The Power of Sympathy.  
One fine afternoon, not long after the visit to the coper, Bob Lumsden, alias Lumpy, was called from his culinary labours to assist in hauling in the net.
 
Now it is extremely interesting to note what a wonderful effect the power of loving sympathy can have on a human being. Lumpy was a human being—though some of his mates insisted that he must have been descended from a cod-fish, because his mouth was so large. No doubt it was, and when the boy laughed heartily he was, indeed, apt to remind one of that fish; nevertheless it was a good, well-shaped mouth, though large, with a kindly expression about it, and a set of splendid white teeth inside of it. But, whether human or fishy in his nature, Bob Lumsden had been overwhelmed by a flood of sympathy ever since that memorable day when he had first caught a glimpse of the sweet, pale face of the little invalid Eve Mooney. It was but a brief glimpse, yet it had opened a new sluice in Lumpy’s heart through which the waters of tenderness gushed in a wild torrent.
 
One of the curious results of this flood was that Bob was always more prompt to the summons to haul up the trawl than he had ever been before, more energetic in clawing the net inboard, and more eager to see and examine the contents of the cod-end. The explanation is simple. He had overheard his skipper say how fond Eve was of shells—especially of those which came from the bottom of the North Sea, and of all sorts of pretty and curious things, wherever they came from.
 
From that hour Bob Lumpy became a diligent collector of marine curiosities, and the very small particular corner of the vessel which he called his own became ere long quite a museum. They say that sympathy is apt to grow stronger between persons of opposite constitutions. If this be so, perhaps it was his nature—his bold, hearty, gushing, skylarking spirit, his strong rugged frame, his robust health, his carroty hair, his appley cheeks, his eagle nose, his flashing eyes—that drew him so powerfully to the helpless, tender little invalid, with her delicate frame and pale cheeks, straight little nose, bud of a mouth, and timid, though by no means cowardly, spirit.
 
On another occasion Bob overheard Lockley again talking about Eve. “I’m sorry for the poor thing,” he said to Peter Jay, as they paced the deck together; “she’s got such a wretched home, an’ her mother’s such a drunken bru—”
 
Lockley checked himself, and did not finish the sentence.
 
“The doctor says,” he resumed, “that if Eve had only a bath-chair or suthin’ o’ that sort, to get wheeled about in the fresh air, she’d very likely get better as she growed older—specially if she had good victuals. You see, small as she is, and young as she looks, she’s over fifteen. But even if she had the chair, poor thing! who would wheel it for her? It would be no use unless it was done regular, an’ her mother can’t do it—or won’t.”
 
From that hour Bob Lumpy became a miser. He had been a smoker like the rest of the crew, but he gave up “baccy.” He used to take an occasional glass of beer or spirits when on shore or on board the copers, but he became a total abstainer, much to his own benefit in every way, and as a result he became rich—in an extremely small way.
 
There was a very small, thin, and dirty, but lively and intelligent boy in Yarmouth, who loved Bob Lumsden better, if possible, than himself. His name was Pat Stiver. The affection was mutual. Bob took this boy into his confidence.
 
One day, a considerable time after Bob’s discovery of Eve, Pat, having nothing to do, sauntered to the end of Gorleston Pier, and there to his inexpressible joy, met his friend. Before he had recovered sufficiently from surprise to utter a word, Bob seized him by the arms, lifted him up, and shook him.
 
“Take care, Lumpy,” cried the boy, “I’m wery tender, like an over-young chicken. You’d better set me down before I comes in pieces.”
 
“Why, Stiver, you’re the very man I was thinkin’ of,” said Lumpy, setting the boy on the edge of the pier, and sitting down beside him.
 
Stiver looked proud, and felt six inches taller.
 
“Listen,” said Bob, with an earnest look that was apt to captivate his friends; “I want help. Will you do somethin’ for me?”
 
“Anything,” replied the boy with emphasis, “from pitch and toss to manslaughter!”
 
“Well, look here. You know Eve Mooney?”
 
“Do I know the blessedest angel in all Gorleston? In course I does. Wot of her?”
 
“She’s ill—very ill,” said Lumpy.
 
“You might as well tell me, when it’s daytime, that the sun’s up,” returned Pat.
 
“Don’t be so awful sharp, Stiver, else I’ll have to snub you.”
 
“Which you’ve on’y got to frown, Bob Lumpy, an’ the deed’s done.”
 
Bob gave a short laugh, and then proceeded to explain matters to his friend: how he had been saving up his wages for some time past to buy a second-hand bath-chair for Eve, because the doctor had said it would do her so much good, especially if backed up with good victuals.
 
“It’s the wittles as bothers me, Stiver,” said Bob, regarding his friend with a puzzled expression.
 
“H’m! well,” returned the small boy seriously, “wittles has bothered me too, off an’ on, pretty well since I was born, though I’m bound to confess I does get a full blow-out now an’—”
 
“Hold on, Stiver; you’re away on the wrong tack,” cried Bob, interrupting. “I don’t mean the difficulty o’ findin’ wittles, but how to get Eve to take ’em.”
 
“Tell her to shut her eyes an’ open her mouth, an’ then shove ’em in,” suggested Pat.
 
“I’ll shove you into the sea if you go on talking balderdash,” said Bob. “Now, look here, you hain’t got nothin’ to do, have you!”
 
“If you mean in the way o’ my purfession, Bob, you’re right. I purfess to do anything, but nobody as yet has axed me to do nothin’. In the ways o’ huntin’ up wittles, howsever, I’ve plenty to do. It’s hard lines, and yet I ain’t extravagant in my expectations. Most coves require three good meals a day, w’ereas I’m content with one. I begins at breakfast, an’ I goes on a-eatin’ promiskoously all day till arter supper—w’en I can get it.”
 
