Chapter 6

“Ned wasn’t much of a fighter, and I ’alf expected to see ’im do a bolt up on deck and complain to the skipper. He did look like it for a moment, then he stood up, looking a bit white as Bill walked over to ’im, and the next moment ’is fist flew out, and afore we could turn round I’m blest if Bill wasn’t on the floor. ’E got up as if ’e was dazed like, struck out wild at Ned and missed ’im, and the next moment was knocked down agin. We could ’ardly believe our eyes, and as for Ned, ’e looked as though ’e’d been doing miracles by mistake.

“When Bill got up the second time ’e was that shaky ’e could ’ardly stand, and Ned ’ad it all ’is own way, until at last ’e got Bill’s ’ead under ’is arm and punched at it till they was both tired.

“‘All right,’ ses Bill; ‘I’ve ’ad enough. I’ve met my master.’

“‘_Wot_?’ ses Joe, staring.

“‘I’ve met my master,’ ses Bill, going and sitting down. ‘Ned ’as knocked me about crool.’

“Joe looked at ’im, speechless, and then without saying another word, or ’aving a go at Ned himself, as we expected, ’e went up on deck, and Ned crossed over and sat down by Bill.

“‘I ’ope I didn’t hurt you, mate,’ he ses, kindly.

“‘Hurt me?’ roars Bill. ‘You! You ’urt me? You, you little bag o’ bones. Wait till I get you ashore by yourself for five minits, Ned Davis, and then you’ll know what ’urting means.’

“‘I don’t understand you, Bill,’ ses Ned; ‘you’re a mystery, that’s what you are; but I tell you plain when you go ashore you don’t have me for a companion.’

“It was a mystery to all of us, and it got worse and worse as time went on. Bill didn’t dare to call ’is soul ’is own, although Joe only hit ’im once the whole time, and then not very hard, and he excused ’is cowardice by telling us of a man Joe ’ad killed in a fight down in one o’ them West-end clubs.

“Wot with Joe’s Sunday-school ways and Bill backing ’em up, we was all pretty glad by the time we got to Melbourne. It was like getting out o’ pris’n to get away from Joe for a little while. All but Bill, that is, and Joe took ’im to hear a dissolving views on John Bunyan. Bill said ’e’d be delighted to go, but the language he used about ’im on the quiet when he came back showed what ’e thought of it. I don’t know who John Bunyan is, or wot he’s done, but the things Bill said about ’im I wouldn’t soil my tongue by repeating.

“Arter we’d been there two or three days we began to feel a’most sorry for Bill. Night arter night, when we was ashore, Joe would take ’im off and look arter ’im, and at last, partly for ’is sake, but more to see the fun, Tom Baker managed to think o’ something to put things straight.

“‘You stay aboard to-night, Bill,’ he ses one morning, ‘and you’ll see something that ’ll startle you.’

“‘Worse than you?’ ses Bill, whose temper was getting worse and worse.

“‘There’ll be an end o’ that bullying, Joe,’ ses Tom, taking ’im by the arm. ‘We’ve arranged to give ’im a lesson as’ll lay ’im up for a time.’

“‘Oh,’ ses Bill, looking ’ard at a boat wot was passing.

“‘We’ve got Dodgy Pete coming to see us tonight,’ ses Tom, in a whisper; ‘there’ll only be the second officer aboard, and he’ll likely be asleep. Dodgy’s one o’ the best light-weights in Australia, and if ’e don’t fix up Mister Joe, it’ll be a pity.’

“‘You’re a fair treat, Tom,’ ses Bill, turning round; ‘that’s what you are. A fair treat.’

“‘I thought you’d be pleased, Bill,’ ses Tom.

“Pleased ain’t no name for it, Tom,’ answers Bill. ‘You’ve took a load off my mind.’

“The fo’c’s’le was pretty full that evening, everybody giving each other a little grin on the quiet, and looking over to where Joe was sitting in ’is bunk putting a button or two on his coat. At about ha’-past six Dodgy comes aboard, and the fun begins to commence.

“He was a nasty, low-looking little chap, was Dodgy, very fly-looking and very conceited. I didn’t like the look of ’im at all, and unbearable as Joe was, it didn’t seem to be quite the sort o’ thing to get a chap aboard to ’ammer a shipmate you couldn’t ’ammer yourself.

“‘Nasty stuffy place you’ve got down ’ere,’ ses Dodgy, who was smoking a big cigar; ‘I can’t think ’ow you can stick it.’

