Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection)

“Shave!” ejaculated the skipper, in choking accents. “Rub—! Coal-dust!”

“It’s your only chance,” said Miss Pilbeam.

Captain Bligh leaned back frowning, and from sheer force of habit passed the ends of his moustache slowly through his fingers. “I think the coal-dust would be enough,” he said at last.

The girl shook her head. “Father particularly noticed your moustache,” she said.

“Everybody does,” said the skipper, with mournful pride. “I won’t part with it.”

“Not for my sake?” inquired Miss Pilbeam, eying him mournfully. “Not after all I’ve done for you?”

“No,” said the other, stoutly.

Miss Pilbeam put her handkerchief to her eyes and, with a suspicious little sniff, hurried from the room. Captain Bligh, much affected, waited for a few seconds and then went in pursuit of her. Fifteen minutes later, shorn of his moustache, he stood in the coal-hole, sulkily smearing himself with coal.

“That’s better,” said the girl; “you look horrible.”

She took up a handful of coal-dust and, ordering him to stoop, shampooed him with hearty good-will.

“No good half doing it,” she declared. “Now go and look at yourself in the glass in the kitchen.”

The skipper went, and came back in a state of wild-eyed misery. Even Miss Pilbeam’s statement that his own mother would not know him failed to lift the cloud from his brow. He stood disconsolate as the girl opened the front door.

“Good-by,” she said, gently. “Write and tell me when you are safe.”

Captain Bligh promised, and walked slowly up the road. So far from people attempting to arrest him, they vied with each other in giving him elbow-room. He reached the harbor unmolested, and, lurking at a convenient corner, made a careful survey. A couple of craft were working out their coal, a small steamer was just casting loose, and a fishing-boat gliding slowly over the still water to its berth. His own schooner, which lay near the colliers, had apparently knocked off work pending his arrival. For Sergeant Pilbeam he looked in vain.

He waited a minute or two, and then, with a furtive glance right and left, strolled in a careless fashion until he was abreast of one of the colliers. Nobody took any notice of him, and, with his hands in his pockets, he gazed meditatively into the water and edged along towards his own craft. His foot trembled as he placed it on the plank that formed the gangway, but, resisting the temptation to look behind, he gained the deck and walked forward.

“Halloa! What do you want?” inquired a sea-man, coming out of the galley.

“All right, Bill,” said the skipper, in a low voice. “Don’t take any notice of me.”

“Eh?” said the seaman, starting. “Good lor’! What ha’ you–”

“Shut up!” said the skipper, fiercely; and, walking to the forecastle, placed his hand on the scuttle and descended with studied slowness. As he reached the floor the perturbed face of Bill blocked the opening.

“Had an accident, cap’n?” he inquired, respectfully.

“No,” snapped the skipper. “Come down here—quick! Don’t stand up there attracting attention. Do you want the whole town round you? Come down!”

“I’m all right where I am,” said Bill, backing hastily as the skipper, putting a foot on the ladder, thrust a black and furious face close to his.

“Clear out, then,” hissed the skipper. “Go and send the mate to me. Don’t hurry. And if anybody noticed me come aboard and should ask you who I am, say I’m a pal of yours.”

The seaman, marvelling greatly, withdrew, and the skipper, throwing himself on a locker, wiped a bit of grit out of his eye and sat down to wait for the mate. He was so long in coming that he waxed impatient, and ascending a step of the ladder again peeped on to the deck. The first object that met his gaze was the figure of the mate leaning against the side of the ship with a wary eye on the scuttle.

“Come here,” said the skipper.

“Anything wrong?” inquired the mate, retreating a couple of paces in disorder.

“Come—here!” repeated the skipper.

The mate advanced slowly, and in response to an imperative command from the skipper slowly descended and stood regarding him nervously.

“Yes; you may look,” said the skipper, with sudden ferocity. “This is all your doing. Where are you going?”

He caught the mate by the coat as he was making for the ladder, and hauled him back again.

“You’ll go when I’ve finished with you,” he said, grimly. “Now, what do you mean by it? Eh? What do you mean by it?”

“That’s all right,” said the mate, in a soothing voice. “Don’t get excited.”

“Look at me!” said the skipper. “All through your interfering. How dare you go making inquiries about me?”

“Me?” said the mate, backing as far as possible. “Inquiries?”

“What’s it got to do with you if I stay out all night?” pursued the skipper.

“Nothing,” said the other, feebly.

“What did you go to the police about me for, then?” demanded the skipper.

“Me?” said the mate, in the shrill accents of astonishment. “Me? I didn’t go to no police about you. Why should I?”

“Do you mean to say you didn’t report my absence last night to the police?” said the skipper, sternly.

“Cert’nly not,” said the mate, plucking up courage. “Why should I? If you like to take a night off it’s nothing to do with me. I ‘ope I know my duty better. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And the police haven’t been watching the ship and inquiring for me?” asked the skipper.

The mate shook his bewildered head. “Why should they?” he inquired.

The skipper made no reply. He sat goggle-eyed, staring straight before him, trying in vain to realize the hardness of the heart that had been responsible for such a scurvy trick.

“Besides, it ain’t the fust time you’ve been out all night,” remarked the mate, aggressively.

The skipper favored him with a glance the dignity of which was somewhat impaired by his complexion, and in a slow and stately fashion ascended to the deck. Then he caught his breath sharply and paled beneath the coaldust as he saw Sergeant Pilbeam standing on the quay, opposite the ship. By his side stood Miss Pilbeam, and both, with a far-away look in their eyes, were smiling vaguely but contentedly at the horizon. The sergeant appeared to be the first to see the skipper.

“Ahoy, Darkie!” he cried.

Captain Bligh, who was creeping slowly aft, halted, and, clenching his fists, regarded him ferociously.

“Give this to the skipper, will you, my lad?” said the sergeant, holding up the jacket Bligh had left behind. “Good-looking young man with a very fine moustache he is.”

“Was,” said his daughter, in a mournful voice.

“And a rather dark complexion,” continued the sergeant, grinning madly. “I was going to take him—for stealing my coal—but I thought better of it. Thought of a better way. At least, my daughter did. So long; Darkie.”