Mysterious Doings.
Disappointed, displeased, and sorely puzzled, Billy Towler took his way towards the harbour, with his hands thrust desperately into his pockets, and an unwonted expression of discontent on his countenance. So deeply did he take the matter to heart, that he suffered one small boy to inquire pathetically, “if ’e’d bin long in that state o’ grumps?” and another to suggest that, “if ’e couldn’t be ’appier than that, ’e’d better go an’ drown hisself,” without vouchsafing a retort, or even a glance of recognition.
Passing the harbour, he went down to the beach, and there unexpectedly met with Mr Morley Jones.
“Hallo! my young bantam,” exclaimed Morley, with a look of surprise.
“Well, old Cochin-china, wot’s up?” replied Billy, in a gruff tone. “Drunk as usual, I see.”
Being somewhat desperate, the boy did not see, or did not mind the savage glance with which Mr Jones favoured him. The glance was, however, exchanged quickly for an idiotic smile, as he retorted—
“Well, I ain’t so drunk but I can see to steer my course, lad. Come, I’ve got a noo boat, what d’ye say to go an’ have a sail? The fact is, Billy, I was just on my way up to the house to ax you to go with me, so it’s good luck that I didn’t miss you. Will ’ee go, lad?”
At any other time the boy would have refused; but his recent disappointment in regard to the angelic nature of Katie still rankled so powerfully in his breast, that he swung round and said—“Get along, then—I’m your man—it’s all up now—never say die—in for a penny in for a pound,” and a variety of similar expressions, all of which tended to convince Mr Jones that Billy Towler happened to be in a humour that was extremely suitable to his purposes. He therefore led him towards his boat, which, he said, was lying on the beach at Broadstairs all ready to shove off.
The distance to Broadstairs was about two miles, and the walk thither was enlivened by a drunken commentary on the fallacy of human hopes in general on the part of Mr Jones, and a brisk fire of caustic repartee on the part of Master Towler.
A close observer might have noticed that, while these two were passing along the beach, at the base of the high cliffs of chalk running between Ramsgate and Broadstairs, two heads were thrust cautiously out of one of the small caverns or recesses which have been made in these cliffs by the action of the waves. The one head bore a striking resemblance to that of Robert Queeker, Esquire, and the other to that of Mr Larks.
How these two came to be together, and to be there, it is not our business to say. Authors are fortunately not bound to account for everything they relate. All that we know is, that Mr Queeker was there in the furtherance, probably, of his secret mission, and that Mr Larks’ missions appeared to be always more or less secret. At all events, there they were together; fellow-students, apparently, of the geology or conchology of that region, if one might judge from the earnest manner in which they stooped and gazed at the sands, and picked up bits of flint or small shells, over which they held frequent, and, no doubt, learned discussions of an intensely engrossing nature.
It might have been also noticed by a close observer, that these stoopings to pick up specimens, and these stoppages to discuss, invariably occurred when Mr Jones and Master Billy chanced to pause or to look behind them. At last the boat was reached. It lay on the beach not far from the small harbour of Broadstairs, already surrounded by the rising tide. About the same time the geological and conchological studies of Messrs Queeker and Larks coming to an end, these scientific men betook themselves suddenly to the shelter of a small cave, whence they sat watching, with intense interest, the movements of the man and boy, thus proving themselves gifted with a truly Baconian spirit of general inquiry into simple facts, with a view to future inductions.
“Jump in, Billy,” said Jones, “and don’t wet your feet; I can easily shove her off alone.”
Billy obeyed.
“Hallo! wot have ’ee got here?” he cried, touching a large tarpaulin bag with his foot.
“Only some grub,” answered Jones, putting his shoulder to the bow of the boat.
“And a compass too!” cried Billy, looking round in surprise.
“Ay, it may come on thick, you know,” said Jones, as the boat’s keel grated over the sand.
“I say, stop!” cried Billy; “you’re up to some mischief; come, let me ashore.”
Mr Jones made no reply, but continued to push off the boat. Seeing this, the boy leaped overboard, but Jones caught him. For one instant there was a struggle; then poor Billy was lifted in the strong man’s arms, and hurled back into the boat. Next moment it was afloat, and Jones leaped inboard. Billy was not to be overcome so easily, however. He sprang up, and again made a leap over the gunwale, but Jones caught him by the collar, and, after a severe struggle, dragged him into the boat, and gave him a blow on the head with his clenched fist, which stunned him. Then, seizing the oars, he pulled off. After getting well away from the beach he hoisted a small lug-sail, and stood out to sea.
All this was witnessed by the scientific men in the cave through a couple of small pocket-telescopes, which brought the expression of Jones’s and Billy’s countenances clearly into view. At first Mr Queeker, with poetic fervour, started up, intent on rushing to the rescue of the oppressed; but Mr Larks, with prosaic hardness of heart, held him forcibly back, and told him to make his mind easy, adding that Mr Jones had no intention of doing the boy any further harm. Whereupon Queeker submitted with a sigh. The two friends then issued from the cave, shook hands, and bade each other goodbye with a laugh—the man with the keen grey eyes following the path that led to Broadstairs, while the lawyer’s clerk returned to Ramsgate by the beach.
