“And you’ve never heard of her since?” asked Ruth.
“Never.”
“And don’t know who she married?”
“Know nothin’ more about her, my dear, than I’ve told ’ee. Good-bye now, Miss Ruth. I must look sharp about this business of yours.”
He showed such evident disinclination to continue the painful subject, that Ruth forbore to press it, and they parted to prosecute their respective schemes.
Chapter Twelve.
Captain Bream develops a Capacity for Scheming
At dinner that day Captain Bream paused in the act of conveying a whole potato to his mouth on the end of his fork, and said—
“Miss Seaward, I’m going to leave you—”
“Leave us!” cried Kate, interrupting him with a look of consternation, for she and Jessie had both become so fond of the amiable seaman, with the frame of Goliath and the heart of Samuel, that they were now as much afraid of losing, as they had formerly been of possessing him. “Leave us, captain!”
“Only for a time, Miss Kate—only for a time,” he replied, hastily, as he checked the power of further utterance with the potato. “Only for a time,” he repeated, on recovering the power. “You see, I’ve got a little bit of business to transact down at Yarmouth, and it will take me a good while to do it. Some weeks at the least—perhaps some months—but there’s no help for it, for the thing must be done.”
The captain said this with so much decision, that Kate could scarcely forbear laughing as she said—
“Dear me, it must be very important business since you seem so determined about it. Is there anything or any one likely to oppose you in transacting the business?”
“Well, not exactly at present,” returned the captain blandly, “but there are two obstinate friends of mine who, I have been told, would oppose me pretty stoutly if I was to tell ’em all the truth about it.”
“Is there any necessity,” asked Jessie, “for telling these obstinate friends anything about the business at all?”
“Well, yes,” replied the captain with a chuckle that almost brought on a choking fit; “I can’t well avoid tellin’ them somethin’ about it, for they’ve a right to know, but—”
“Wouldn’t it save you all trouble, then,” broke in Kate, seeing his hesitation, “to tell them just as much of the business as they were entitled to know, and no more.”
“That’s just the very thing I mean to do,” replied the captain, bursting into a laugh so deep and thunderous that the small domestic, Liffie Lee, entered the room abruptly to ask if anything was wanted, but in reality to find out what all the fun was about. Having been dismissed with a caution not to intrude again till rung for, the captain helped himself to an enormous slice of beef; earnestly, but unsuccessfully, pressed the sisters to “go in for more and grow fat,” and then continued his discourse.
“You must know, ladies, that I have taken to studyin’ a good deal in my old age. Another potato—thank ’ee.”
“Yes, we have observed that,” said Kate. “May I ask what is the nature of your studies—navigation?”
“Navigation!” shouted the captain with another laugh so rich and racy that poor Liffie Lee almost entered in defiance of orders; “no, Miss Kate, it ain’t navigation! I’ve bin pretty well grounded in that subject for the last forty years. No, my study now is theology.”
“Theology!” exclaimed the sisters in surprise.
“Yes, theology. Is it so strange, then, that a man drawin’ near the close of life should wish to be more particular than when he was young in tryin’ to find out all he can about his Maker?” returned the captain gravely.
“Forgive us,” said Jessie, hastening to explain; “it is not that. If you had said you had taken to reading the Bible carefully and systematically, we would not have been surprised, but it—it was—your talking so quietly about theology that made us—”
“Yes, yes, I see,” interrupted the good-natured seaman; “well, it is reading the Word of God that I mean. You see, I regard the Bible as my class-book, my book o’ logarithms, chart compass, rudder, etcetera, all rolled into one. Now, I don’t mind tellin’ you a secret. When I first went to sea I was a very wild harum-scarum young fellow, an’ havin’ some sort of influence over my mates, I did ’em a deal of damage and led ’em astray. Well, when the Lord in His great mercy saved my soul, I could not forget this, and although I knew I was forgiven, my heart was grieved to think of the mischief I had done. I felt as if I would give anything in life to undo it if I could. As this was not possible, however, I bethought me that the next best thing would be to do as much good as I could to the class that I had damaged, so, when I came home and left the sea for good, I used to go down about the docks and give away Bibles and Testaments to the sailors. Then I got to say a word or two to ’em now and then about their souls but I soon found that there are professed unbelievers among the tars, an’ they put questions that puzzled me at times, so I took to readin’ the Bible with a view to answering objectors an’ bein’ able to give a reason of the hope that is in me—to studyin’, in fact, what I call theology. But I ain’t above takin’ help,” continued the captain with a modest look, “from ordinary good books when I come across ’em—my chief difficulty bein’, to find out what are the best books to consult, and this has led me sometimes to think of buyin’ up all the theological books I can lay hands on, an’ glancin’ ’em all through so as to make notes of such as seemed worth readin’ with care. The labour however seems so great, that up to now I’ve bin kept back, but I’ve had a talk with a friend to-day which has decided me, so I’ll go off to Yarmouth to-morrow an’ buy a whole lot o’ theological books—a regular library in fact—and set to work to read up. But there’s one thing I would like, which would save me an enormous amount o’ labour, if I could get it.”
