The Young Trawler

“I don’t know, sir.”

“He must be a sailor-boy, from his answer,” rejoined the captain. “Open the door o’ my cabin, lass, and I’ll carry it right in. It’s somewhat heavy.”

He lifted the chest, which was within an eighth of an inch of being too large to pass through the little door-way, and put it in a corner, after which he entered the parlour, and sat down in a solid wooden chair which he had supplied to the establishment for his own special use.

“You see,” he had said, on the day when he introduced it, “I’ve come to grief so often in the matter of chairs that I’ve become chary as to how I use ’em. If all the chairs that I’ve had go crash under me was put together they’d furnish a good-sized house. Look before you leap is a well-known proverb, but look before you sit down has become a more familiar experience to me through life. It’s an awkward thing bein’ so heavy, and I hope you’ll never know what it is, ladies.”

Judging from their appearance just then there did not seem much prospect of that!

“Now,” continued the captain, rubbing his hands and looking benignantly at Jessie, “I have settled the matter at last; fairly said good-bye to old Ocean, an’ fixed to cast anchor for good on the land.”

“Have you indeed, captain?” said Jessie, “I should fancy that you must feel rather sorry to bid farewell to so old a friend.”

“That’s true, Miss Seaward. An old and good friend the sea has been to me, thank God. But I’m gettin’ too old myself to be much of a friend to it, so I’ve fixed to say good-bye. And the question is, Am I to stop on here, or am I to look out for another lodgin’? You see I’ve been a good many weeks with you now, an’ you’ve had a fair taste of me, so to speak. I know I’m a rough sort o’ fish for the like o’ you to have to do with, and, like some o’ the hermit crabs, rather too big for my shell, so if you find me awkward or uncomfortable don’t hesitate to say so. I won’t be surprised, though I confess I should be sorry to leave you.”

“Well, Captain Bream,” said Kate, who was generally the speaker when delicate, difficult or unpleasant subjects had to be dealt with, “since you have been so candid with us we will be equally candid with you. When you first came to us, I confess that we were much alarmed; you seemed—so very big,” (the captain tried to shrink a little—without success—and smiled in a deprecating manner), “and our rooms and furniture seemed so very small and delicate, so to speak; and then your voice was so fearfully deep and gruff,” (the captain cleared his throat softly—in B natural of the bass clef—and smiled again), “that we were almost frightened to receive you; but, now that we have had experience of you, we are quite willing that you should continue with us—on one condition, however.”

“And that is?” asked the captain anxiously.

“That you pay us a lower rent.”

“A—a higher rent you mean, I suppose?”

“No; I mean a lower.”

Captain Bream’s benign visage became grave and elongated.

“You see, captain,” continued Kate, flushing a little, “when you first came, we tried—excuse me—to get rid of you, to shake you off, and we almost doubled the rent of our little room, hoping that—”

“Quite right, quite right,” interrupted the captain, “and according to strict justice, for ain’t I almost double the size of or’nary men, an’ don’t I give more than double the trouble?”

“Not so,” returned Kate, firmly, “you don’t give half the trouble that other men do.”

“Excuse me, Miss Kate,” said the captain with a twinkle in his grey eye, “you told me I was your first lodger, so how can you know how much trouble other men would give?”

“No matter,” persisted Kate, a little confused, “you don’t give half the trouble that other lodgers would have given if we had had them.”

“Ah! h’m—well,” returned the captain softly, in the profoundest possible bass, “looking at the matter in that light, perhaps you are not far wrong. But, go on.”

“Well, I have only to add,” continued Kate, “that you have been so kind to us, and so considerate, and have given us so little—so very little trouble, that it will give us both great pleasure to have you continue to lodge with us if you agree to the reduction of the rent.”

“Very well,” said Captain Bream, pulling out an immense gold chronometer—the gift, in days gone by, of a band of highly grateful and appreciative passengers. “I’ve got business in the city an hour hence. We shall have dinner first. Two hours afterwards I will return with a cab and take away my boxes. That will give you plenty of time to make out your little bill and—”

“What do you mean, captain?” interrupted Kate, in much surprise.

“I mean, dear ladies, that you and I entered into an agreement to rent your little cabin for so much. Now it has been my rule in life to stick to agreements, and I mean to stick to this one or throw up my situation. Besides, I’m not goin’ to submit to have the half of my rent cut off. I can’t stand it. Like old Shylock, I mean to stick to the letter of the bond. Now, is it ‘to be, or not to be?’ as Hamlet said to the ass.”

