well that ends well.’”
“But all is not ended, Bob. Things have only begun, and, as regards myself, they have begun disastrously,” said Barret, who thereupon related the incident of the little old lady being run down.
“My dear fellow,” cried Mabberly, laughing, “excuse me, don’t imagine me indifferent to the sufferings of the poor old thing; but do you really suppose that one who was tough enough, after such a collision, to sit up at all, with or without the support of the railings, and give way to indignant abuse—”
“Not abuse, Bob, indignant looks and sentiments; she was too thorough a lady to think of abuse—”
“Well, well; call it what you please; but you may depend upon it that she is not much hurt, and you will hear nothing more about the matter.”
“That’s it! That’s the very thing that I dread,” returned Barret, anxiously. “To go through life with the possibility that I may be an uncondemned and unhung murderer is terrible to think of. Then I can’t get over the meanness of my running away so suddenly. If any one had said I was capable of such conduct I should have laughed at him. Yet have I lived to do it—contemptibly—in cold blood.”
“Contemptibly it may have been, but not in cold blood, for did you not say you were roused to a state of frenzied alarm at the sight of the bobby? and assuredly, although unhung as yet, you are not uncondemned, if self-condemnation counts for anything. Come, don’t take such a desponding view of the matter. We shall see the whole affair in the morning papers before sailing, with a report of the old lady’s name and condition—I mean condition of health—as well as your unmanly flight, without leaving your card; so you’ll be able to start with an easy— Ha! a cab! yes, it’s Jackman. I know his manservant,” said Mabberly, as he looked out at the window.
Another moment and a broad-chested man, of about five-and-twenty, with a bronzed face—as far as hair left it visible—a pair of merry blue eyes, and a hearty manner, was grasping his old schoolfellows by the hand, and endeavouring to trace the likeness in John Barret to the quiet little boy whom he used to help with his tasks many years before.
“Man, who would have thought you could have grown into such a great long-legged fellow?” he said stepping back to take a more perfect look at his friend, who returned the compliment by asking who could have imagined that he would have turned into a Zambezian gorilla.
“Where’ll I put it, sor?” demanded a voice of metallic bassness in the doorway.
“Down there—anywhere, Quin,” said Jackman turning quickly; “and be off as fast as you can to see after that rifle and cartridges.”
“Yes, sor,” returned the owner of the bass voice, putting down a small portmanteau, straightening himself, touching his forehead with a military salute, and stalking away solemnly.
“I say, Giles, it’s not often one comes across a zoological specimen like that. Where did you pick him up?” asked Mabberly.
“In the woods and forests of course,” said Jackman, “where I have picked up everything of late—from salary to jungle fevers. He’s an old soldier—also on sick-leave, though he does not look like it. He came originally from the west of Ireland, I believe; but there’s little of the Irishman left, save the brogue and the honesty. He’s a first-rate servant, if you know how to humour him, and, being a splendid cook, we shall find him useful.”
“I hope so,” said Mabberly, with a dubious look.
“Why, Bob, do you suppose I would have offered him as cook and steward if I had not felt sure of him?”
“Of course not; and I would not have accepted him if I had not felt sure of you, Giles, my boy; so come along and let’s have something to eat.”
“But you have not yet told me, Bob,” said Jackman, while the three friends were discussing their meal, “what part of the world you intend to visit. Does your father give you leave to go wherever you please, and stay as long as you choose?”
“No; he limits me to the Western Isles.”
“That’s an indefinite limitation. D’you mean the isles of the Western Pacific?”
“No; only those of the west of Scotland. And, to tell you the truth, I have no settled or definite plan. Having got leave to use the yacht all the summer on condition that I don’t leave our own shores, I have resolved to begin by running at once to the wildest and farthest away part of the kingdom, leaving circumstances to settle the rest.”
“A circumstantial account of the matter, no doubt, yet rather vague. Have you a good crew?”
“Yes; two men and a boy, one of the men being skipper, and the nearest approach to a human machine you ever saw. He is a Highlander, a thorough seaman, hard as mahogany and about as dark, stiff as a poker, self-contained, silent, except when spoken to, and absolutely obedient.”
“And we set sail to-morrow, early?” asked Barret.
“Yes; after seeing the morning papers,” said Mabberly with a laugh.
This, of course, turned the conversation on the accident, much to the distress of Barret, who feared that the jovial, off-hand reckless man from the “woods and forests” would laugh at and quiz him more severely than his friend Bob. To his surprise and great satisfaction, however, he found that his fears were groundless, for Jackman listened to the account of the incident quite gravely, betrayed not the slightest tendency to laugh, or even smile; asked a good many questions in an interested tone, spoke encouragingly as to the probable result, and altogether showed himself to be a man of strong sympathy as well as high spirits.
Next morning found our three adventurers dropping down the Thames with the first of the ebb tide, and a slight breeze from the south-west; Mabberly and Jackman in the very small cabin looking after stores, guns, rods, etcetera; Barret anxiously scanning the columns of a newspaper; Quin and the skipper making each other’s acquaintance with much of the suspicion observable in two bull-dogs who meet accidentally; the boy in the fore part of the vessel coiling ropes; and the remainder of the crew at the helm.
“Port! port! stiddy,” growled the skipper.
“Port it is; steady,” replied the steersman in a sing-song professional tone, as a huge steamer from the antipodes went slowly past, like a mighty leviathan of the deep.
“Is it to the north, south, east, or west we’re bound for, captain?” asked Quin, with a voice like that of a conciliatory bassoon.
“I don’t know where we’re bound for,” growled the skipper slowly. “Starboard a bit; stiddy!”
“Steady!” sang out the man at the tiller.
A few hours carried them into the German Ocean. Here Quin thought he would try again for a little information.
“Sure it’s nor’-east we’re steerin’, captain,” he remarked in a casual way.
“No, it’s not,” growled the skipper, very much through his nose; “she’s headin’ west.”
“It’s to somewhere that coorse will take us in the ind, no doubt, if we carry on?” suggested Quin, interrogatively.
“Ay; oot to sea,” replied the skipper.
Quin was obliged to give it up for the time being.
For