“What is that?” asked the sisters, eagerly, and in the same breath, for they had become quite interested in their friend’s aspirations.
“I would like,” said the captain, slowly, and fixing his eyes on his plate, for he was now beginning to scheme, “I would like to find some one—a clever boy perhaps, though a girl would be preferable—who would take the trouble off my hands of glancin’ through the books first, an’ makin’ notes of their contents for me, so as to prevent my wastin’ time on those that are worthless.”
“I fear,” said Jessie, “that few boys or girls would be capable of such work, for it would require not only intelligence but a considerable amount of scriptural knowledge.”
The captain heaved a deep sigh. “Yes,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “you’re right, and I’m afraid I’ll have to get some grown-up person to help me, but that won’t be easy. And then, d’ee know, I don’t feel as if I could git on in such investigations with a stranger.”
“What a pity,” said Kate, “that you could not bring the books here, and then I could help you, for although I do not pretend to be deeply learned in scriptural knowledge, I daresay I know enough for your purpose; but why not get the books in London? Is there any necessity for buying them in Yarmouth?”
Poor Captain Bream was so unused to scheming, that he had made no preparation for such a question, and felt much confused. He could give no good reason for making his purchase in Yarmouth, and nothing would have induced him to tell a falsehood.
“Well, really,” he said, after a few moments’ hesitation, “there are circumstances sometimes in a man’s life which render it difficult for him to explain things, but—but I have a reason for wishin’ to buy this library in Yarmouth, an’ it seems to me a good one. Besides, I’ve got a likin’ for sea-air, bein’ my native air, so to speak, and I’ve no doubt that theology would come more easy to me if I was in a snug little room facin’ the sea, where I could see the blue waters dancin’, an’ the shipping go by, an’ the youngsters playin’ on the sands. Yes, it must be done at Yarmouth. London would never do; it’s too hot an’ stuffy. Not that I care for that, but then you might—ah—that is—I mean to say—you might agree with me on this point if you were there. But why,” he added with fresh animation as he saw the way opening up before him, “why, Miss Kate, since you are so kind as to say you’d like to help me, why might you not take a run down to Yarmouth with me, an’ help me there?”
“Because,” answered Kate, laughing, “I could not very well leave my sister alone.”
“Of course not—quite right, but there’s no need for that; she could come too, and it would do you both much good, not to speak o’ the immense advantage to me! I do assure you I’d feel well-nigh as helpless as an infant, if left to tackle this business alone.”
From this point there began a regular skirmish between the captain and the sisters; the one trying to convince the others that it would be doing him a favour for which he could never find words to thank them, and the others endeavouring to show by every sort of argument that the thing was utterly unpossible, that the captain little knew what a burden he proposed to take on his shoulders, and that there was no use whatever in talking about it.
But Captain Bream was a man of resolution. He stuck to his point and pleaded his own cause so powerfully that the sisters began to waver.
“But think,” urged Kate, who did the most of the fighting, “you forget Liffie Lee. She is no longer a mere visitor for an hour or two of a morning, as she used to be, but a regular hired servant and we could not leave her behind.”
“I know that. It was my coming that made you hire her; and, now I think of it, I’ve a right to claim at least part of her, so she can come too, an’ we’ll lock up the house an’ get Mr Green-grocer to look after it—air it now and then. Come, just make up your minds. Only think, how beautiful the blue sea will be just now, an’ the sunny skies, an’ the yellow sands—I declare it makes me long to go. An’ then you’ll see that pretty boy you’ve taken such a fancy to—what’s ’is name?”
“Billy Bright,” said Kate.
“Just so—Billy Bright—though I can’t say that I’m over fond o’ pretty little boys. They’re too often soft an’—”
“But I tell you he’s as bold as a lion, and wise as a man, and tough as—as—”
“As a beefsteak,” said the captain; “yes, yes, I know all that, and I’m quite prepared to believe that he is an exception. Well, now, it’s agreed to—is it?”