“‘It ain’t bad for a fo’c’s’le,’ ses Charlie.

“‘An’ what’s that in that bunk over there?’ ses Dodgy, pointing with ’is cigar at Joe.

“‘Hush, be careful,’ ses Tom, with a wink; ‘that’s a prize-fighter.’

“‘Oh,’ ses Dodgy, grinning, ‘I thought it was a monkey.’

“You might ’ave heard a pin drop, and there was a pleasant feeling went all over us at the thought of the little fight we was going to see all to ourselves, as Joe lays down the jacket he was stitching at and just puts ’is little ’ead over the side o’ the bunk.

“‘Bill,’ he ses, yawning.

“‘Well,’ ses Bill, all on the grin like the rest of us.

“‘Who is that ’andsome, gentlemanly-looking young feller over there smoking a half-crown cigar?’ ses Joe.

“That’s a young gent wot’s come down to ’ave a look round,’ ses Tom, as Dodgy takes ’is cigar out of ’is mouth and looks round, puzzled.

“‘Wot a terror ’e must be to the gals, with them lovely little peepers of ’is,’ ses Joe, shaking ’is ’ead. ‘_Bill_!’

“‘Well,’ ses Bill, agin, as Dodgy got up.

“‘Take that lovely little gentleman and kick ’im up the fo’c’s’le ladder,’ ses Joe, taking up ’is jacket agin; ‘and don’t make too much noise over it, cos I’ve got a bit of a ’eadache, else I’d do it myself.’

“There was a laugh went all round then, and Tom Baker was near killing himself, and then I’m blessed if Bill didn’t get up and begin taking off ’is coat.

“‘Wot’s the game?’ ses Dodgy, staring.

“‘I’m obeying orders,’ ses Bill. ‘Last time I was in London, Joe ’ere half killed me one time, and ’e made me promise to do as ’e told me for six months. I’m very sorry, mate, but I’ve got to kick you up that ladder.’

“‘You kick me up?’ ses Dodgy, with a nasty little laugh.

“‘I can try, mate, can’t I?’ ses Bill, folding ’is things up very neat and putting ’em on a locker.

“‘’Old my cigar,’ ses Dodgy, taking it out of ’is mouth and sticking it in Charlie’s. ‘I don’t need to take my coat off to ’im.’

“’E altered ’is mind, though, when he saw Bill’s chest and arms, and not only took off his coat, but his waistcoat too. Then, with a nasty look at Bill, ’e put up ’is fists and just pranced up to ’im.

“The fust blow Bill missed, and the next moment ’e got a tap on the jaw that nearly broke it, and that was followed up by one in the eye that sent ’im staggering up agin the side, and when ’e was there Dodgy’s fists were rattling all round ’im.

“I believe it was that that brought Bill round, and the next moment Dodgy was on ’is back with a blow that nearly knocked his ’ead off. Charlie grabbed at Tom’s watch and began to count, and after a little bit called out ‘Time.’ It was a silly thing to do, as it would ’ave stopped the fight then and there if it ’adn’t been for Tom’s presence of mind, saying it was two minutes slow. That gave Dodgy a chance, and he got up again and walked round Bill very careful, swearing ’ard at the small size of the fo’c’s’le.

“He got in three or four at Bill afore you could wink a’most, and when Bill ’it back ’e wasn’t there. That seemed to annoy Bill more than anything, and he suddenly flung out ’is arms, and grabbing ’old of ’im flung ’im right across the fo’c’s’le to where, fortunately for ’im—Dodgy, I mean—Tom Baker was sitting.

“Charlie called ‘Time’ again, and we let ’em ’ave five minutes while we ’elped Tom to bed, and then wot ’e called the ‘disgusting exhibishun’ was resoomed. Bill ’ad dipped ’is face in a bucket and ’ad rubbed ’is great arms all over and was as fresh as a daisy. Dodgy looked a bit tottery, but ’e was game all through and very careful, and, try as Bill might, he didn’t seem to be able to get ’old of ’im agin.

“In five minutes more, though, it was all over, Dodgy not being able to see plain—except to get out o’ Bill’s way—and hitting wild. He seemed to think the whole fo’c’s’le was full o’ Bills sitting on a locker and waiting to be punched, and the end of it was a knock-out blow from the real Bill which left ’im on the floor without a soul offering to pick ’im up.

“Bill ’elped ’im up at last and shook hands with ’im, and they rinsed their faces in the same bucket, and began to praise each other up. They sat there purring like a couple o’ cats, until at last we ’eard a smothered voice coming from Joe Simms’s bunk.

