Mr Jones Takes Strong Measures to Secure his Ends, and Introduces Billy and his Friends to some New Scenes and Moments.  
Again we are in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin sands. It is evening. The sun has just gone down. The air and sea are perfectly still. The stars are coming out one by one, and the floating lights have already hoisted their never-failing signals.
 
The Nora lies becalmed not far from the Goodwin buoy, with her sails hanging idly on the yards. Bill Towler stands at the helm with all the aspect and importance of a steersman, but without any other duty to perform than the tiller could have performed for itself. Morley Jones stands beside him with his hands in his coat pockets, and Stanley Hall sits on the cabin skylight gazing with interest at the innumerable lights of the shipping in the roadstead, and the more distant houses on shore. Jim Welton, having been told that he will have to keep watch all night, is down below taking a nap, and Grundy, having been ordered below to attend to some trifling duty in the fore part of the vessel, is also indulging in slumber.
 
Long and earnestly and anxiously had Morley Jones watched for an opportunity to carry his plans into execution, but as yet without success. Either circumstances were against him, or his heart had failed him at the push. He walked up and down the deck with uncertain steps, sat down and rose up frequently, and growled a good deal—all of which symptoms were put down by Stanley to the fact that there was no wind.
 
At last Morley stopped in front of his passenger and said to him—
 
“I really think you’d better go below and have a nap, Mr Hall. It’s quite clear that we are not goin’ to have a breeze till night, and it may be early morning when we call you to go ashore; so, if you want to be fit for much work to-morrow, you’d better sleep while you may.”
 
“Thank you, I don’t require much sleep,” replied Stanley; “in fact, I can easily do without rest at any time for a single night, and be quite able for work next day. Besides, I have no particular work to do to-morrow, and I delight to sit at this time of the night and watch the shipping. I’m not in your way, am I?”
 
“Oh, not at all, not at all,” replied the fish-merchant, as he resumed his irregular walk.
 
This question was prompted by the urgency with which the advice to go below had been given.
 
Seeing that nothing was to be made of his passenger in this way, Morley Jones cast about in his mind to hit upon another expedient to get rid of him, and reproached himself for having been tempted by a good fare to let him have a passage.
 
Suddenly his eye was attracted by a dark object floating in the sea a considerable distance to the southward of them.
 
“That’s lucky,” muttered Jones, after examining it carefully with the glass, while a gleam of satisfaction shot across his dark countenance; “could not have come in better time. Nothing could be better.”
 
Shutting up the glass with decision, he turned round, and the look of satisfaction gave place to one of impatience as his eye fell on Stanley Hall, who still sat with folded arms on the skylight, looking as composed and serene as if he had taken up his quarters there for the night. After one or two hasty turns on the deck, an idea appeared to hit Mr Jones, for he smiled in a grim fashion, and muttered, “I’ll try that, if the breeze would only come.”
 
The breeze appeared to have been waiting for an invitation, for one or two “cat’s-paws” ruffled the surface of the sea as he spoke.
 
“Mind your helm, boy,” said Mr Jones suddenly; “let her away a point; so, steady. Keep her as she goes; and, harkee” (he stooped down and whispered), “when I open the skylight do you call down, ‘breeze freshenin’, sir, and has shifted a point to the west’ard.’”
 
“By the way, Mr Hall,” said Jones, turning abruptly to his passenger, “you take so much interest in navigation that I should like to show you a new chart I’ve got of the channels on this part of the coast. Will you step below?”
 
“With pleasure,” replied Stanley, rising and following Jones, who immediately spread out on the cabin table one of his most intricate charts,—which, as he had expected, the young student began to examine with much interest,—at the same time plying the other with numerous questions.
 
“Stay,” said Jones, “I’ll open the skylight—don’t you find the cabin close?”
 
No sooner was the skylight opened than the small voice of Billy Towler was heard shouting—
 
“Breeze freshenin’, sir, and has shifted a pint to the west’ard.”
 
“All right,” replied Jones;—“excuse me, sir, I’ll take a look at the sheets and braces and see that all’s fast—be back in a few minutes.”
 
He went on deck, leaving Stanley busy with the chart.
 
“You’re a smart boy, Billy. Now do as I tell ’ee, and keep your weather eye open. D’ye see that bit o’ floating wreck a-head? Well, keep straight for that and run right against it. I’ll trust to ’ee, boy, that ye don’t miss it.”
 
Billy said that he would be careful, but resolved in his heart that he would miss it!
 