But the sisters did not at once give in. They fought on with true feminine courage until the captain tried the effect of deep dejection and innocent submission, when their tender hearts could stand out no longer, and, hauling down their colours, they finally agreed to become librarians and accompany their lodger to Yarmouth.
Then the captain left them to report the victory to his commodore, Ruth Dotropy.
“I never had such a battle in my life!” he said to that scheming young creature. “They didn’t give in till they’d fired off every shot in their locker. Trafalgar and the Nile were nothin’ to it.”
“But do you really mean to say,” asked Ruth, who could hardly speak at first for laughing, “that you intend to buy all these theological books and set the sisters to work?”
“To be sure I do. You didn’t suppose that I was goin’ to tell a parcel o’ lies to help out your schemes, my dear? It has been for some months past simmerin’ in my brain that I ought to go through a small course of education in that line. And all you have done for me is to make me go in for it somewhat sooner, and a little heavier than I had intended in the way of books. And there’s no doubt I’ll study better at the sea-side than in London. Besides, I shall have the fishermen to try the effects of my studies on, and you may be sure I won’t let the poor things work too hard at the books.”
“I’ll trust you for that,” said Ruth.
Now, while these little plans were being arranged, an event was pending in the North Sea fleet which merits particular notice.
Chapter Thirteen.
Run down in a Fog—Captain Bream acts surprisingly
One day a fishing-smack was on the eve of quitting the Short Blue fleet for its little holiday of a week in port. It was the Sparrow, of which Jim Frost was master. A flag was flying to indicate its intention, and invite letters, etcetera, for home, if any of the crews should feel disposed to send them.
Several boats put off from their respective smacks in reply to the signal. One of these belonged to Singing Peter.
“Glad to see you, Peter,” said Jim Frost as the former leaped on the Sparrow’s deck.
“Same to you, lad. I wish you a pleasant spell ashore, and may the Master be with you,” returned Peter.
“The Master is sure to be with me,” replied Frost, “for has he not said, ‘I will never leave thee?’ Isn’t it a fine thing, Peter, to think that, whatever happens, the Lord is here to guard us from evil?”
“Ay, Jim, an’ to take us home when the time comes.”
“‘Which is far better,’” responded Jim.
“You’ll not get away to-night,” remarked Peter as he gazed out upon the sea. “It’s goin’ to fall calm.”
“No matter. I can wait.”
“What say ye, lad, to a hymn?” said Peter.
“I’m your man,” replied Jim, with a laugh, “I thought it wouldn’t be long before Singin’ Peter would want to raise his pipe.”
“He can’t help it, d’ee see,” returned Peter, answering the laugh with a smile; “if I didn’t sing I’d blow up. It’s my safety-valve, Jim, an’ I like to blow off steam when I gets alongside o’ like-minded men.”
“We’re all like-minded here. Fetch my accordion,” said Jim, turning to one of his men.
In a few minutes a lively hymn was raised in lusty tones which rolled far and wide over the slumbering sea. Then these like-minded men offered up several prayers, and it was observed that Jim Frost was peculiarly earnest that night. Of course they had some more hymns, for as the calm was by that time complete, and it was not possible for any sailing vessel to quit the fleet, there was no occasion to hurry. Indeed there is no saying how long these iron-framed fishermen would have kept it up, if it had not been for a slight fog which warned the visitors to depart.
As the night advanced the fog thickened, so that it was not possible to see more than fifty yards around any of the fishing-smacks.
Now it is probably known to most people that the greatest danger to which those who do business on the sea are exposed is during fog.
When all around is calm and peaceful; when the sound of voices comes with muffled sound over the smooth water; when the eye sees nothing save a ghostly white horizon all round close at hand; when almost the only sound that breaks on the ear is the gentle lapping of the sea, or the quiet creak of plank and spar, as the vessel slowly lifts and falls on the gentle swell, and when landsmen perchance feel most secure—then it is that the dark cloud of danger lowers most heavily, though perhaps unrecognised, over the mariner, and stirs him to anxious watchfulness, when apparently in profoundest repose.
Jim Frost knew well the dangers of the situation, but he had been long accustomed to face all the dangers peculiar to his calling on the deep without flinching—strong in the confidence of his well-tried courage and seamanship, and stronger still in his trust in Him who holds the water in the hollow of His hand. Many a time had he been becalmed in fog on the North Sea. He knew what to do, kept the fog-horn blowing, and took all the steps for safety that were possible in the circumstances.