“‘Is it all over?’ he asks.

“‘Yes,’ ses somebody.

“‘How is Bill?’ ses Joe’s voice again.

“‘Look for yourself,’ ses Tom.

“Joe sat up in ’is bunk then and looked out, and he no sooner saw Bill’s face than he gave a loud cry and fell back agin, and, as true as I’m sitting here, fainted clean away. We was struck all of a ’eap, and then Bill picked up the bucket and threw some water over ’im, and by and by he comes round agin and in a dazed sort o’ way puts his arm round Bill’s neck and begins to cry.

“‘_Mighty Moses_!’ ses Dodgy Pete, jumping up, ‘it’s a woman!’

“‘_It’s my wife!_’ ses Bill.

“We understood it all then, leastways the married ones among us did. She’d shipped aboard partly to be with Bill and partly to keep an eye on ’im, and Tom Baker’s mistake about a prizefighter had just suited her book better than anything. How Bill was to get ’er home ’e couldn’t think, but it ’appened the second officer had been peeping down the fo’c’s’le, waiting for ever so long for a suitable opportunity to stop the fight, and the old man was so tickled about the way we’d all been done ’e gave ’er a passage back as stewardess to look arter the ship’s cat.”

THE RESURRECTION OF MR. WIGGETT

Mr. Sol Ketchmaid, landlord of the Ship, sat in his snug bar, rising occasionally from his seat by the taps to minister to the wants of the customers who shared this pleasant retreat with him.

Forty years at sea before the mast had made Mr. Ketchmaid an authority on affairs maritime; five years in command of the Ship Inn, with the nearest other licensed house five miles off, had made him an autocrat.

From his cushioned Windsor-chair he listened pompously to the conversation. Sometimes he joined in and took sides, and on these occasions it was a foregone conclusion that the side he espoused would win. No matter how reasonable the opponent’s argument or how gross his personalities, Mr. Ketchmaid, in his capacity of host, had one unfailing rejoinder—the man was drunk. When Mr. Ketchmaid had pronounced that opinion the argument was at an end. A nervousness about his license—conspicuous at other times by its absence—would suddenly possess him, and, opening the little wicket which gave admission to the bar, he would order the offender in scathing terms to withdraw.

Twice recently had he found occasion to warn Mr. Ned Clark, the village shoemaker, the strength of whose head had been a boast in the village for many years. On the third occasion the indignant shoemaker was interrupted in the middle of an impassioned harangue on free speech and bundled into the road by the ostler. After this nobody was safe.

To-night Mr. Ketchmaid, meeting his eye as he entered the bar, nodded curtly. The shoemaker had stayed away three days as a protest, and the landlord was naturally indignant at such contumacy.

“Good evening, Mr. Ketchmaid,” said the shoemaker, screwing up his little black eyes; “just give me a small bottle o’ lemonade, if you please.”

Mr. Clark’s cronies laughed, and Mr. Ketchmaid, after glancing at him to make sure that he was in earnest, served him in silence.

“There’s one thing about lemonade,” said the shoemaker, as he sipped it gingerly; “nobody could say you was drunk, not if you drank bucketsful of it.”

There was an awkward silence, broken at last by Mr. Clark smacking his lips.

“Any news since I’ve been away, chaps?” he inquired; “or ’ave you just been sitting round as usual listening to the extra-ordinary adventures what happened to Mr. Ketchmaid whilst a-follering of the sea?”

“Truth is stranger than fiction, Ned,” said Mr. Peter Smith, the tailor, reprovingly.

The shoemaker assented. “But I never thought so till I heard some o’ the things Mr. Ketchmaid ’as been through,” he remarked.

“Well, you know now,” said the landlord, shortly.

“And the truthfullest of your yarns are the most wonderful of the lot, to my mind,” said Mr. Clark.

“What do you mean by the truthfullest?” demanded the landlord, gripping the arms of his chair.

“Why, the strangest,” grinned the shoemaker.

“Ah, he’s been through a lot, Mr. Ketchmaid has,” said the tailor.

“The truthfullest one to my mind,” said the shoemaker, regarding the landlord with spiteful interest, “is that one where Henry Wiggett, the boatswain’s mate, ’ad his leg bit off saving Mr. Ketchmaid from the shark, and ’is shipmate, Sam Jones, the nigger cook, was wounded saving ’im from the South Sea Highlanders.”

