Captains All and Others

“I don’t know,” ses Gerty; “leave it to the cabman. It’s his bisness, ain’t it? And if ‘e don’t know he must suffer for it.”

There was hardly a soul in Gerty’s road when they got there, but afore George ‘ad settled with the cabman there was a policeman moving the crowd on and arf the winders in the road up. By the time George had paid ‘im and the cabman ‘ad told him wot ‘e looked like, Gerty and Ted ‘ad disappeared indoors, all the lights was out, and, in a state o’ mind that won’t bear thinking of, George walked ‘ome to his lodging.

Bob was asleep when he got there, but ‘e woke ‘im up and told ‘im about it, and then arter a time he said that he thought Bob ought to pay arf because he ‘ad saved ‘is life.

“Cert’nly not,” ses Bob. “We’re quits now; that was the arrangement. I only wish it was me spending the money on her; I shouldn’t grumble.”

George didn’t get a wink o’ sleep all night for thinking of the money he ‘ad spent, and next day when he went round he ‘ad almost made up ‘is mind to tell Bob that if ‘e liked to pay up the money he could ‘ave Gerty back; but she looked so pretty, and praised ‘im up so much for ‘is generosity, that he began to think better of it. One thing ‘e was determined on, and that was never to spend money like that agin for fifty Gertys.

There was a very sensible man there that evening that George liked very much. His name was Uncle Joe, and when Gerty was praising George to ‘is face for the money he ‘ad been spending, Uncle Joe, instead o’ looking pleased, shook his ‘ead over it.

“Young people will be young people, I know,” he ses, “but still I don’t approve of extravagance. Bob Evans would never ‘ave spent all that money over you.”

“Bob Evans ain’t everybody,” ses Mrs. Mitchell, standing up for Gerty.

“He was steady, anyway,” ses Uncle Joe. “Besides, Gerty ought not to ha’ let Mr. Crofts spend his money like that. She could ha’ prevented it if she’d ha’ put ‘er foot down and insisted on it.”

He was so solemn about it that everybody began to feel a bit upset, and Gerty borrowed Ted’s pocket-’andkerchief, and then wiped ‘er eyes on the cuff of her dress instead.

“Well, well,” ses Uncle Joe; “I didn’t mean to be ‘ard, but don’t do it no more. You are young people, and can’t afford it.”

“We must ‘ave a little pleasure sometimes,” ses Gerty.

“Yes, I know,” ses Uncle Joe; “but there’s moderation in everything. Look ‘ere, it’s time somebody paid for Mr. Crofts. To-morrow’s Saturday, and, if you like, I’ll take you all to the Crystal Palace.”

Gerty jumped up off of ‘er chair and kissed ‘im, while Mrs. Mitchell said she knew ‘is bark was worse than ‘is bite, and asked ‘im who was wasting his money now?

“You meet me at London Bridge Station at two o’clock,” ses Uncle Joe, getting up to go. “It ain’t extravagance for a man as can afford it.”

He shook ‘ands with George Crofts and went, and, arter George ‘ad stayed long enough to hear a lot o’ things about Uncle Joe which made ‘im think they’d get on very well together, he went off too.

They all turned up very early the next arternoon, and Gerty was dressed so nice that George couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Besides her there was Mrs. Mitchell and Ted and a friend of ‘is named Charlie Smith.

They waited some time, but Uncle Joe didn’t turn up, and they all got looking at the clock and talking about it, and ‘oping he wouldn’t make ‘em miss the train.

“Here he comes!” ses Ted, at last.

Uncle Joe came rushing in, puffing and blowing as though he’d bust. “Take ‘em on by this train, will you?” he ses, catching ‘old o’ George by the arm. “I’ve just been stopped by a bit o’ business I must do, and I’ll come on by the next, or as soon arter as I can.”

He rushed off again, puffing and blowing his ‘ardest, in such a hurry that he forgot to give George the money for the tickets. However, George borrowed a pencil of Mrs. Mitchell in the train, and put down on paper ‘ow much they cost, and Mrs. Mitchell said if George didn’t like to remind ‘im she would.

They left young Ted and Charlie to stay near the station when they got to the Palace, Uncle Joe ‘aving forgotten to say where he’d meet ‘em, but train arter train came in without ‘im, and at last the two boys gave it up.

“We’re sure to run across ‘im sooner or later,” ses Gerty. “Let’s ‘ave something to eat; I’m so hungry.”

George said something about buns and milk, but Gerty took ‘im up sharp. “Buns and milk?” she ses. “Why, uncle would never forgive us if we spoilt his treat like that.”

She walked into a refreshment place and they ‘ad cold meat and bread and pickles and beer and tarts and cheese, till even young Ted said he’d ‘ad enough, but still they couldn’t see any signs of Uncle Joe. They went on to the roundabouts to look for ‘im, and then into all sorts o’ shows at sixpence a head, but still there was no signs of ‘im, and George had ‘ad to start on a fresh bit o’ paper to put down wot he’d spent.

“I suppose he must ha’ been detained on important business,” ses Gerty, at last.

“Unless it’s one of ‘is jokes,” ses Mrs. Mitchell, shaking her ‘ead. “You know wot your uncle is, Gerty.”