“Just so, Stiver. Now, I want to engage you professionally. Your dooties will be to hang about Mrs Mooney’s but in an offhand, careless sort o’ way, like them superintendent chaps as git five or six hundred a year for doin’ nuffin, an’ be ready at any time to offer to give Eve a shove in the chair. But first you’ll have to take the chair to her, an’ say it was sent to her from—”
 
“Robert Lumsden, Esquire,” said Pat, seeing that his friend hesitated.
 
“Not at all, you little idiot,” said Bob sharply. “You mustn’t mention my name on no account.”
 
“From a gentleman, then,” suggested Pat.
 
“That might do; but I ain’t a gentleman, Stiver, an’ I can’t allow you to go an’ tell lies.”
 
“I’d like to know who is if you ain’t,” returned the boy indignantly. “Ain’t a gentleman a man wot’s gentle? An’ w’en you was the other day a-spreadin’ of them lovely shells, an’ crabs, an’ sea-goin’ kooriosities out on her pocket-hankercher, didn’t I see that you was gentle?”
 
“I’ll be pretty rough on you, Pat, in a minit, if you don’t hold your jaw,” interrupted Bob, who, however, did not seem displeased with his friend’s definition of a gentleman. “Well, you may say what you like, only be sure you say what’s true. An’ then you’ll have to take some nice things as I’ll get for her from time to time w’en I comes ashore. But there’ll be difficulties, I doubt, in the way of gettin’ her to take wittles w’en she don’t know who they comes from.”
 
“Oh, don’t you bother your head about that,” said Pat. “I’ll manage it. I’m used to difficulties. Just you leave it to me, an’ it’ll be all right.”
 
“Well, I will, Pat; so you’ll come round with me to the old furnitur’ shop in Yarmouth, an’ fetch the chair. I got it awful cheap from the old chap as keeps the shop w’en I told him what it was for. Then you’ll bring it out to Eve, an’ try to git her to have a ride in it to-day, if you can. I’ll see about the wittles arter. Hain’t quite worked that out in my mind yet. Now, as to wages. I fear I can’t offer you none—”
 
“I never axed for none,” retorted Pat proudly.
 
“That’s true Pat; but I’m not a-goin’ to make you slave for nuthin’. I’ll just promise you that I’ll save all I can o’ my wages, an’ give you what I can spare. You’ll just have to trust me as to that.”
 
“Trust you, Bob!” exclaimed Pat, with enthusiasm, “look here, now; this is how the wind blows. If the Prime Minister o’ Rooshia was to come to me in full regimentals an’ offer to make me capting o’ the Horse Marines to the Hemperor, I’d say, ‘No thankee, I’m engaged,’ as the young woman said to the young man she didn’t want to marry.”
 
The matter being thus satisfactorily settled, Bob Lumsden and his little friend went off to Yarmouth, intent on carrying out the first part of their plan.
 
It chanced about the same time that another couple were having a quiet chat together in the neighbourhood of Gorleston Pier. Fred Martin and Isa Wentworth had met by appointment to talk over a subject of peculiar interest to themselves. Let us approach and become eavesdroppers.
 
“Now, Fred,” said Isa, with a good deal of decision in her tone, “I’m not at all satisfied with your explanation. These mysterious and long visits you make to London ought to be accounted for, and as I have agreed to become your wife within the next three or four months, just to please you, the least you can do, I think, is to have no secrets from me. Besides, you have no idea what the people here and your former shipmates are saying about you.”
 
“Indeed, dear lass, what do they say?”
 
“Well, they say now you’ve got well they can’t understand why you should go loafing about doin’ nothin’ or idling your time in London, instead of goin’ to sea.”
 
“Idlin’ my time!” exclaimed Fred with affected indignation. “How do they know I’m idlin’ my time? What if I was studyin’ to be a doctor or a parson?”
 
“Perhaps they’d say that was idlin’ your time, seein’ that you’re only a fisherman,” returned Isa, looking up in her lover’s face with a bright smile. “But tell me, Fred, why should you have any secret from me?”
 
“Because, dear lass, the thing that gives me so much pleasure and hope is not absolutely fixed, and I don’t want you to be made anxious. This much I will tell you, however: you know I passed my examination for skipper when I was home last time, and now, through God’s goodness, I have been offered the command of a smack. If all goes well, I hope to sail in her next week; then, on my return, I hope to—to take the happiest. Well, well, I’ll say no more about that, as we’re gettin’ near mother’s door. But tell me, Isa, has Uncle Martin been worrying mother again when I was away?”
 
“No. When he found out that you had got the money that was left to her, and had bought an annuity for her with it, he went away, and I’ve not seen him since.”
 
“That’s well. I’m glad of that.”
 
“But am I to hear nothing more about this smack, not even her name?”
 
“Nothing more just now, Isa. As to her name, it’s not yet fixed. But, trust me, you shall know all in good time.”
 
As they had now reached the foot of Mrs Martin’s stair, the subject was dropped.
 
They found the good woman in the act of supplying Granny Martin with a cup of tea. There was obvious improvement in the attic. Sundry little articles of luxury were there which had not been there before.
 
“You see, my boy,” said Mrs Martin to Fred, as they sat round the social board, “now that the Lord has sent me enough to get along without slavin’ as I used—to do, I takes more time to make granny comfortable, an’ I’ve got her a noo chair, and noo specs, which she was much in want of, for the old uns was scratched to that extent you could hardly see through ’em, besides bein’ cracked across both eyes. Ain’t they much better, dear?”
 
The old woman, seated in the attic window, turned her head towards the tea-table and nodded benignantly once or twice; but the kind look soon faded into the wonted air of patient contentment, and the old head turned to the sea as the needle turns to the pole, and the soft murmur was heard, “He’ll come soon now.”