“I never get tired o’ hearing that yarn,” said the affable Mr. Smith.

“I do,” said Mr. Clark.

Mr. Ketchmaid looked up from his pipe and eyed him darkly; the shoemaker smiled serenely.

“Another small bottle o’ lemonade, landlord,” he said, slowly.

“Go and get your lemonade somewhere else,” said the bursting Mr. Ketchmaid.

“I prefer to ’ave it here,” rejoined the shoemaker, “and you’ve got to serve me, Ketchmaid. A licensed publican is compelled to serve people whether he likes to or not, else he loses of ’is license.”

“Not when they’re the worse for licker he ain’t,” said the landlord.

“Certainly not,” said the shoemaker; “that’s why I’m sticking to lemonade, Ketchmaid.”

The indignant Mr. Ketchmaid, removing the wire from the cork, discharged the missile at the ceiling. The shoemaker took the glass from him and looked round with offensive slyness.

“Here’s the ’ealth of Henry Wiggett what lost ’is leg to save Mr. Ketchmaid’s life,” he said, unctuously. “Also the ’ealth of Sam Jones, who let hisself be speared through the chest for the same noble purpose. Likewise the health of Captain Peters, who nursed Mr. Ketchmaid like ’is own son when he got knocked up doing the work of five men as was drowned; likewise the health o’ Dick Lee, who helped Mr. Ketchmaid capture a Chinese junk full of pirates and killed the whole seventeen of ’em by—’Ow did you say you killed ’em, Ketchmaid?”

The landlord, who was busy with the taps, affected not to hear.

“Killed the whole seventeen of ’em by first telling ’em yarns till they fell asleep and then choking ’em with Henry Wiggett’s wooden leg,” resumed the shoemaker.

“Kee—hee,” said a hapless listener, explosively. “Kee—hee—kee——”

He checked himself suddenly, and assumed an air of great solemnity as the landlord looked his way.

“You’d better go ’ome, Jem Summers,” said the fuming Mr. Ketchmaid. “You’re the worse for licker.”

“I’m not,” said Mr. Summers, stoutly.

“Out you go,” said Mr. Ketchmaid, briefly. “You know my rules. I keep a respectable house, and them as can’t drink in moderation are best outside.”

“You should stick to lemonade, Jem,” said Mr. Clark. “You can say what you like then.”

Mr. Summers looked round for support, and then, seeing no pity in the landlord’s eye, departed, wondering inwardly how he was to spend the remainder of the evening. The company in the bar gazed at each other soberly and exchanged whispers.

“Understand, Ned Clark,” said the indignant Mr. Ketchmaid, “I don’t want your money in this public-house. Take it somewhere else.”

“Thank’ee, but I prefer to come here,” said the shoemaker, ostentatiously sipping his lemonade. “I like to listen to your tales of the sea. In a quiet way I get a lot of amusement out of ’em.”

“Do you disbelieve my word?” demanded Mr. Ketchmaid, hotly.

“Why, o’ course I do,” replied the shoemaker; “we all do. You’d see how silly they are yourself if you only stopped to think. You and your sharks!—no shark would want to eat you unless it was blind.”

Mr. Ketchmaid allowed this gross reflection on his personal appearance to pass unnoticed, and for the first time of many evenings sat listening in torment as the shoemaker began the narration of a series of events which he claimed had happened to a seafaring nephew. Many of these bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Ketchmaid’s own experiences, the only difference being that the nephew had no eye at all for the probabilities.

In this fell work Mr. Clark was ably assisted by the offended Mr. Summers. Side by side they sat and quaffed lemonade, and burlesqued the landlord’s autobiography, the only consolation afforded to Mr. Ketchmaid consisting in the reflection that they were losing a harmless pleasure in good liquor. Once, and once only, they succumbed to the superior attractions of alcohol, and Mr. Ketchmaid, returning from a visit to his brewer at the large seaport of Burnsea, heard from the ostler the details of a carouse with which he had been utterly unable to cope.

The couple returned to lemonade the following night, and remained faithful to that beverage until an event transpired which rendered further self-denial a mere foolishness.

It was about a week later; Mr. Ketchmaid had just resumed his seat after serving a customer, when the attention of all present was attracted by an odd and regular tapping on the brick-paved passage outside. It stopped at the tap-room, and a murmur of voices escaped at the open door. Then the door was closed, and a loud, penetrating voice called on the name of Sol Ketchmaid.

