the upper half of which was open. The priest looked in, with a cheery word, and we joined him. The old man was standing in the centre of his hard-beaten mud floor, staring round in a stunned, incredulous fashion at all his restored household goods. He looked half-vacantly at Father Johnson, the tears running slowly down his wrinkled face. In his right hand, he held the little bundle, knotted round with the faded shawl.

The priest stretched a hand over the half-door, and blessed old Tom Cardallon in the loveliest, homeliest way, that stirred me, I admit frankly, to the very depths.

Then he turned away, and we resumed our walk, leaving the old man to his tears, which I am convinced were signs, in part at least, of a gentle happiness.

“He would not take the money from us,” said the priest, later. “But do ye think the heart av him would let him sind back the gear!”

I looked across at Pelple, and smiled to his nod; for I knew that his last vague questioning was answered.

FROM THE TIDELESS SEA

The Captain of the schooner leant over the rail, and stared for a moment, intently.

“Pass us them glasses, Jock,” he said, reaching a hand behind him.

Jock left the wheel for an instant, and ran into the little companionway. He emerged immediately with a pair of marine-glasses, which he pushed into the waiting hand.

For a little, the Captain inspected the object through the binoculars. Then he lowered them, and polished the object glasses.

“Seems like er water-logged barr’l as sumone’s been doin’ fancy paintin’ on,” he remarked after a further stare. “Shove ther ‘elm down er bit, Jock, an’ we’ll ‘ave er closer look at it.”

Jock obeyed, and soon the schooner bore almost straight for the object which held the Captain’s attention. Presently, it was within some fifty feet, and the Captain sung out to the boy in the caboose to pass along the boathook.

Very slowly, the schooner drew nearer, for the wind was no more than breathing gently. At last the cask was within reach, and the Captain grappled at it with the boathook. It bobbed in the calm water, under his ministrations; and, for a moment, the thing seemed likely to elude him. Then he had the hook fast in a bit of rotten-looking rope which was attached to it. He did not attempt to lift it by the rope; but sung out to the boy to get a bowline round it. This was done, and the two of them hove it up on to the deck.

The Captain could see now, that the thing was a small water-breaker, the upper part of which was ornamented with the remains of a painted name.

“H—M—E—B–-” spelt out the Captain with difficulty, and scratched his head. “‘ave er look at this ‘ere, Jock. See wot you makes of it.”

Jock bent over from the wheel, expectorated, and then stared at the breaker. For nearly a minute he looked at it in silence.

“I’m thinkin’ some of the letterin’s washed awa’,” he said at last, with considerable deliberation. “I have ma doots if he’ll be able to read it.

“Hadn’t ye no better knock in the end?” he suggested, after a further period of pondering. “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll be lang comin’ at them contents otherwise.”

“It’s been in ther water er thunderin’ long time,” remarked the Captain, turning the bottom side upwards. “Look at them barnacles!”

Then, to the boy:—

“Pass erlong ther ‘atchet outer ther locker.”

Whilst the boy was away, the Captain stood the little barrel on end, and kicked away some of the barnacles from the underside. With them, came away a great shell of pitch. He bent, and inspected it.

“Blest if ther thing ain’t been pitched!” he said. “This ‘ere’s been put afloat er purpose, an’ they’ve been, mighty anxious as ther stuff in it shouldn’t be ‘armed.

He kicked away another mass of the barnacle-studded pitch. Then, with a sudden impulse, he picked up the whole thing and shook it violently. It gave out a light, dull, thudding sound, as though something soft and small were within. Then the boy came with the hatchet.

“Stan’ clear!” said the Captain, and raised the implement. The next instant, he had driven in one end of the barrel. Eagerly, he stooped forward. He dived his hand down and brought out a little bundle stitched up in oilskin.

“I don’ spect as it’s anythin’ of valley,” he remarked. “But I guess as there’s sumthin’ ‘ere as ‘ll be worth tellin’ ‘bout w’en we gets ‘ome.”

He slit up the oilskin as he spoke. Underneath, there was another covering of the same material, and under that a third. Then a longish bundle done up in tarred canvas. This was removed, and a black, cylindrical shaped case disclosed to view. It proved to be a tin canister, pitched over. Inside of it, neatly wrapped within a last strip of oilskin, was a roll of papers, which, on opening, the Captain found to be covered with writing. The Captain shook out the various wrappings; but found nothing further. He handed the MS. across to Jock.

“More ‘n your line ‘n mine, I guess,” he remarked. “Jest you read it up, an’ I’ll listen.”

He turned to the