Many Cargoes

“What’s the matter?” demanded the skipper.

“Somebody in the water, sir,” said Joe, relinquishing the wheel to one of the other seamen, and hauling in the line. “I heard a cry from the water and threw a line, and, by gum, I’ve hooked it!”

He hauled in, lustily aided by the skipper, until the long white body of Private Smith, blanched with the cold, came bumping against the schooner’s side.

“It’s a mermaid,” said the mate, who was inclined to be superstitious, as he peered doubtfully down at it. “Let it go, Joe.”

“Haul it in, boys,” said the skipper impatiently; and two of the men clambered over the side and, stooping down, raised it from the water.

In the midst of a puddle, which he brought with him, Private Smith was laid on the deck, and, waving his arms about, fought wildly for his breath.

“Fetch one of them empties,” said the skipper quickly, as he pointed to some barrels ranged along the side.

The men rolled one over, and then aided the skipper in placing the long fair form of their visitor across it, and to trundle it lustily up and down the deck, his legs forming convenient handles for the energetic operators.

“He’s coming round,” said the mate, checking them; “he’s speaking. How do you feel, my poor fellow?”

He put his ear down, but the action was unnecessary. Private Smith felt bad, and, in the plainest English he could think of at the moment, said so distinctly.

“He’s swearing,” said the mate. “He ought to be ashamed of himself.”

“Yes,” said the skipper austerely; “and him so near death too. How did you get in the water?”

“Went for a—swim,” panted Smith surlily.

“SWIM?” echoed the skipper. “Why, we’re ten miles from land!”

“His mind’s wandering, pore feller,” interrupted Joe hurriedly. “What boat did you fall out of, matey?”

“A row-boat,” said Smith, trying to roll out of reach of the skipper, who was down on his knees flaying him alive with a roller-towel. “I had to undress in the water to keep afloat. I’ve lost all my clothes.”

“Pore feller,” said Dan.

“A gold watch and chain, my purse, and three of the nicest fellers that ever breathed,” continued Smith, who was now entering into the spirit of the thing.

“Poor chaps,” said the skipper solemnly. “Any of ‘em leave any family?”

“Four,” said Smith sadly.

“Children?” queried the mate.

“Families,” said Smith.

“Look here,” said the mate, but the watchful Joe interrupted him.

“His mind’s wandering,” said he hastily. “He can’t count, pore chap. We ‘d better git him to bed.”

“Ah, do,” said the skipper, and, assisted by his friends, the rescued man was half led, half carried below and put between the blankets, where he lay luxuriously sipping a glass of brandy and water, sent from the cabin.

“How’d I do it?” he inquired, with a satisfied air.

“There was no need to tell all them lies about it,” said Dan sharply; “instead of one little lie you told half-a-dozen. I don’t want nothing more to do with you. You start afresh now, like a new-born babe.”

“All right,” said Smith shortly; and, being very much fatigued with his exertions, and much refreshed by the brandy, fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

The morning was well advanced when he awoke, and the fo’c’sle empty except for the faithful Joe, who was standing by his side, with a heap of clothing under his arm.

“Try these on,” said he, as Smith stared at him half awake; “they’ll be better than nothing, at any rate.”

The soldier leaped from his bunk and gratefully proceeded to dress himself, Joe eyeing him critically as the trousers climbed up his long legs, and the sleeves of the jacket did their best to conceal his elbows.

“What do I look like?” he inquired anxiously, as he finished.

“Six foot an’ a half o’ misery,” piped the shrill voice of Billy promptly, as he thrust his head in at the fo’c’sle. “You can’t go to church in those clothes.”

“Well, they’ll do for the ship, but you can’t go ashore in ‘em,” said Joe, as he edged towards the ladder, and suddenly sprang up a step or two to let fly at the boy, “The old man wants to see you; be careful what you say to him.”

With a very unsuccessful attempt to appear unconscious of the figure he cut, Smith went up on deck for the interview.

“We can’t do anything until we get to London,” said the skipper, as he made copious notes of Smith’s adventures. “As soon as we get there, I’ll lend you the money to telegraph to your friends to tell ‘em you’re safe and to send you some clothes, and of course you’ll have free board and lodging till it comes, and I’ll write out an account of it for the newspapers.”

“You’re very good,” said Smith blankly.

“And I don’t know what you are,” said the skipper, interrogatively; “but you ought to go in for swimming as a profession—six hours’ swimming about like that is wonderful.”

“You don’t know what you can do till you have to,” said Smith modestly, as he backed slowly away; “but I never want to see the water again as long as I live.”

The two remaining days of their passage passed all too quickly for the men, who were casting about for some way out of the difficulty which they foresaw would arise when they reached London.

“If you’d only got decent clothes,” said Joe, as they passed Gravesend, “you could go off and send a telegram, and not come back; but you couldn’t go five yards in them things without having a crowd after you.”

“I shall have to be taken I s’pose,” said Smith moodily.

“An’ poor old Dan’ll get six months hard for helping you off,” said Joe sympathetically, as a bright idea occurred to him.

“Rubbish!” said Dan uneasily. “He can stick to his tale of being upset; anyway, the skipper saw him pulled out of the water. He’s too honest a chap to get an old man into trouble for trying to help him.”

“He must have a new rig out, Dan,” said Joe softly. “You an’ me’ll go an’ buy ‘em. I’ll do the choosing, and you’ll do the paying. Why, it’ll be a reg’lar treat for you to lay out a little money, Dan. We’ll have quite an evening’s shopping, everything of the best.”

The infuriated Dan gasped for breath, and looked helplessly at the grinning crew.

“I’ll see him—overboard first,” he said furiously.

“Please yourself,” said Joe shortly, “If he’s caught you’ll get six months. As it is, you’ve got a chance of doing a nice, kind little Christian act, becos, o’ course, that twenty-five bob you got out of him won’t anything like pay for his toggery.”

Almost beside himself with indignation, the old man moved off, and said not another word until they were made fast to the wharf at Limehouse. He did not even break silence when Joe, taking him affectionately by the arm, led him aft to the skipper.

“Me an’ Dan, sir,” said Joe very respectfully, “would like to go ashore for a little shopping. Dan has very kindly offered to lend that pore chap the money for some clothes, and he wants me to go with him to help carry them.”