“There now, I never thought o’ that,” ses Gerty, with a start; “p’r’aps it is.”

“Joke?” ses George, choking and staring from one to the other.

“I was wondering where he’d get the money from,” ses Mrs. Mitchell to Gerty. “I see it all now; I never see such a man for a bit o’ fun in all my born days. And the solemn way he went on last night, too. Why, he must ha’ been laughing in ‘is sleeve all the time. It’s as good as a play.”

“Look here!” ses George, ‘ardly able to speak; “do you mean to tell me he never meant to come?”

“I’m afraid not,” ses Mrs. Mitchell, “knowing wot he is. But don’t you worry; I’ll give him a bit o’ my mind when I see ‘im.”

George Crofts felt as though he’d burst, and then ‘e got his breath, and the things ‘e said about Uncle Joe was so awful that Mrs. Mitchell told the boys to go away.

“How dare you talk of my uncle like that?” ses Gerty, firing up.

“You forget yourself, George,” ses Mrs. Mitchell. “You’ll like ‘im when you get to know ‘im better.”

“Don’t you call me George,” ses George Crofts, turning on ‘er. “I’ve been done, that’s wot I’ve been. I ‘ad fourteen pounds when I was paid off, and it’s melting like butter.”

“Well, we’ve enjoyed ourselves,” ses Gerty, “and that’s what money was given us for. I’m sure those two boys ‘ave had a splendid time, thanks to you. Don’t go and spoil all by a little bit o’ temper.”

“Temper!” ses George, turning on her. “I’ve done with you, I wouldn’t marry you if you was the on’y gal in the world. I wouldn’t marry you if you paid me.”

“Oh, indeed!” ses Gerty; “but if you think you can get out of it like that you’re mistaken. I’ve lost my young man through you, and I’m not going to lose you too. I’ll send my two big cousins round to see you to-morrow.”

“They won’t put up with no nonsense, I can tell you,” ses Mrs. Mitchell.

She called the boys to her, and then she and Gerty, arter holding their ‘eads very high and staring at George, went off and left ‘im alone. He went straight off ‘ome, counting ‘is money all the way and trying to make it more, and, arter telling Bob ‘ow he’d been treated, and trying hard to get ‘im to go shares in his losses, packed up his things and cleared out, all boiling over with temper.

Bob was so dazed he couldn’t make head or tail out of it, but ‘e went round to see Gerty the first thing next morning, and she explained things to him.

“I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself so much,” she ses, wiping her eyes, “but I’ve had enough gadding about for once, and if you come round this evening we’ll have a nice quiet time together looking at the furniture shops.”

OVER THE SIDE

Of all classes of men, those who follow the sea are probably the most prone to superstition. Afloat upon the black waste of waters, at the mercy of wind and sea, with vast depths and strange creatures below them, a belief in the supernatural is easier than ashore, under the cheerful gas-lamps. Strange stories of the sea are plentiful, and an incident which happened within my own experience has made me somewhat chary of dubbing a man fool or coward because he has encountered something he cannot explain. There are stories of the supernatural with prosaic sequels; there are others to which the sequel has never been published.

I was fifteen years old at the time, and as my father, who had a strong objection to the sea, would not apprentice me to it, I shipped before the mast on a sturdy little brig called the Endeavour, bound for Riga. She was a small craft, but the skipper was as fine a seaman as one could wish for, and, in fair weather, an easy man to sail under. Most boys have a rough time of it when they first go to sea, but, with a strong sense of what was good for me, I had attached myself to a brawny, good-natured infant, named Bill Smith, and it was soon understood that whoever hit me struck Bill by proxy. Not that the crew were particularly brutal, but a sound cuffing occasionally is held by most seamen to be beneficial to a lad’s health and morals. The only really spiteful fellow among them was a man named Jem Dadd. He was a morose, sallow-looking man, of about forty, with a strong taste for the supernatural, and a stronger taste still for frightening his fellows with it. I have seen Bill almost afraid to go on deck of a night for his trick at the wheel, after a few of his reminiscences. Rats were a favourite topic with him, and he would never allow one to be killed if he could help it, for he claimed for them that they were the souls of drowned sailors, hence their love of ships and their habit of leaving them when they became unseaworthy. He was a firm believer in the transmigration of souls, some idea of which he had, no doubt, picked up in Eastern ports, and gave his shivering auditors to understand that his arrangements for his own immediate future were already perfected.

We were six or seven days out when a strange thing happened. Dadd had the second watch one night, and Bill was to relieve him. They were not very strict aboard the brig in fair weather, and when a man’s time was up he just made the wheel fast, and, running for’ard, shouted down the fo’c’s’le. On this night I happened to awake suddenly, in time to see Bill slip out of his bunk and stand by me, rubbing his red eyelids with his knuckles.

“Dadd’s giving me a long time,” he whispered, seeing that I was awake; “it’s a whole hour after his time.”

He pattered up on deck, and I was just turning over, thankful that I was too young to have a watch to keep, when he came softly down again, and, taking me by the shoulders, shook me roughly.

“Jack,” he whispered. “Jack.”