At Sunwich Port, Complete. William Wymark Jacobs
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scant courtesy herself, had a touching faith in his prowess, a faith partly due to her brother occasionally showing her his bicep muscles in moments of exaltation.
“There’s that horrid Jem Hardy,” she said, suddenly, as they walked along the road.
“So it is,” said Master Nugent, but without any display of enthusiasm.
“Halloa, Jack,” shouted Master Hardy across the road.
“The suspense became painful.”
“Halloa,” responded the other.
“He’s going to fight you,” shrilled Miss Nugent, who thought these amenities ill-timed; “he said so.”
Master Hardy crossed the road. “What for?” he demanded, with surprise.
“Because you’re a nasty, horrid boy,” replied Miss Nugent, drawing herself up.
“Oh,” said Master Hardy, blankly.
The two gentlemen stood regarding each other with uneasy grins; the lady stood by in breathless expectation. The suspense became painful.
“Who are you staring at?” demanded Master Nugent, at last.
“You,” replied the other; “who are you staring at?”
“You,” said Master Nugent, defiantly.
There was a long interval, both gentlemen experiencing some difficulty in working up sufficient heat for the engagement.
“You hit me and see what you’ll get,” said Master Hardy, at length.
“You hit me,” said the other.
“Cowardy, cowardy custard,” chanted the well-bred Miss Nugent, “ate his mother’s mustard. Cowardy, cowardy cus—”
“Why don’t you send that kid home?” demanded Master Hardy, eyeing the fair songstress with strong disfavour.
“You leave my sister alone,” said the other, giving him a light tap on the shoulder. “There’s your coward’s blow.”
Master Hardy made a ceremonious return. “There’s yours,” he said. “Let’s go behind the church.”
His foe assented, and they proceeded in grave silence to a piece of grass screened by trees, which stood between the church and the beach. Here they removed their coats and rolled up their shirt-sleeves. Things look different out of doors, and to Miss Nugent the arms of both gentlemen seemed somewhat stick-like in their proportions.
The preliminaries were awful, both combatants prancing round each other with their faces just peering above their bent right arms, while their trusty lefts dealt vicious blows at the air. Miss Nugent turned pale and caught her breath at each blow, then she suddenly reddened with wrath as James Philip Hardy, having paid his tribute to science, began to hammer John Augustus Nugent about the face in a most painful and workmanlike fashion.
She hid her face for a moment, and when she looked again Jack was on the ground, and Master Hardy just rising from his prostrate body. Then Jack rose slowly and, crossing over to her, borrowed her handkerchief and applied it with great tenderness to his nose.
“Does it hurt, Jack?” she inquired, anxiously. “No,” growled her brother.
He threw down the handkerchief and turned to his opponent again; Miss Nugent, who was careful about her property, stooped to recover it, and immediately found herself involved in a twisting tangle of legs, from which she escaped by a miracle to see Master Hardy cuddling her brother round the neck with one hand and punching him as hard and as fast as he could with the other. The unfairness of it maddened her, and the next moment Master Hardy’s head was drawn forcibly backwards by the hair. The pain was so excruciating that he released his victim at once, and Miss Nugent, emitting a series of terrified yelps, dashed off in the direction of home, her hair bobbing up and down on her shoulders, and her small black legs in an ecstasy of motion.
Master Hardy, with no very well-defined ideas of what he was going to do if he caught her, started in pursuit. His scalp was still smarting and his eyes watering with the pain as he pounded behind her. Panting wildly she heard him coming closer and closer, and she was just about to give up when, to her joy, she saw her father coming towards them.
Master Hardy, intent on his quarry, saw him just in time, and, swerving into the road, passed in safety as Miss Nugent flung herself with some violence at her father’s waistcoat and, clinging to him convulsively, fought for breath. It was some time before she could furnish the astonished captain with full details, and she was pleased to find that his indignation led him to ignore the hair-grabbing episode, on which, to do her justice, she touched but lightly.
That evening, for the first time in his life, Captain Nugent, after some deliberation, called upon his late mate. The old servant who, since Mrs. Hardy’s death the year before, had looked after the house, was out, and Hardy, unaware of the honour intended him, was scandalized by the manner in which his son received the visitor. The door opened, there was an involuntary grunt from Master Hardy, and the next moment he sped along the narrow passage and darted upstairs. His father, after waiting in vain for his return, went to the door himself.
“Good evening, cap’n,” he said, in surprise.
Nugent responded gruffly, and followed him into the sitting-room. To an invitation to sit, he responded more gruffly still that he preferred to stand. He then demanded instant and sufficient punishment of Master Hardy for frightening his daughter.
Even as he spoke he noticed with strong disfavour the change which had taken place in his late first officer. The change which takes place when a man is promoted from that rank to that of master is subtle, but unmistakable—sometimes, as in the present instance, more unmistakable than subtle. Captain Hardy coiled his long, sinewy form in an arm-chair and, eyeing him calmly, lit his pipe before replying.
“Boys will fight,” he said, briefly.
“I’m speaking of his running after my daughter,” said Nugent, sternly.
Hardy’s eyes twinkled. “Young dog,” he said, genially; “at his age, too.”
Captain Nugent’s face was suffused with wrath at the pleasantry, and he regarded him with a fixed stare. On board the Conqueror there was a witchery in that glance more potent than the spoken word, but in his own parlour the new captain met it calmly.
“I didn’t come here to listen to your foolery,” said Nugent; “I came to tell you to punish that boy of yours.”
“And I sha’n’t do it,” replied the other. “I have got something better to do than interfere in children’s quarrels. I haven’t got your spare time, you know.”
Captain Nugent turned purple. Such language from his late first officer was a revelation to him.
“I also came to warn you,” he said, furiously, “that I shall take the law into my own hands if you refuse.”
“Aye, aye,” said Hardy, with careless contempt; “I’ll tell him to keep out of your way. But I should advise you to wait until I have sailed.”
Captain Nugent, who was moving towards the door, swung round and confronted him savagely.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“What I say,” retorted Captain Hardy. “I don’t want to indulge Sunwich with the spectacle of two middle-aged ship-masters at fisticuffs, but that’s what’ll happen if you touch my boy. It would probably please the spectators more than it would us.”
“I’ll cane him the first time I lay hands on him,” roared Captain Nugent.
Captain Hardy’s stock of patience was at an end, and there was, moreover, a long and undischarged account between himself and his late skipper. He rose and crossed to the door.
“Jem,” he cried, “come downstairs and show Captain Nugent out.”
There was a breathless pause. Captain Nugent ground his teeth with fury as he saw the challenge, and realized the ridiculous position into which his temper had led him; and the other,