“I was not aware that Hamlet said that to an ass,” remarked Jessie, with a little laugh.

“Oh yes! he did,” returned the captain quite confidently; “he said it to himself, you know, an’ that was the same thing. But what about the agreement?”

“Well, since you are so determined, I suppose we must give in,” said Kate.

“We can’t resist you, captain,” said Jessie, “but there is one thing that we must positively insist on, namely, that you come and sit in this room of an evening. I suppose you read or write a great deal, for we see your light burning very late sometimes, and as you have no fire you must often feel very cold.”

“Cold!” shouted the captain, with a laugh that caused the very window-frames to vibrate. “My dear ladies, I’m never cold. Got so used to it, I suppose, that it has no power over me. Why, when a man o’ my size gets heated right through, it takes three or four hours to cool him even a little. Besides, if it do come a very sharp frost, I’ve got a bear-skin coat that our ship-carpenter made for me one voyage in the arctic regions. It is hot enough inside almost to cook you. Did I ever show it you? I’ll fetch it.”

Captain Bream rose with such energy that he unintentionally spurned his chair—his own solid peculiar chair—and caused it to pirouette on one leg before tumbling backward with a crash. Next minute he returned enveloped from head to foot in what might be termed a white-bear ulster, with an enormous hood at the back of his neck.

Accustomed as the sisters were to their lodger’s bulk, they were not prepared for the marvellous increase caused by the monstrous hairy garment.

“It would puzzle the cold to get at me through this, wouldn’t it?” said its owner, surveying it with complacency. “It was my own invention too—at least the carpenter and I concocted it between us.

“The sleeves are closed up at the ends, you see, and a thumb attached to each, so as to make sleeves and mittens all of a piece, with a slit near the wrists to let you shove your hands out when you want to use them naked, an’ a flap to cover the slit and keep the wind out when you don’t want to shove out your hands. Then the hood, you see, is large and easy, so that it can be pulled well for’ard—so—and this broad band behind it unbuttons and comes round in front of the face and buttons, so—to keep all snug when you lay down to sleep.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the sisters as the captain stood before them like a great pillar of white fur, with nothing of him visible save the eyes and feet.

“But that’s not all,” continued the ancient mariner, turning his back to the sisters. “You see that great flap hooked up behind?”

“Yes,” answered Jessie and Kate in the same breath.

“Well, then, notice what I do.”

He sat down on the floor, and unhooking the flap, drew it round in front, where he re-hooked it to another row of eyes in such a manner that it completely covered his feet and lower limbs.

“There, you see, I’m in a regular fur-bag now, all ready for a night in the snow.”

By way of illustration he extended himself on the floor at full-length, and, by reason of that length being so great, and the room so narrow, his feet went into the window-recess while his head lay near the door.

All ignorant of this illustration of arctic life going on, Liffie Lee, intent on dinner purposes, opened the door and drove it violently against the captain’s head.

“Avast there!” he shouted, rising promptly. “Come in, lass. Come in—no damage done.”

“Oh! sir,” exclaimed the horrified Liffie, “I ax your parding.”

“Don’t put yourself about my girl. I’m used to collisions, and it’s not in the power o’ your small carcass to do me damage.”

Disrobing himself as he spoke, the lodger retired to his cabin to lay aside his curious garment, and Liffie, assisted by Kate, took advantage of his absence to spread their little board.

“I never saw such a man,” said Kate in a low voice as she bustled about.

“Saw!” exclaimed Jessie under her breath, “I never even conceived of such a man. He is so violent in his actions that I constantly feel as if I should be run over and killed. It feels like living in the same house with a runaway mail coach. How fortunate that his spirit is so gentle and kind!”

A tremendous crash at that moment caused Jessie to stop with a gasp.

“Hallo! fetch a swab—a dish-clout or somethin’, Liffie,” came thundering from the captain’s room. “Don’t be alarmed, ladies, it’s only the wash-hand basin. Knocked it over in hangin’ up the coat. Nothin’ smashed. It’s a tin basin, you know. Look alive, lass, else the water’ll git down below, for the caulkin’ of these planks ain’t much to boast of, an’ you’ll have the green-grocer up in a towering rage!”

A few minutes later this curious trio sat down to dinner, and the captain, according to a custom established from the commencement of his sojourn, asked a blessing on the meat in few words, but with a deeply reverent manner, his great hands being clasped before him, and with his eyes shut like a little child.