Jones then went aft to a locker near the stern, whence he returned with a mallet and chisel, and went below. Immediately thereafter Billy heard the regular though slight blows of the mallet, and pursed his red lips and screwed up his small visage into a complicated sign of intelligence.
 
There was very little wind, and the sloop made slow progress towards the piece of wreck although it was very near, and Billy steered as far from it as he could without absolutely altering the course.
 
Presently Jones returned on deck and replaced the mallet and chisel in the locker. He was very warm and wiped the perspiration frequently from his forehead. Observing that the sloop was not so near the wreck as he had expected, he suddenly seized the small steersman by the neck and shook him as a terrier dog shakes a rat.
 
“Billy,” said he, quickly, in a low but stern voice, “it’s of no use. I see what you are up to. Your steerin’ clear o’ that won’t prevent this sloop from bein’ at the bottom in quarter of an hour, if not sooner! If you hit it you may save yourself and me a world of trouble. It’s so much for your own interest, boy, to hit that bit of wreck, that I’ll trust you again.”
 
So saying, Jones went down into the cabin, apologised for having kept Stanley waiting so long, said that he could not leave the boy at the helm alone for more than a few minutes at a time, and that he would have to return on deck immediately after he had made an entry on the log slate.
 
Had any one watched Morley Jones while he was making that entry on the log slate, he would have perceived that the strong man’s hand trembled excessively, that perspiration stood in beads upon his brow, and that the entry itself consisted of a number of unmeaning and wavering strokes.
 
Meanwhile Billy Towler, left in sole possession of the sloop, felt himself in a most unenviable state of mind. He knew that the crisis had arrived, and the decisive tone of his tyrant’s last remark convinced him that it would be expedient for himself to obey orders. On the other hand, he remembered that he had deliberately resolved to throw off his allegiance, and as he drew near the piece of wreck, he reflected that he was at that moment assisting in an act which might cost the lives of all on board.
 
Driven to and fro between doubts and fears, the poor boy kept changing the course of the sloop in a way that would have soon rendered the hitting of the wreck an impossibility, when a sudden and rather sharp puff of wind caused the Nora to bend over, and the foam to curl on her bow as she slipped swiftly through the water. Billy decided at that moment to miss the wreck when he was close upon it, and for that purpose deliberately and smartly put the helm hard a-starboard.
 
Poor fellow, his seamanship was not equal to his courage! So badly did he steer, that the very act which was meant to carry him past the wreck, thrust him right upon it!
 
The shock, although a comparatively slight one, was sufficiently severe to arouse the sleepers, to whom the unwonted sensation and sound carried the idea of sudden disaster. Jim and Grundy rushed on deck, where they found Morley Jones already on the bulwarks with a boat-hook, shouting for aid, while Stanley Hall assisted him with an oar to push the sloop off what appeared to be the topmast and cross-trees of a vessel, with which she was entangled.
 
Jim and Grundy each seized an oar, and, exerting their strength, they were soon clear of the wreck.
 
“Well,” observed Jim, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his coat, “it’s lucky it was but a light topmast and a light breeze, it can’t have done us any damage worth speaking of.”
 
“I don’t know that,” said Jones. “There are often iron bolts and sharp points about such wreckage that don’t require much force to drive ’em through a ship’s bottom. Take a look into the hold, Jim, and see that all’s right.”
 
Jim descended into the hold, but immediately returned, exclaiming wildly—
 
“Why, the sloop’s sinkin’! Lend a hand here if you don’t want to go down with her,” he cried, leaping towards the boat.
 
Stanley Hall and Grundy at once lent a hand to get out the boat, while the fish-merchant, uttering a wild oath, jumped into the hold as if to convince himself of the truth of Jim’s statement. He returned quickly, exclaiming—
 
“She must have started a plank. It’s rushing in like a sluice. Look alive, lads; out with her!”
 
The boat was shoved outside the bulwarks, and let go by the run; the oars were flung hastily in, and all jumped into her as quickly as possible, for the deck of the Nora was already nearly on a level with the water. They were not a minute too soon. They had not pulled fifty yards from their late home when she gave a sudden lurch to port and went down stern foremost.
 
To say that the party looked aghast at this sudden catastrophe, would be to give but a feeble idea of the state of their minds. For some minutes they could do nothing but stare in silence at the few feet of the Nora’s topmast which alone remained above water as a sort of tombstone to mark her ocean grave.
 
When they did at length break silence, it was in short interjectional remarks, as they resumed the oars.
 
Mr Jones, without making a remark of any kind, shipped the rudder; the other four pulled.
 
“Shall we make for land?” asked Jim Welton, after a time.
 
