Many Cargoes

As he spoke, the barge began to slip through the water as a light breeze took her huge sail and carried her into the stream, where she fell into line with other craft who were just making a start.

At a pleasant pace, with wind and tide, the Sir Edmund Lyons proceeded on its way, her skipper cocking his eye aloft and along her decks to point out various beauties to his passenger which she might otherwise have overlooked. A comfortable supper was spread on the deck, and Mrs. Bunker began to think regretfully of the pleasure she had missed in taking up barge-sailing so late in life.

Greenwich, with its white-fronted hospital and background of trees, was passed. The air got sensibly cooler, and to Mrs. Bunker it seemed that the water was not only getting darker, but also lumpy, and she asked two or three times whether there was any danger.

The skipper laughed gaily, and diving down into the cabin fetched up a shawl, which he placed carefully round his fair companion’s shoulders. His right hand grasped the tiller, his left stole softly and carefully round her waist.

“How enjoyable!” said Mrs. Bunker, referring to the evening.

“Glad you like it,” said the skipper, who wasn’t. “Oh, how pleasant to go sailing down the river of life like this, everything quiet and peaceful, just driftin’”—

“Ahoy!” yelled the mate suddenly from the bows. “Who’s steering? Starbud your hellum.”

The skipper started guiltily, and put his helm to starboard as another barge came up suddenly from the opposite direction and almost grazed them. There were two men on board, and the skipper blushed for their fluency as reflecting upon the order in general.

It was some little time before they could settle down again after this, but ultimately they got back in their old position, and the infatuated Codd was just about to wax sentimental again, when he felt something behind him. He turned with a start as a portly retriever inserted his head under his left arm, and slowly but vigorously forced himself between them; then he sat on his haunches and panted, while the disconcerted Codd strove to realise the humour of the position.

“I think I shall go to bed now,” said Mrs. Bunker, after the position had lasted long enough to be unendurable. “If anything happens, a collision or anything, don’t be afraid to let me know.”

The skipper promised, and, shaking hands, bade his passenger good-night. She descended, somewhat clumsily, it is true, into the little cabin, and the skipper, sitting by the helm, which he lazily manoeuvred as required, smoked his short clay and fell into a lover’s reverie.

So he sat and smoked until the barge, which had, by the help of the breeze, been making its way against the tide, began to realise that that good friend had almost dropped, and at the same time bethought itself of a small anchor which hung over the bows ready for emergencies such as these.

“We must bring up, Bill,” said the skipper.

“Ay, ay!” said Bill, sleepily raising himself from the hatchway. “Over she goes.”

With no more ceremony than this he dropped the anchor; the sail, with two strong men hauling on to it, creaked and rustled its way close to the mast, and the Sir Edmund Lyons was ready for sleep.

“I can do with a nap,” said Bill. “I’m dog-tired.”

“So am I,” said the other. “It’ll be a tight fit down for’ard, but we couldn’t ask a lady to sleep there.”

Bill gave a non-committal grunt, and as the captain, after the manner of his kind, took a last look round before retiring, placed his hands on the hatch and lowered himself down. The next moment he came up with a wild yell, and, sitting on the deck, rolled up his trousers and fondled his leg.

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

“That blessed dog’s down there, that’s all,” said the injured Bill. “He’s evidently mistook it for his kennel, and I don’t wonder at it. I thought he’d been wonderful quiet.”

“We must talk him over,” said the skipper, advancing to the hatchway. “Poor dog! Poor old chap! Come along, then! Come along!” He patted his leg and whistled, and the dog, which wanted to get to sleep again, growled like a small thunderstorm.

“Come on, old fellow!” said the skipper enticingly. “Come along, come on, then!”

The dog came at last, and then the skipper, instead of staying to pat him, raced Bill up the ropes, while the brute, in execrable taste, paced up and down the deck daring them to come down. Coming to the conclusion, at last, that they were settled for the night, he returned to the forecastle and, after a warning bark or two, turned in again. Both men, after waiting a few minutes, cautiously regained the deck.

“You call him up again,” said Bill, seizing a boat-hook, and holding it at the charge.

“Certainly not,” said the other. “I won’t have no blood spilt aboard my ship.”

“Who’s going to spill blood?” asked the Jesuitical Bill; “but if he likes to run hisself on to the boat-hook “—

“Put it down,” said the skipper sternly, and Bill sullenly obeyed.

“We’ll have to snooze on deck,” said Codd.

“And mind we don’t snore,” said the sarcastic Bill, “‘cos the dog mightn’t like it.”

Without noticing this remark the captain stretched himself on the hatches, and Bill, after a few more grumbles, followed his example, and both men were soon asleep.

Day was breaking when they awoke and stretched their stiffened limbs, for the air was fresh, with a suspicion of moisture in it. Two or three small craft were, like them selves, riding at anchor, their decks wet and deserted; others were getting under way to take advantage of the tide, which had just turned.

“Up with the anchor,” said the skipper, seizing a handspike and thrusting it into the windlass.

As the rusty chain came in, an ominous growling came from below, and Bill snatched his handspike out and raised it aloft. The skipper gazed meditatively at the shore, and the dog, as it came bounding up, gazed meditatively at the handspike. Then it yawned, an easy, unconcerned yawn, and commenced to pace the deck, and coming to the conclusion that the men were only engaged in necessary work, regarded their efforts with a lenient eye, and barked encouragingly as they hoisted the sail.

It was a beautiful morning. The miniature river waves broke against the blunt bows of the barge, and passed by her sides rippling musically. Over the flat Essex marshes a white mist was slowly dispersing before the rays of the sun, and the trees on the Kentish hills were black and drenched with moisture.

A little later smoke issued from the tiny cowl over the fo’c’sle and rolled in a little pungent cloud to the Kentish shore. Then a delicious odour of frying steak rose from below, and fell like healing balm upon the susceptible nostrils of the skipper as he stood at the helm.

“Is Mrs. Bunker getting up?” inquired the mate, as he emerged from the fo’c’sle and walked aft.

“I believe so,” said the skipper. “There’s movements below.”

“‘Cos the steak’s ready and waiting,” said the mate. “I’ve put it on a dish in front of the fire.”

“Ay, ay!” said the skipper.

The mate lit his pipe and sat down on the hatchway, slowly smoking. He removed it a couple of minutes later, to stare in bewilderment at the unwonted behaviour of the dog, which came up to the captain and affectionately licked his hands.

“He’s took quite a fancy to me,” said the delighted man.

“Love me love my dog,” quoted Bill waggishly, as he strolled forward again.

The skipper was fondly punching the dog, which was now on its back with its four legs in the air, when he heard a terrible cry from the fo’c’sle, and the mate came rushing wildly on deck.

“Where’s that – dog?” he cried.

“Don’t you talk like that aboard my ship. Where’s your manners?” cried the skipper hotly.

“– the manners!” said the mate, with tears in his eyes. “Where’s that dog’s manners? He’s eaten all that steak.”

Before the other could reply, the scuttle over the cabin was drawn, and the radiant face of Mrs. Bunker appeared at the opening.

“I can smell breakfast,” she said archly.

“No wonder, with that dog so close,” said Bill grimly. Mrs. Bunker looked at the captain for an explanation.

“He’s ate it,” said that gentleman briefly. “A pound and a ‘arf o’ the best rump steak in Wapping.”