Short Cruises

“He went off with Ted Stokes,” said his wife. “If you’re George you’d better go and ask him.”

She prepared to close the window, but Mr. Henshaw’s voice arrested her.

“And suppose he is not there?” he said.

Mrs. Henshaw reflected. “If he is not there bring Ted Stokes back with you,” she said at last, “and if he says you’re George, I’ll let you in.”

The window closed and the light disappeared. Mr. Henshaw waited for some time, but in vain, and, with a very clear idea of the reception he would meet with at the hands of Mr. Stokes, set off to his lodging.

If anything, he had underestimated his friend’s powers. Mr. Stokes, rudely disturbed just as he had got into bed, was the incarnation of wrath. He was violent, bitter, and insulting in a breath, but Mr. Henshaw was desperate, and Mr. Stokes, after vowing over and over again that nothing should induce him to accompany him back to his house, was at last so moved by his entreaties that he went upstairs and equipped himself for the journey.

“And, mind, after this I never want to see your face again,” he said, as they walked swiftly back.

Mr. Henshaw made no reply. The events of the day had almost exhausted him, and silence was maintained until they reached the house. Much to his relief he heard somebody moving about upstairs after the first knock and in a very short time the window was gently raised and Mrs. Henshaw looked out.

“What, you’ve come back?” she said, in a low, intense voice. “Well, of all the impudence! How dare you carry on like this?”

“It’s me,” said her husband.

“Yes, I see it is,” was the reply.

“It’s him right enough; it’s your husband,” said Mr. Stokes. “Alfred Bell has gone.”

“How dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods!” exclaimed Mrs. Henshaw. “I wonder the ground don’t open and swallow you up. It’s Mr. Bell, and if he don’t go away I’ll call the police.”

Messrs. Henshaw and Stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking up at her. Then they conferred in whispers.

“If you can’t tell ‘em apart, how do you know this is Mr. Bell?” inquired Mr. Stokes, turning to the window again.

“How do I know?” repeated Mrs. Henshaw. “How do I know? Why, because my husband came home almost directly Mr. Bell had gone. I wonder he didn’t meet him.”

“Came home?” cried Mr. Henshaw, shrilly. “Came home?”

“Yes; and don’t make so much noise,” said Mrs. Henshaw, tartly; “he’s asleep.”

The two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. Mr. Stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away. At the end of the street he took a deep breath, and, after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, summed up the situation.

“She’s twigged it all along,” he said, with conviction. “You’ll have to come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best thing you can do is to make a clean breast of it. It was a silly game, and, if you remember, I was against it from the first.”

MIXED RELATIONS

THE brig Elizabeth Barstow came up the river as though in a hurry to taste again the joys of the Metropolis. The skipper, leaning on the wheel, was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate, who was placing before him the hygienic, economical, and moral advantages of total abstinence in language of great strength but little variety.

“Teetotallers eat more,” said the skipper, finally.

The mate choked, and his eye sought the galley. “Eat more?” he spluttered. “Yesterday the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted like a bit o’ dirty sponge. I’ve lived on biscuits this trip; and the only tater I ate I’m going to see a doctor about direckly I get ashore. It’s a sin and a shame to spoil good food the way ‘e does.”

“The moment I can ship another cook he goes,” said the skipper. “He seems busy, judging by the noise.”

“I’m making him clean up everything, ready for the next,” explained the mate, grimly. “And he ‘ad the cheek to tell me he’s improving—improving!”

“He’ll go as soon as I get another,” repeated the skipper, stooping and peering ahead. “I don’t like being poisoned any more than you do. He told me he could cook when I shipped him; said his sister had taught him.”

The mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind by putting his head in at the galley and bidding the cook hold up each separate utensil for his inspection. A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly attributed to elbow-grease.

The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the traffic, sought her old berth at Buller’s Wharf. It was occupied by a deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable position and consoled itself with adjectives.

The men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the crew of the Elizabeth Barstow, after making fast, went below to prepare themselves for an evening ashore. Standing before the largest saucepan-lid in the galley, the cook was putting the finishing touches to his toilet.

A light, quick step on the wharf attracted the attention of the skipper as he leaned against the side smoking. It stopped just behind him, and turning round he found himself gazing into the soft brown eyes of the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

“Is Mr. Jewell on board, please?” she asked, with a smile.

“Jewell?” repeated the skipper. “Jewell? Don’t know the name.”

“He was on board,” said the girl, somewhat taken aback. “This is the Elizabeth Barstow, isn’t it?”

“What’s his Christian name,” inquired the skipper, thoughtfully.

“Albert,” replied the girl. “Bert,” she added, as the other shook his head.

“Oh, the cook!” said the skipper. “I didn’t know his name was Jewell. Yes, he’s in the galley.”

He stood eyeing her and wondering in a dazed fashion what she could see in a small, white-faced, slab-sided—

The girl broke in upon his meditations. “How does he cook?” she inquired, smiling.

He was about to tell her, when he suddenly remembered the cook’s statement as to his instructor. “He’s getting on,” he said, slowly; “he’s getting on. Are you his sister?”

The girl smiled and nodded. “Ye—es,” she said, slowly. “Will you tell him I am waiting for him, please?”

The skipper started and drew himself up; then he walked forward and put his head in at the galley.

“Bert,” he said, in a friendly voice, “your sister wants to see you.”

“Who?” inquired Mr. Jewell, in the accents of amazement. He put his head out at the door and nodded, and then, somewhat red in the face with the exercise, drew on his jacket and walked towards her. The skipper followed.

“Thank you,” said the girl, with a pleasant smile.

“You’re quite welcome,” said the skipper.

Mr. Jewell stepped ashore and, after a moment of indecision, shook hands with his visitor.

“If you’re down this way again,” said the skipper, as they turned away, “perhaps you’d like to see the cabin. We’re in rather a pickle just now, but if you should happen to come down for Bert to-morrow night—”

The girl’s eyes grew mirthful and her lips trembled. “Thank you,” she said.

“Some people like looking over cabins,” murmured the skipper.