“Not wi’ the tide running like this,” answered Jones; “we’ll make the Gull, and get ’em to take us aboard till morning. At slack tide we can go ashore.”
 
In perfect silence they rowed towards the floating light, which was not more than a mile distant from the scene of the disaster. As the ebb tide was running strong, Jim hailed before they were close alongside—“Gull, ahoy! heave us a rope, will you?”
 
There was instant bustle on board the floating light, and as the boat came sweeping past a growl of surprise was heard to issue from the mate’s throat as he shouted, “Look out!”
 
A rope came whirling down on their heads, which was caught and held on to by Jim.
 
“All right, father,” he said, looking up.
 
“All wrong, I think,” replied the sire, looking down. “Why. Jim, you always turn up like a bad shilling, and in bad company too. Where ever have you come from this time?”
 
“From the sea, father. Don’t keep jawin’ there, but help us aboard, and you’ll hear all about it.”
 
By this time Jones had gained the deck, followed by Stanley Hall and Billy. These quickly gave a brief outline of the disaster, and were hospitably received on board, while Jim and Grundy made fast the tackles to their boat, and had it hoisted inboard.
 
“You won’t require to pull ashore to-morrow,” said the elder Mr Welton, as he shook his son’s hand. “The tender will come off to us in the morning, and no doubt the captain will take you all ashore.”
 
“So much the better,” observed Stanley, “because it seems to me that our boat is worthy of the rotten sloop to which she belonged, and might fail to reach the shore after all!”
 
“Her owner is rather fond of ships and boats that have got the rot,” said Mr Welton, senior, looking with a somewhat stern expression at Morley Jones, who was in the act of stooping to wring the water out of the legs of his trousers.
 
“If he is,” said Jones, with an equally stern glance at the mate, “he is the only loser—at all events the chief one—by his fondness.”
 
“You’re right,” retorted Mr Welton sharply; “the loss of a kit may be replaced, but there are some things which cannot be replaced when lost. However, you know your own affairs best. Come below, friends, and have something to eat and drink.”
 
After the wrecked party had been hospitably entertained in the cabin with biscuit and tea, they returned to the deck, and, breaking up into small parties, walked about or leaned over the bulwarks in earnest conversation. Jack Shales and Jerry MacGowl took possession of Jim Welton, and, hurrying him forward to the windlass, made him there undergo a severe examination and cross-questioning as to how the sloop Nora had met with her disaster. These were soon joined by Billy Towler, to whom the gay manner of Shales and the rich brogue of MacGowl were irresistibly attractive.
 
Jim, however, proved to be much more reticent than his friends deemed either necessary or agreeable. After a prolonged process of pumping, to which he submitted with much good humour and an apparent readiness to be pumped quite dry, Jerry MacGowl exclaimed—
 
“Och, it ain’t of no use trying to git no daiper. Sure we’ve sounded ’im to the bottom, an’ found nothin’ at all but mud.”
 
“Ay, he’s about as incomprehensible as that famous poet you’re for ever givin’ us screeds of. What’s ’is name—somebody’s son?”
 
“Tenny’s son, av coorse,” replied Jerry; “but he ain’t incomprehensible, Jack; he’s only too daip for a man of or’nary intellick. His thoughts is so awful profound sometimes that the longest deep-sea lead line as ever was spun can’t reach the bottom of ’em. It’s only such oncommon philosophers as Dick Moy there, or a boardin’-school miss (for extremes meet, you know, Jack), that can rightly make him out.”
 
“Wot’s that you’re sayin’ about Dick Moy?” inquired that worthy, who had just joined the group at the windlass.
 
“He said you was a philosopher,” answered Shales. “You’re another,” growled Dick, bluntly, to MacGowl.
 
“Faix, that’s true,” replied Jerry; “there’s two philosophers aboord of this here light, an’ the luminous power of our united intellicks is so strong that I’ve had it in my mind more than wance to suggest that if they wos to hoist you and me to the masthead together, the Gull would git on first-rate without any lantern at all.”
 
“Not a bad notion that,” said Jack Shales. “I’ll mention it to the superintendent to-morrow, when the tender comes alongside. P’raps he’ll report you to the Trinity House as being willin’ to serve in that way without pay, for the sake of economy.”
 
“No, not for economy, mate,” objected Dick Moy. “We can’t afford to do dooty as lights without increased pay. Just think of the intellektooal force required for to keep the lights agoin’ night after night.”
 
“Ay, and the amount of the doctor’s bill,” broke in MacGowl, “for curin’ the extra cowlds caught at the mast-head in thick weather.”
 
“But we wouldn’t go up in thick weat............