Short Cruises. William Wymark Jacobs
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swallow you up. It's Mr. Bell, and if he don't go away I'll call the police."
Messrs. Henshaw and Stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking up at her. Then they conferred in whispers.
"If you can't tell 'em apart, how do you know this is Mr. Bell?" inquired Mr. Stokes, turning to the window again.
"How do I know?" repeated Mrs. Henshaw. "How do I know? Why, because my husband came home almost directly Mr. Bell had gone. I wonder he didn't meet him."
"Came home?" cried Mr. Henshaw, shrilly. "Came home?"
"Yes; and don't make so much noise," said Mrs. Henshaw, tartly; "he's asleep."
The two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. Mr. Stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away. At the end of the street he took a deep breath, and, after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, summed up the situation.
"She's twigged it all along," he said, with conviction. "You'll have to come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best thing you can do is to make a clean breast of it. It was a silly game, and, if you remember, I was against it from the first."
MIXED RELATIONS
The brig Elizabeth Barstow came up the river as though in a hurry to taste again the joys of the Metropolis. The skipper, leaning on the wheel, was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate, who was placing before him the hygienic, economical, and moral advantages of total abstinence in language of great strength but little variety.
"Teetotallers eat more," said the skipper, finally.
The mate choked, and his eye sought the galley. "Eat more?" he spluttered. "Yesterday the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted like a bit o' dirty sponge. I've lived on biscuits this trip; and the only tater I ate I'm going to see a doctor about direckly I get ashore. It's a sin and a shame to spoil good food the way 'e does."
"The moment I can ship another cook he goes," said the skipper. "He seems busy, judging by the noise."
"I'm making him clean up everything, ready for the next," explained the mate, grimly. "And he 'ad the cheek to tell me he's improving— improving!"
"He'll go as soon as I get another," repeated the skipper, stooping and peering ahead. "I don't like being poisoned any more than you do. He told me he could cook when I shipped him; said his sister had taught him."
The mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind by putting his head in at the galley and bidding the cook hold up each separate utensil for his inspection. A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly attributed to elbow-grease.
The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the traffic, sought her old berth at Buller's Wharf. It was occupied by a deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable position and consoled itself with adjectives.
The men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the crew of the Elizabeth Barstow, after making fast, went below to prepare themselves for an evening ashore. Standing before the largest saucepan- lid in the galley, the cook was putting the finishing touches to his toilet.
A light, quick step on the wharf attracted the attention of the skipper as he leaned against the side smoking. It stopped just behind him, and turning round he found himself gazing into the soft brown eyes of the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
"Is Mr. Jewell on board, please?" she asked, with a smile.
"Jewell?" repeated the skipper. "Jewell? Don't know the name."
"He was on board," said the girl, somewhat taken aback. "This is the Elizabeth Barstow, isn't it?"
"What's his Christian name?" inquired the skipper, thoughtfully.
"Albert," replied the girl. "Bert," she added, as the other shook his head.
"Oh, the cook!" said the skipper. "I didn't know his name was Jewell.
Yes, he's in the galley."
He stood eyeing her and wondering in a dazed fashion what she could see in a small, white-faced, slab-sided—
The girl broke in upon his meditations. "How does he cook?" she inquired, smiling.
He was about to tell her, when he suddenly remembered the cook's statement as to his instructor.
"He's getting on," he said, slowly; "he's getting on. Are you his sister?"
The girl smiled and nodded. "Ye—es," she said, slowly. "Will you tell him I am waiting for him, please?"
The skipper started and drew himself up; then he walked forward and put his head in at the galley.
"Bert," he said, in a friendly voice, "your sister wants to see you."
"Who?" inquired Mr. Jewell, in the accents of amazement. He put his head out at the door and nodded, and then, somewhat red in the face with the exercise, drew on his jacket and walked towards her. The skipper followed.
"Thank you," said the girl, with a pleasant smile.
"You're quite welcome," said the skipper.
Mr. Jewell stepped ashore and, after a moment of indecision, shook hands with his visitor.
"If you're down this way again," said the skipper, as they turned away, "perhaps you'd like to see the cabin. We're in rather a pickle just now, but if you should happen to come down for Bert to-morrow night—"
The girl's eyes grew mirthful and her lips trembled. "Thank you," she said.
"Some people like looking over cabins," murmured the skipper.
He raised his hand to his cap and turned away. The mate, who had just come on deck, stared after the retreating couple and gave vent to a low whistle.
"What a fine gal to pick up with Slushy," he remarked.
"It's his sister," said the skipper, somewhat sharply.
"The one that taught him to cook?" said the other, hastily. "Here! I'd like five minutes alone with her; I'd give 'er a piece o' my mind that 'ud do her good. I'd learn 'er. I'd tell her wot I thought of her."
"That'll do," said the skipper; "that'll do. He's not so bad for a beginner; I've known worse."
"Not so bad?" repeated the mate. "Not so bad? Why"—his voice trembled— "ain't you going to give 'im the chuck, then?"
"I shall try him for another vy'ge, George," said the skipper. "It's hard lines on a youngster if he don't have a chance. I was never one to be severe. Live and let live, that's my motto. Do as you'd be done by."
"You're turning soft-'arted in your old age," grumbled the mate.
"Old age!" said the other, in a startled voice. "Old age! I'm not thirty-seven yet."
"You're getting on," said the mate; "besides, you look old."
The skipper investigated the charge in the cabin looking-glass ten minutes later. He twisted his beard in his hand and tried to imagine how he would look without it. As a compromise he went out and had it cut short and trimmed to a point. The glass smiled approval on his return; the mate smiled too, and, being caught in the act, said it made him look like his own grandson.
It was late when the cook returned, but the skipper was on deck, and, stopping him for a match, entered into a little conversation. Mr. Jewell, surprised at first, soon became at his ease, and, the talk drifting in some unknown fashion to Miss Jewell, discussed her with brotherly frankness.
"You spent the evening together, I s'pose?" said the skipper, carelessly.
Mr. Jewell glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Cooking," he said, and put his hand over his mouth with some suddenness.
By the time they parted the skipper had his hand in a friendly fashion on the cook's shoulder, and was displaying an interest in his welfare as unusual as it was gratifying. So unaccustomed was Mr. Jewell to such consideration that he was fain to pause for a moment or two to regain control of his features before plunging into the lamp-lit fo'c'sle.
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