Meanwhile the sun went down, and the lanterns of the Goodwin, the Gull, and the South sandhead floating lights went up. The shades of evening fell, and the stars came out—one by one at first; then by twos and threes; at last by bursts of constellations, until the whole heavens glowed with a galaxy of distant worlds. During all this time Mr Jones sat at the helm of his little boat, and held steadily out to sea. The wind being light, he made small progress, but that circumstance did not seem to trouble him much.
“You’d better have a bit supper, lad,” said Jones in a careless way. “Of course you’re welcome to starve yourself if ’ee choose, but by so doin’ you’ll only make yourself uncomfortable for nothing. You’re in for it now, an’ can’t help yourself.”
Billy was seated on one of the thwarts, looking very savage, with his right eye nearly closed by the blow which had caused him to succumb.
“P’r’aps I mayn’t be able to help myself,” he replied, “but I can peach upon you, anyhow.”
“So you can, my lad, if you want to spend eight or ten years in limbo,” retorted Jones, spitting out his quid of tobacco, and supplying its place with a new one. “You and I are in the same boat, Billy, whether ashore or afloat; we sink or swim together.”
No more was said for some time. Jones knew that the boy was in his power, and resolved to bide his time. Billy felt that he had at least the chance of being revenged if he chose to sacrifice himself, so he “nursed his wrath to keep it warm.”
About an hour afterwards a squall struck the boat, and nearly capsized it; but Jones, who was quite sobered by that time, threw her head quickly into the wind, and Billy, forgetting everything else, leaped up with his wonted activity, loosened the sail, and reefed it. The squall soon passed away, and left them almost becalmed, as before.
“That was well done, Billy,” said Jones, in a cheerful tone; “you’d make a smart sailor, my lad.”
Billy made no reply; and, despite his efforts to the contrary, felt highly flattered. He also felt the pangs of hunger, and, after resisting them for some time, resolved to eat, as it were, under protest. With a reckless, wilful air, therefore, he opened the tarpaulin bag, and helped himself to a large “hunk” of bread and a piece of cheese. Whereupon Mr Jones smiled grimly, and remarked that there was nothing like grub for giving a man heart—except grog, he added, producing a case-bottle from his pocket and applying it to his mouth.
“Have a pull, lad? No! well, please yourself. I ain’t goin’ to join the temperance move myself yet,” said Jones, replacing the bottle in his pocket.
The short squall having carried the boat nearer to the Gull lightship than was desirable, Mr Jones tried to keep as far off from her as possible, while the tide should sweep them past; but the wind having almost died away, he did not succeed in this; however, he knew that darkness would prevent recognition, so he thought it best not to take to the oars, but to hold on, intending to slip quietly by, not supposing that Billy would think it of any use to hail the vessel; but Billy happened to think otherwise.
“Gull ahoy! hoy!” he shouted at the top of his shrill voice.
“Boat ahoy!” responded Jack Shales, who happened to be on duty; but no response was given to Jack, for the good reason that Jones had instantly clapped his hand on Billy’s mouth, and half-choked him.
“That’s odd,” remarked Jack, after repeating his cry twice. “I could swear it was the voice of that sharp little rascal Billy Towler.”
“If it wasn’t it was his ghost,” replied Jerry MacGowl, who chanced to be on deck at the time.
“Sure enough it’s very ghost-like,” said Shales, as the boat glided silently and slowly out of the circle of the lantern’s light, and faded from their vision.
Mr Jones did not follow up his act with further violence. He merely assured Billy that he was a foolish fellow, and that it was of no use to struggle against his fate.
As time wore on, poor Billy felt dreadfully sleepy, and would have given a good deal for some of the grog in his companion’s case-bottle, but, resolving to stand upon his dignity, would not condescend to ask for it. At length he lay down and slept, and Jones covered him with a pilot-coat.
No soft spot in the scoundrel’s heart induced him to perform this act of apparent kindness. He knew the poor boy’s temperament, and resolved to attack him on his weakest point.
When Billy awoke the day was just breaking. He stretched himself, yawned, sat up, and looked about him with the confused air of one not quite awake.
“Hallo!” he cried gaily, “where on earth am I?”
“You ain’t on earth, lad; you’re afloat,” replied Jones, who still sat at the helm.
At once the boy remembered everything, and shrank within himself. As he did so, he observed the pilot-coat which covered him, and knew that it must have been placed where it was by Jones. His resolution to hold out was shaken; still he did not give in.
Mr Jones now began to comment in a quiet good-natured way upon the weather and the prospects of the voyage (which excited Billy’s curiosity ve............