But, somehow, the young fisherman did not feel his usual easy-going indifference on that particular night, though his trust in God was not less strong. He felt no fear, indeed, but a solemn sobriety of spirit had taken the place of his wonted cheery temperament, and, instead of singing in lively tones as he paced the deck, he hummed airs of a slow pathetic kind in a soft undertone.
It is often said that men receive mysterious intimations, sometimes, of impending disaster. It may be so. We cannot tell. Certainly it seemed as if Jim Frost had received some such intimation that night.
“I can’t understand it, Evan,” he said to his mate when the latter came on deck a little after midnight to relieve him. “A feeling as if something was going to happen has taken possession of me, and I can’t shake it off. You know I’m not the man to fancy danger when there’s none.”
Evan—a youth whom he had been the means of rescuing when about to fall, under great temptation—replied that perhaps want of sleep was the cause.
“You know,” he said, “men become little better than babbies when they goes long without sleep, an’ you’ve not had much of late. What with that tearin’ o’ the net an’ the gale that’s just gone, an’ that book, you know—”
“Ah!” interrupted Jim, “you mustn’t lay the blame on the book, Evan. I haven’t bin sittin’ up very late at it; though I confess I’m uncommon fond o’ readin’. Besides, it’s a good book, more likely to quiet a man’s mind than to rouse it. How we ever got on without readin’ before that mission-ship came to us, is more than I can understand! Why, it seems to have lifted me into a new world.”
“That’s so. I’m fond o’ readin’ myself,” said Evan, who, although not quite so enthusiastic or intellectual as his friend, appreciated very highly the library-bags which had been recently sent to the fleet.
“But the strange thing is,” said Jim, returning to the subject of his impressions—“the strange thing is, that my mind is not runnin’ on danger or damaged gear, or books, or gales, but on my dear wife at home. I’ve bin thinkin’ of Nancy in a way that I don’t remember to have done before, an’ the face of my darlin’ Lucy, wi’ her black eyes an’ rosy cheeks so like her mother, is never absent from my eyes for a moment.”
“Want o’ sleep,” said the practical Evan. “You’d better turn in an’ have a good spell as long as the calm lasts.”
“You remember the patch o’ green in front o’ my cottage in Gorleston?” asked Jim, paying no attention to his mate’s advice.
“Yes,” answered Evan.
“Well, when I was sittin’ for’ard there, not half-an-hour since, I seed my Nancy a-sittin’ on that green as plain as I see you, sewin’ away at somethin’, an’ Lucy playin’ at her knee. They was so real-like that I couldn’t help sayin’ ‘Nancy!’ an’ I do assure you that she stopped sewin’ an’ turned her head a-one side for a moment as if she was listenin’. An’ it was all so real-like too.”
“You was dreamin’; that was all,” said the unromantic Evan.
“No, mate. I wasn’t dreamin’,” returned Jim. “I was as wide awake as I am at this moment for I was lookin’ out all round just as keen as if I had not bin thinkin’ about home at all.”
“Well, you’d as well go below an’ dream about ’em now if you can,” suggested Evan, “an’ I’ll keep a sharp look-out.”
“No, lad, I can’t. I’m not a bit sleepy.”
As Jim said this he turned and went to the bow of the smack.
At that moment the muffled sound of a steamer’s paddles was heard. Probably the fog had something to do with the peculiarity of the sound, for next moment a fog-whistle sounded its harsh tone close at hand, and a dark towering shadow seemed to rush down upon the Sparrow.
Even if there had been a breeze there would have been no time to steer clear of the danger. As it was, the little vessel lay quite helpless on the sea, Evan shouted down the companion for the men to turn out for their lives. The man at the bow sounded the fog-horn loud and long. At the same instant Jim Frost’s voice rang out strong and clear a warning cry. It was answered from above. There were sudden screams and cries. The fog-whistle shrieked. Engines were reversed. “Hard a-port!” was shouted. Steam was blown off, and, amid confusion and turmoil indescribable, an ocean steamer struck the little Sparrow amidships, and fairly rammed her into the sea.
It could scarcely be said that there was a crash. The one was too heavy and the other too light for that. The smack lay over almost gracefully, as if submitting humbly to her inevitable doom. There was one great cry, and next moment she was rolling beneath the keel of the monster that had so ruthlessly run her down.
Not far off—so near indeed that those on board almost saw the catastrophe—lay the Evening Star. They of course heard the cries and the confusion, and knew only too well what had occurred.
