The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
Читать онлайн книгу.
before a hoarse hail from the sea heralded the return of the boat.
“Joe ahoy! It’s no go, mate. He’s gone.” There was a pause. Then came the splash of oars, a bump under the counter, the sound of the hooking on of tackles, and another hail.
“Joe ahoy! Is all well aboard?”
Osmond stepped away into the shadow of the main sail, whence he watched the taffrail. Soon the two men came actively up the tackle-ropes, their heads appeared above the rail, and they swung themselves on board simultaneously.
“Joe ahoy!” one of them sang out huskily, as he looked blankly round the deck. “Where are yer, Joe?” There was a brief silence; then, in an awe-stricken voice, he exclaimed: “Gawd-amighty, Tom! If he ain’t gone overboard, too!”
At this moment the other man caught sight of Osmond, and, silently touching his companion on the shoulder, pointed to the motionless figure. Osmond moved a little out of the shadow and began to pace aft, treading without a sound. For one instant the two men watched as if petrified; then, with one accord, they stampeded forward, and once more the forecastle scuttle slammed. Osmond followed, and quietly thrusting a belaying-pin through the staple of the scuttle, secured them in their retreat.
CHAPTER V
The New Afterguard
When Captain Hartup, brusquely aroused from his slumbers, opened his eyes and beheld a tall, yellow oilskinned figure in his berth, the Book of Job faded instantly from his memory and he scrambled from his bunk with a yell of terror. Then, when Osmond took off his sou’-wester, he recognized his visitor and became distinctly uncivil.
“What the devil do you mean by masquerading in this idiotic fashion?” he demanded angrily. “I don’t want any of your silly schoolboy jokes on this ship, so you please understand that.”
“I came down,” said Osmond, smothering a grin and ignoring the reproaches, “to report progress. I have hove the ship to, but there is no one at the wheel and no lookout.”
The skipper stared at him in bewilderment as he crawled back into his bunk. “What do you mean?” he asked. “You’ve hove the ship to? Isn’t there anybody on deck?”
“No. The ship is taking care of herself at the moment.”
“Queer,” said the skipper. “I wonder what Dhoody’s up to.”
“Dhoody is overboard,” said Osmond.
“Overboard!” exclaimed the skipper, staring harder than ever at Osmond. Then, after an interval of silent astonishment, he said severely:
“You are talking in riddles, young man. Just try to explain yourself a little more clearly. Do I understand that you have hove my second mate overboard?”
“No,” replied Osmond. “He went overboard by accident. But it was all for the best;” and hereupon he proceeded to give the skipper a somewhat sketchy account of the stirring events of the last few hours, to which the latter listened with sour disapproval.
“I don’t hold with deeds of violence,” he said when the story was finished, “but what you have done is on your own head. Where do you say the crew are?”
“Two are in the hold and the other four in the fo’c’sle, bolted in. They are all pretty drunk, but you’ll find them as quiet as lambs when they’ve slept off their tipple. But the question is, what is to be done now. The men won’t be any good for an hour or two, but there ought to be someone at the wheel and some sort of watch on deck. And I can’t take it on until I have had a sleep. I’ve been hard at it ever since I came on board yesterday.”
“Yes,” Captain Hartup agreed, sarcastically, “I daresay you found it fatiguing, chucking your fellow-creatures overboard and breaking their heads. Well, you had better take the second mate’s berth—the one Redford had—and I will go on deck and keep a look out. But I can’t do much with my arm in a sling.”
“What about the lady?” asked Osmond. “Couldn’t she hold on to the wheel if you stood by and told her what to do?”
“Ha!” exclaimed the skipper. “I had forgotten her. Yes, she knows how to steer—in a fashion. She used to wheedle Redford into letting her take a trick in his watch while he stood by and instructed her; a parcel of silly philandering, really, but it wasn’t any affair of mine. I’d better go and rouse her up.”
“Wait till I’ve turned in,” said Osmond. “I am not fit to meet a lady until I have had a sleep and a wash. If you will show me my berth, I will go and cast the lashings off those two beggars in the hold and then turn in for an hour or two.”
The captain smiled sardonically but made no comment; and when Osmond, furnished with a lantern, had visited the hold and removed the lashings from the still slumbering seamen, he entered the tiny berth that the skipper pointed out to him, closed the door, and, having taken off his jacket and folded it carefully, and wound his watch, blew out the candle in the lantern, stretched himself in the bunk and instantly fell asleep.
When he awoke, the gleam from the deck-light over his head—the berth had no port-hole—informed him that it was day. Reference to his watch showed the hour to be about half-past eight; and the clink of crockery and a murmur of voices—one very distinctly feminine—suggested that breakfast was in progress.
Which, again, suggested that the conditions of life on board had returned to the more or less normal.
Osmond sprang out of the bunk, and, impelled by hunger and curiosity, made a lightning toilet with the aid of Redford’s razor, sponge, and brushes. There was, of course, no bath; but a ‘dry’ rub-down in the oven-like cabin was a fair substitute. In a surprisingly short time, with the imperfect means at hand, he had made himself almost incredibly presentable and after a final ‘look over’ in Redford’s minute shaving-glass, he opened the door and entered the cuddy.
The little table, roughly laid for breakfast, was occupied by Captain Hartup and a lady, and a flat-faced seaman with a black eye officiated as cabin steward. They all looked up as Osmond emerged from his door and the sailor grinned a little sheepishly.
“Had a short night, haven’t you?” said the captain. “Didn’t expect you to turn out yet. Let me present you to our passenger. Miss Burleigh, this is Mr.—Mr.—”
“Cook,” said Osmond, ready for the question this time.
“Mr. Cook, the young man I was telling you about.”
Miss Burleigh acknowledged Osmond’s bow, gazing at him with devouring curiosity and marvelling at his cool, trim, well appearance.
“I think,” she said, “we had a brief interview last night, if you can call it an interview when there was a locked door between us. I am afraid I wasn’t very civil. But you must try to forgive me. I’ve been sorry since.”
“There is no need to be,” replied Osmond. “It was perfectly natural.”
“Oh, but it isn’t mere remorse. I am so mad with myself for having missed all the excitements. If I had only known! But, you see, I had happened to look out of my door in the evening, hearing a peculiar sort of noise, and then I saw somebody boring holes in the partition, and of course I thought it was those wretches trying to get into the cabin. Then, when I heard your voice, I made sure it was Dhoody or one of those other ruffians, trying to entice me out. And so I missed all the fun.”
“Just as well that you did,” said the captain. “Females are out of place in scenes of violence and disorder. What are you going to have, Mr. Cook? There’s corned pork and biscuit and I think there’s some lobscouse or sea-pie in the galley, if the men haven’t eaten it all.”
Osmond turned suddenly to the sailor, who instantly came to ‘attention.’
“You’re Sam Winter, aren’t you?”
“Aye, sir,” the man replied, considerably taken aback by the ‘factory bug’s’ uncanny omniscience. “Sam Winter it is, sir.”