The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman

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as the chronometer was out of action, there was no means of ascertaining this or of determining her longitude. Sooner or later, if the calm continued, she would drift into the Bight of Biafra, where she might pick up the land and sea breezes or find an anchorage where she could bring up and get the chronometer rated.

      To a seaman there is nothing more exasperating than a prolonged calm. The crew of the Speedwell were not sailors of a strenuous type, but the inaction and monotony that prevailed on the idly ship bored them—if not to tears, at least to bad language and chronic grumbling. They lounged about with sulky looks and yawned over the odd jobs that Osmond found for them, whistling vainly for a breeze and crawling up the rigging from time to time to see if anything—land or another ship—was in sight. As to the captain, he grew daily more sour and taciturn as he saw his stores of provisions dwindling with nothing to show for the expenditure.

      But by two of the ship company the calm was accepted with something more than resignation. The two mates had no complaint whatever to make. They were, indeed, cut off from all the world; marooned on a stationary ship in an unfrequented sea. But they had one another and asked for nothing better; and the longer the calm lasted the more secure were they of the continuance of this happy condition. For the inevitable thing had happened. They had fallen in love.

      It was very natural. Both were more than commonly attractive, and circumstances had thrown them together in the closest and most intimate companionship through every hour of the long days. They had worked together, though the work was more than half play; they had a common interest which kept them apart from the others. Together they had sat, talking endlessly, in little patches of shadow when the sun was high in the heavens, or leaned upon the bulwark rail and watched the porpoises playing round the idle ship or the Portuguese men-of-war gliding imperceptibly past on their rainbow-tinted floats. They had paced the heaving deck together when the daylight was gone and earnestly studied the constellations ‘that blazed in the velvet blue,’ or peered down into the dark water alongside where the Nautilus shone like submarine stars and shoals of fish darted away before the pursuing dolphin lurid flashes of phosphorescent light. No more perfect setting for a romance could be imagined.

      And then the personality of each was such as to make a special appeal to the other. In the eyes of the girl, Osmond was a hero, a paladin. His commanding stature, his strength, his mastery of other men, and above all his indomitable courage, had captured her imagination from the first. And in his rugged way he was a handsome man; and if he could be a little brutal on occasion, he had always been, to her, the soul of courtesy and chivalry. As to the ‘past’ of which she had a strong suspicion, that was no concern of hers; perhaps it even invested him with an added interest.

      As to Osmond, he had been captivated at once, and, to do him justice he had instantly perceived the danger that loomed ahead. But he could do nothing to avoid it. Flight was impossible from this little self-contained world, so pleasantly cut off from the unfriendly world without; nor could he, even if he had tried, help being thrown constantly into the society of this fascinating little lady. And if, during the long, solitary night-watches, or in his stifling berth, he gnashed his teeth over the perverseness of Fate and thought bitterly of what might have been, that did not prevent him from succumbing during the day to the charm of her frank, unconcealed friendliness.

      It was in the forenoon of the eighth day of the calm that the two cronies were leaning on the rail, each holding a stout line. The previous day Osmond had discovered a quantity of fishing tackle among Redford’s effects, and a trial cast had provided not only excellent sport, but a very welcome addition to the ship’s meagre diet. Thereupon an epidemic of sea-angling had broken out on board, and Bill Foat, the cook, had been kept busy with the preparation of snappers, horse and other deep-sea fish.

      “I wonder,” the girl mused as she peered over the side, “how much longer this calm is going to last.”

      “It may last for weeks,” Osmond replied. “I hope it won’t for your sake. You must be getting frightfully bored.”

      “Indeed, I’m not,” she rejoined. “It is the jolliest holiday I have ever had. The only fly in the ointment is the fear that my father may be a little anxious about me. But I don’t suppose he is really worrying. He is like me—not much given to fussing and he knows that I am fairly well able to take care of myself, though he doesn’t know that I have got a Captain James Cook to stand by me. But I expect you are getting pretty sick of this monotonous life, aren’t you, Captain J.?”

      Osmond shook his head. “Not a bit,” he replied. “It has been a delightful interlude for me. I should be perfectly satisfied for it to go on for the rest of my life.”

      She looked at him thoughtfully, speculating on the inward meaning of this statement and noting a certain grave wistfulness that softened the grim face.

      “That sounds rather as if Adaffia were not a perfect Paradise, for it has been a dull life for you since the mutiny collapsed and the calm set in, with no one to talk to but me.”

      “Adaffia would be all right under the same conditions,” said he.

      “What do you mean by the same conditions?” she asked, flushing slightly; and as he did not immediately answer, she continued: “Do you mean that life would be more pleasant there if you had your second mate to gossip with?”

      “Yes,” he answered, reluctantly, almost gruffly. “Of course that is what I mean.”

      “It is very nice of you, Jim, to say that, but you needn’t have spoiled it by speaking in that crabby tone. It is nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t mind admitting that I shall miss you most awfully if we have to separate when this voyage is over. You have been the best of chums to me.”

      She flushed again as she said this and then looked at him a little shyly. For nearly a minute he made no response, but continued to gaze intently and rather gloomily at the water below. At length he said, gravely, still looking steadily at the water:

      “There is something, Miss Burleigh, that I feel I ought to tell you; that I wouldn’t tell any one else in the world.”

      “Thank you, Jim,” she said. “But please don’t call me Miss Burleigh. It is so ridiculously stiff between old chums like us. And, Jim, you are not to tell me anything that it might be better for you that I should not know. I am not in the least inquisitive about your affairs.”

      “I know that,” he replied. “But this is a thing that I feel you ought to know. It has been on my mind to tell you for some days past.” He paused for a few seconds and then continued: “You remember, Betty, that man Osmond that you spoke about?”

      “Yes; but don’t call him ‘that man Osmond.’ Poor fellow! I don’t suppose he had done anything very dreadful, and at any rate we can afford to speak kindly of him now that he is dead.”

      “Yes, but that is just the point. He isn’t dead.”

      “Isn’t dead?” she repeated. “But Captain Cockcram saw that other man, Larkom, painting the name on his grave. Was it a dummy grave?”

      “No. But it was Larkom who died. The man Cockeram saw was Osmond.”

      “Are you sure? But of course you would be. Oh, Jim! You won’t tell anybody else, will you?”

      “I am not very likely to,” he replied with a grim smile, “as I happen to be the said John Osmond.”

      “Jim!” she gasped, gazing at him with wide eyes and parted lips. “I am astounded! I can’t believe it.”

      “I expect it

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