To order out the boat was the work of an instant. With powerful strokes Joe, Spivin, Trevor, and Gunter, caused it to leap to the rescue. On reaching the spot they discovered and saved the mate. He was found clinging to an oar, but all the others had disappeared. The steamer which had done the deed had lowered a boat, and diligent search was made in all directions round the spot where the fatal collision had occurred. No other living soul, however, was found. Only a few broken spars and the upturned boat of the smack remained to tell where Jim Frost, and the rest of his like-minded men, had exchanged the garb of toil for the garments of glory!
As a matter of course this event made a profound impression for a time on board of the Evening Star and of such vessels as were near enough next morning to be informed of the sad news. A large portion of the fleet, however, was for some time unaware of what had taken place, and some of the masters and crews who were averse to what they styled “psalm-singin’ and prayin’,” did not seem to be much affected by the loss.
Whether grieved or indifferent however, the work of the fleet had to be done. Whether fishermen live or die, sink or swim, the inexorable demand of Billingsgate for fish must be met! Accordingly, next day about noon, a fresh breeze having sprung up, and a carrier-steamer being there ready for her load, the same lively scene which we have described in a previous chapter was re-enacted, and after the smacks were discharged they all went off as formerly in the same direction, like a shoal of herrings, to new fishing-grounds.
When they had got well away to the eastward and were beating up against a stiff northerly breeze, David Bright who stood near the helm of the Evening Star, said to his son in a peculiarly low voice—
“Now, Billy, you go below an’ fetch me a glass of grog.”
Billy went below as desired, but very unwillingly, for he well knew his father’s varying moods, and recognised in the peculiar tone in which the order was given, a species of despondency—almost amounting to despair—which not unfrequently ushered in some of his worst fits of intemperance.
“Your fadder’s in de blues to-day,” said Zulu, as he toiled over his cooking apparatus in the little cabin; “when he spok like dat, he goes in for heavy drink.”
“I know that well enough,” returned Billy, almost angrily.
“Why you no try him wid a ’speriment?” asked the cook, wrinkling up his nose and displaying his tremendous gums.
“For any sake don’t open your mouth like that, Zulu, but tell me what you mean by a ’speriment,” said the boy.
“How kin I tell what’s a ’speriment if I’m not to open my mout’?”
“Shut up, you nigger! an’ talk sense.”
“Der you go agin, Billy. How kin I talk sense if I’m to shut up? Don’t you know what a ’speriment is? Why it’s—it’s—just a ’speriment you know—a dodge.”
“If you mean a dodge, why don’t you say a dodge?” retorted Billy; “well, what is your dodge? look alive, for daddy’ll be shoutin’ for his grog in a minute.”
“You jus’ listen,” said the cook, in a hoarse whisper, as he opened his enormous eyes to their widest, “you jus’ take a wine-glass—de big ’un as your fadder be fond of—an’ put in ’im two teaspoonfuls o’ vinegar, one tablespoonful o’ parafine hoil, one leetle pinch o’ pepper, an’ one big pinch ob salt with a leetle mustard, an’ give ’im dat. Your fadder never take time to smell him’s grog—always toss ’im off quick.”
“Yes, an’ then he’d toss the wine-glass into my face an’ kick me round the deck afterwards, if not overboard,” said Billy, with a look of contempt. “No, Zulu, I don’t like your ’speriment, but you’ve put a notion into my head, for even when a fool speaks a wise man may learn—”
“Yes, I often tink dat,” said the cook, interrupting, with a look of innocence. “You quite right, so speak away, Billy, an’ I’ll learn.”
“You fetch me the wine-glass,” said the boy, sharply.
Zulu obeyed.
“Now, fill it up with water—so, an’ put in a little brown sugar to give it colour. That’s enough, stir him up. Not bad rum—to look at. I’ll try father wi’ that.”
Accordingly, our little hero went on deck and handed the glass to his father—retreating a step or two, promptly yet quietly, after doing so.
As Zulu had said, David Bright did not waste time in smelling his liquor. He emptied the glass at one gulp, and then gazed at his son with closed lips and gradually widening eyes.
“It’s only sugar and water, daddy,” said Billy, uncertain whether to laugh or look grave.
For a few moments the skipper was speechless. Then his face flushed, and he said in a voice of thunder, “Go below an’ fetch up the keg.”
There was no disobeying that order! The poor boy leaped down the ladder and seized the rum-keg.
