Martin Rattler. Robert Michael Ballantyne

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СКАЧАТЬ aversion to earnest fighting, and very rarely indeed returned home with a black eye,—much to the satisfaction of Aunt Dorothy Grumbit, who objected to all fighting from principle, and frequently asserted, in gentle tones, that there should be no soldiers or sailors (fighting sailors, she meant) at all, but that people ought all to settle everything the best way they could without fighting, and live peaceably with one another, as the Bible told them to do. They would be far happier and better off, she was sure of that; and if everybody was of her way of thinking, there would be neither swords, nor guns, nor pistols, nor squibs, nor anything else at all! Dear old lady. It would indeed be a blessing if her principles could be carried out in this warring and jarring world. But as this is rather difficult, what we ought to be careful about is, that we never fight except in a good cause and with a clear conscience.

      It was well for Martin Rattler, on that great day, that the formation of the ground favoured him. The spot on which the fight took place was uneven, and covered with little hillocks and hollows, over which Bob Croaker stumbled, and into which he fell,—being a clumsy boy on his legs—and did himself considerable damage; while Martin, who was firmly knit and active as a kitten, scarcely ever fell, or, if he did, sprang up again like an India-rubber ball. Fair-play was embedded deep in the centre of Martin’s heart, so that he scorned to hit his adversary when he was down or in the act of rising; but the thought of the fate that awaited the white kitten if he were conquered, acted like lightning in his veins, and scarcely had Bob time to double his fists after a fall, when he was knocked back again into the hollow, out of which he had risen. There were no rounds in this fight; no pausing to recover breath. Martin’s anger rose with every blow, whether given or received; and although he was knocked down flat four or five times, he rose again, and without a second’s delay rushed headlong at his enemy. Feeling that he was too little and light to make much impression on Bob Croaker by means of mere blows, he endeavoured as much as possible to throw his weight against him at each assault; but Bob stood his ground well, and after a time seemed even to be recovering strength a little.

      Suddenly he made a rush at Martin, and, dealing him a successful blow on the forehead, knocked him down; at the same time he himself tripped over a molehill and fell upon his face. Both were on their legs in an instant. Martin grew desperate. The white, kitten swimming for its life seemed to rise before him, and new energy was infused into his frame. He retreated a step or two, and then darted forward like an arrow from a bow. Uttering a loud cry, he sprang completely in the air and plunged—head and fists together, as if he were taking a dive—into Bob Croaker’s bosom! The effect was tremendous. Bob went down like a shock of grain before the sickle; and having, in their prolonged movements, approached close to the brink of the stream, both he and Martin went with a sounding splash into the deep pool and disappeared. It was but for a moment, however. Martin’s head emerged first, with eyes and mouth distended to the utmost. Instantly, on finding bottom, he turned to deal his opponent another blow; but it was not needed. When Bob Croaker’s head rose to the surface there was no motion in the features, and the eyes were closed. The intended blow was changed into a friendly grasp; and, exerting himself to the utmost, Martin dragged his insensible school fellow to the bank, where, in a few minutes, he recovered sufficiently to declare in a sulky tone that he would fight no more!

      “Bob Croaker,” said Martin, holding out his hand, “I’m sorry we’ve had to fight. I wouldn’t have done it, but to save my kitten. You compelled me to do it, you know that. Come, let’s be friends again.”

      Bob made no reply, but slowly and with some difficulty put on his vest and jacket.

      “I’m sure,” continued Martin, “there’s no reason in bearing me ill-will. I’ve done nothing unfair, and I’m very sorry we’ve had to fight. Won’t you shake hands?”

      Bob was silent.

      “Come, some, Bob!” cried several of the bigger boys, “don’t be sulky, man; shake hands and be friends. Martin has licked you this time, and you’ll lick him next time, no doubt, and that’s all about it.”

      “Arrah, then, ye’re out there, intirely. Bob Croaker’ll niver lick Martin Rattler though he wos to live to the age of the great M’Thuselah!” said a deep-toned voice close to the spot where the fight had taken place.

      All eyes were instantly turned in the direction whence it proceeded, and the boys now became aware, for the first time, that the combat had been witnessed by a sailor, who, with a smile of approval beaming on his good-humoured countenance, sat under the shade of a neighbouring tree smoking a pipe of that excessive shortness and blackness that seems to be peculiarly beloved by Irishmen in the humbler ranks of life. The man was very, tall and broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a free-and-easy swagger, as he rose and approached the group of boys.

      “He’ll niver bate ye, Martin, avic, as long as there’s two timbers of ye houldin’ togither.” The seaman patted Martin on the head as he spoke; and, turning to Bob Croaker, continued:

      “Ye ought to be proud, ye spalpeen, o’ bein’ wopped by sich a young hero as this. Come here and shake hands with him: d’ye hear? Troth an’ it’s besmearin’ ye with too much honour that same. There, that’ll do. Don’t say ye’re sorry now, for it’s lies ye’d be tellin’ if ye did. Come along, Martin, an I’ll convarse with ye as ye go home. Ye’ll be a man yet, as sure as my name is Barney O’Flannagan.”

      Martin took the white kitten in his arms and thrust its wet little body into his equally wet bosom, where the warmth began soon to exercise a soothing influence on the kitten’s depressed spirits, so that, ere long, it began to purr. He then walked with the sailor towards the village, with his face black and blue, and swelled, and covered with blood, while Bob Croaker and his companions returned to the school.

      The distance to Martin’s residence was not great, but it was sufficient to enable the voluble Irishman to recount a series of the most wonderful adventures and stories of foreign lands; that set Martin’s heart on fire with desire to go to sea; a desire which was by no means new to him, and which recurred violently every time he paid a visit to the small sea-port of Bilton, which lay about five miles to the southward of his native village. Moreover, Barney suggested that it was time Martin should be doing for himself (he was now ten years old), and said that if he would join his ship, he could get him a berth, for he was much in want of an active lad to help him with the coppers. But Martin Rattler sighed deeply, and said that, although his heart was set upon going to sea, he did not see how it was to be managed, for his aunt would not let him go.

      Before they separated, however, it was arranged that Martin should pay the sailor’s ship a visit, when he would hear a good deal more about foreign lands; and that, in the meantime, he should make another attempt to induce Aunt Dorothy Grumbit to give her consent to his going to sea.

      Chapter Four

      A Lesson to all Stocking-Knitters—Martin’s Prospects begin to open up

      In the small sea-port of Bilton, before mentioned, there dwelt an old and wealthy merchant and ship-owner, who devoted a small portion of his time to business, and a very large portion of it to what is usually termed “doing good.” This old gentleman was short, and stout, and rosy, and bald, and active, and sharp as a needle.

      In the short time that Mr Arthur Jollyboy devoted to business, he accomplished as much as most men do in the course of a long day. There was not a benevolent society in the town, of which Arthur Jollyboy, Esquire, of the Old Hulk (as he styled his cottage), was not a member, director, secretary, and treasurer, all in one, and all at once! If it had been possible for man be ubiquitous, Mr Jollyboy would have been so naturally; or, if not naturally, he would have made himself so by force of will. Yet he made no talk about it. His step was quiet, though quick; and his voice was gentle, though rapid; and he was chiefly famous for talking little and doing much.

      Some time after СКАЧАТЬ