In the Yellow Sea. Frith Henry

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СКАЧАТЬ apologised for my violence she declined any assistance on my behalf in future.

      Of course, I said I was "sorry," and kissed her penitently. She perceived my repentance was sincere, and forgave me.

      "Run away now, Julius, there's a good boy. Take a boat, and sail about until this ill-feeling has subsided. Your father only means it for your good, remember that."

      "Yes, I daresay he means all right, mother, but that does me no good! I want to go to sea – I mean in the navy – and I shall do no good any other way, I tell you plainly!"

      "My dear boy, that is just nonsense! You have plenty of ability, and will, in time, be very glad to reflect that you were induced to go into business. Business is really the best career, your father says."

      "You said it wouldn't suit me, and I know it wouldn't!"

      "My dear Julius, your father thinks it best for you."

      "He isn't my father, and I won't go to Granding. There!"

      With this defiance I rushed from the room, took my straw hat, and hurried away into the bright warm sunlight in search of the sea.

      I had not far to travel. We lived then within two miles of the Channel, and close to a tiny station, at which a few branch trains stopped during the day. Perceiving that one of these tiny trains was approaching, I hastened on and caught it. In five minutes afterwards I was crunching the shingle, near the boats, on the beach. Several boatmen accosted me; I knew them well. They humoured me, – I liked them.

      "Mornin', sir! Fine mornin' for a sail," said Murry, a queer, old, weather-beaten salt, who had served in the merchant marine. "Goin' out, sir?" he asked.

      "Yes," I replied shortly. "How's the tide?"

      "Young gentleman's arskin' for the tide, Tim," remarked another salted fellow. "As if he wasn't a sailor now!"

      "I am no sailor," I replied savagely. "I'm plucked!"

      "Plucked! What d'ye mean? Thrown overboard? Who's been pullin' your leg, sir?"

      "It's true. My eyes are bad, the doctor says," I muttered. "He's an ass."

      "Your eyes bad? Well, that beats! Why, I wish I'd one o' them at your age! It's a mistake, whoever said it, I say that much."

      "Well, anyway, I'm not to be a sailor – not in the navy, anyhow. Perhaps never at all. But let's shut it up. Where's the boat?"

      "Yonder she swims," said Murry. "Ye can go where ye like to-day, if you're not venturesome too much."

      "Why, do you expect a storm?" I asked, looking at the blue above.

      "Well, I wouldn't say it mightn't squall a bit. There's thun'er about too. Better take a hand with ye."

      "Better take a second hand," added Tim; "them mare's tails is subspicious. How far d'ye think o' goin'?"

      "Round Ratcham Head, and away to Greystones. I suppose we can fetch that?"

      "Ay, ay; tide's makin', and we can come back with a flowin' sheet agin' it, proper. Here's my lad, Tim; he can go for the prog. Suppose you'll want somethin'?"

      "Of course. Here's the money. Get anything you like, and some beer. Look slippy, Tim. Come back as soon as you can."

      Tim touched his cap, took the money, and set off rapidly in the direction of the main street – the only one – of Beachmouth, which was then a small, almost unknown, watering-place. Now it is growing rapidly. Our house and grounds have already been purchased for building purposes, and in the few years which have elapsed since my disappointment the changes have been many and various.

      I waited with impatience for Tim's return. The sea was calm. The breeze, which was off-shore, was gentle from the north-west, westing, and the sky was deep blue, with a haze hanging about, indicative of heat in the future hours. The distant vessels – not steamers – were lazily dipping in the offing, not making much way, but still progressing, so we could hope for a breeze outside.

      The dirty, chalky cliff sheltered us, and accentuated the rays of the sun, which, reflected from the water, burned and blistered us that summer more than usual, but as I was so much on the sea perhaps I felt it more then. At anyrate, that August day I felt the heat greatly, and became impatient for Tim's return with the "grub," so that we might get away, and sail down Channel, away into the west perhaps.

      After what seemed an hour, but was really twenty minutes, we sighted Tim carrying a parcel and a jar, three tumblers being hung around his neck, and his jacket pockets bulging. One glance satisfied me, and I called to Murry to come along.

      "I'm a-comin'! I'm a-comin'! We'm goin' alongside in Bill's skiff, ye know. The boat's all ready – ballast and all. Don't ye worrit yourself, Mister Jule; Tim's comin' on, hand over hand."

      Tim was certainly very warm when he stepped into the small boat, and when he was seated old Murry sculled us over to the Osprey, a small "yacht," if one may say so – a fore and aft sailing-boat, boasting a little recess which was covered by a hatch, and called the cabin. There was room for ten or twelve people, and she could accommodate more. She carried the usual fore and aft sails, with a mizzen, and sailed very fast. In fact, she was a rather smart boat, and easily handled, being stiff and strong, with pretty lines; she looked smaller than she really was because of her fine shape and slender appearance.

      The Osprey could stand rough weather, as I well knew, and when we hauled up the mainsail, and set the jib and foresail, I felt happy for the first time that day.

      "Here's the change," said Tim, handing me a small sum, in which sixpence shone proudly in a nest of coppers.

      "Pouch it, Tim, please. Now, Murry, what's the course, eh?"

      "Well, I should say, keep her close hauled myself. Keep your luff, sir, that's what it is, and then you'll have all your run back. But as you like."

      "I want to make Greystones, though," I said, as I glanced ahead.

      "Well, ye can tack in. Ye see, it's this way: the tide's agin' ye, and when ye weather the Ratcham ye'll want all the luff ye can find to fetch Greystones this wind, anyway – and it's a squally bit down that gully."

      "Yes, that's true; but we can fetch in. So you think I'm a sailor, Murry?" I continued, referring to our previous talk.

      "That ye be," he said. "Eyes, indeed! as if ye couldn't see like a cat. Why, I've see ye make out the rig of a coaster when Tim couldn't, and he's been at sea since afore you come."

      "How old is Tim?" I asked, with my despised eyes watching ahead.

      "Why, about your age, I should say. Fifteen, ain't it?" he shouted to his son.

      "Fifteen what?" called back the lad, from forward behind the jib.

      "Years, ye donkey-foal!" replied his father. "Your age, I says."

      "You oughter know, dad! But I believe I'm thereabouts. What then – what of it?"

      "Nothin' – don't you think it," was the reply. "Mind you keep your eyes to windward, seems a change like."

      "I've been thinking o' that cloud yonder, dad; seems like to spread. What d'ye think o' standin' in a bit?"

      "Nonsense!" СКАЧАТЬ