“Your ’speriment might have been better after all, Zulu,” he whispered as he passed up again, and stood before his father.
What may have passed in the mind of that father during the brief interval we cannot tell, but he still stood with the empty wine-glass in his hand and a fierce expression on his face.
To Billy’s surprise, however, instead of seizing the keg and filling out a bumper, he said sternly—“See here,” and tossed the wine-glass into the sea. “Now lad,” he added, in a quiet voice, “throw that keg after it.”
The poor boy looked at his sire with wondering eyes, and hesitated.
“Overboard with it!” said David Bright in a voice of decision.
With a mingling of wild amazement, glee, and good-will, Billy, exerting all his strength, hurled the rum-keg into the air, and it fell with a heavy splash upon the sea.
“There, Billy,” said David, placing his hand gently on the boy’s head, “you go below and say your prayers, an’ if ye don’t know how to pray, get Luke Trevor to teach you, an’ don’t forget to thank God that your old father’s bin an’ done it at last.”
We are not informed how far Billy complied with these remarkable orders, but certain we are that David Bright did not taste a drop of strong drink during the remainder of that voyage. Whether he tasted it afterwards at all must be left for this chronicle to tell at the proper time and place.
At present it is necessary that we should return to Yarmouth, where Captain Bream, in pursuance of his deep-laid schemes, entered a bookseller’s shop and made a sweeping demand for theological literature.
“What particular work do you require, sir?” asked the surprised and somewhat amused bookseller.
“I don’t know that I want any one in particular,” said the captain, “I want pretty well all that have bin published up to this date. You know the names of ’em all, I suppose?”
“Indeed no, sir,” answered the man with a look of uncertainty. “Theological works are very numerous, and some of them very expensive. Perhaps if—”
“Now, look here. I’ve got neither time nor inclination to get upon the subject just now,” said the captain. “You just set your clerk to work to make out a list o’ the principal works o’ the kind you’ve got on hand, an’ I’ll come back in the evenin’ to see about it. Never mind the price. I won’t stick at that—nor yet the quality. Anything that throws light on religion will do.”
“But, sir,” said the shopman, “some of the theological works of the present day are supposed—at least by the orthodox—to throw darkness instead of light on religion.”
“All right,” returned the captain, “throw ’em all in. I don’t expect divines to agree any more than doctors. Besides, I’ve got a chart to steer by, called the Bible, that’ll keep me clear o’ rocks an’ shoals. You make your mind easy, an’ do as I bid you. Get the books together by six o’clock this evening, an’ the account made out, for I always pay cash down. Good-day.”
Leaving the bookseller to employ himself with this astounding “order,” Captain Bream next went to that part of the town which faces the sea-beach, and knocked at the door of a house in the window of which was a ticket with “lodgings” inscribed on it.
“Let me see your rooms, my good girl,” said the captain to the little maid who opened the door.
The little maid looked up at the captain with some surprise and no little hesitancy. She evidently feared either that the rooms would not be suitable for the applicant or that the applicant would not be suitable for the rooms. She admitted him, however, and, leading him up-stairs, ushered him into the parlour of the establishment.
“Splendid!” exclaimed the captain on beholding the large window, from which there was seen a glorious view of the sea, so near that the ships passing through the deep water close to the beach seemed as if they were trying which of them could sail nearest to land without grounding.
“Splendid!” he repeated with immense satisfaction as he turned from the view to the room itself; “now this is what I call fortunate. The very thing—sofa for Miss Jessie—easy-chair for Miss Kate—rocking chair for both of ’em. Nothin’ quite suitable for me, (looking round), but that’s not difficult to remedy. Glass over the chimney to see their pretty faces in, and what have we here—a press?”
“No, sir,” said the little maid, pushing open the door, “a small room off this one, sir.”
“Glorious!” shouted the captain, entering and striking the top of the door-way with his head in doing so. “Nothing could be better. This is the theological library! Just the thing—good-sized window, same view, small table, and—well, I declare! if there ain’t empty bookshelves!”
“Very sorry, sir,” said the little maid, hastening to apologise; “we have no books, but they’ll be handy for any books you may bring to the sea-side with you, sir, or for any little knick-knacks and odds and ends.”
“Yes, yes, my good girl. I’ll fetch a few theological odds and ends to-night that’ll p’r’aps fill ’em up. By the way, you’ve a bedroom, I hope?”
He looked anxious, and the maid, who seemed inclined to laugh, said that of course they had, a nice airy bedroom on the same floor on the other side of the passage—also commanding the sea.