“Good Heavens!” said the amazed landlord, half-rising from his seat and falling back again, “I ought to know that voice.”

“Sol Ketchmaid,” bellowed the voice again; “where are you, shipmate?”

“Hennery Wiggett!” gasped the landlord, as a small man with ragged whiskers appeared at the wicket, “it can’t be!”

The new-comer regarded him tenderly for a moment without a word, and then, kicking open the door with an unmistakable wooden leg, stumped into the bar, and grasping his outstretched hand shook it fervently.

“I met Cap’n Peters in Melbourne,” said the stranger, as his friend pushed him into his own chair, and questioned him breathlessly. “He told me where you was.”

“The sight o’ you, Hennery Wiggett, is better to me than diamonds,” said Mr. Ketchmaid, ecstatically. “How did you get here?”

“A friend of his, Cap’n Jones, of the barque _Venus_, gave me a passage to London,” said Mr. Wiggett, “and I’ve tramped down from there without a penny in my pocket.”

“And Sol Ketchmaid’s glad to see you, sir,” said Mr. Smith, who, with the rest of the company, had been looking on in a state of great admiration. “He’s never tired of telling us ’ow you saved him from the shark and ’ad your leg bit off in so doing.”

“I’d ’ave my other bit off for ’im, too,” said Mr. Wiggett, as the landlord patted him affectionately on the shoulder and thrust a glass of spirits into his hands. “Cheerful, I would. The kindest-’earted and the bravest man that ever breathed, is old Sol Ketchmaid.”

He took the landlord’s hand again, and, squeezing it affectionately, looked round the comfortable bar with much approval. They began to converse in the low tones of confidence, and names which had figured in many of the landlord’s stories fell continuously on the listeners’ ears.

“You never ’eard anything more o’ pore Sam Jones, I s’pose?” said Mr. Ketchmaid.

Mr. Wiggett put down his glass.

“I ran up agin a man in Rio Janeiro two years ago,” he said, mournfully. “Pore old Sam died in ’is arms with your name upon ’is honest black lips.”

“Enough to kill any man,” muttered the discomfited Mr. Clark, looking round defiantly upon his murmuring friends.

“Who is this putty-faced swab, Sol?” demanded Mr. Wiggett, turning a fierce glance in the shoemaker’s direction.

“He’s our cobbler,” said the landlord, “but you don’t want to take no notice of ’im. Nobody else does. He’s a man who as good as told me I’m a liar.”

“Wot!” said Mr. Wiggett, rising and stumping across the bar; “take it back, mate. I’ve only got one leg, but nobody shall run down Sol while I can draw breath. The finest sailor-man that ever trod a deck is Sol, and the best-’earted.”

“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Smith; “own up as you’re in the wrong, Ned.”

“When I was laying in my bunk in the fo’c’s’le being nursed back to life,” continued Mr. Wiggett, enthusiastically, “who was it that set by my side ’olding my ’and and telling me to live for his sake?—why, Sol Ketchmaid. Who was it that said that he’d stick to me for life?—why Sol Ketchmaid. Who was it said that so long as ’e ’ad a crust I should have first bite at it, and so long as ’e ’ad a bed I should ’ave first half of it?—why, Sol Ketchmaid!”

He paused to take breath, and a flattering murmur arose from his listeners, while the subject of his discourse looked at him as though his eloquence was in something of the nature of a surprise even to him.

“In my old age and on my beam-ends,” continued Mr. Wiggett, “I remembered them words of old Sol, and I knew if I could only find ’im my troubles were over. I knew that I could creep into ’is little harbour and lay snug. I knew that what Sol said he meant. I lost my leg saving ’is life, and he is grateful.”

“So he ought to be,” said Mr. Clark, “and I’m proud to shake ’ands with a hero.”

He gripped Mr. Wiggett’s hand, and the others followed suit. The wooden-legged man wound up with Mr. Ketchmaid, and, disdaining to notice that that veracious mariner’s grasp was somewhat limp, sank into his chair again, and asked for a cigar.

“Lend me the box, Sol,” he said, jovially, as he took it from him. “I’m going to ’and ’em round. This is my treat, mates. Pore old Henry Wiggett’s treat.”

He passed the box round, Mr. Ketchmaid watching in helpless indignation as the customers, discarding their pipes, thanked Mr. Wiggett warmly, and helped themselves to a threepenny cigar apiece. Mr. Clark was so particular that he spoilt at least two by undue pinching before he could find one to his satisfaction.

Closing time came all too soon, Mr. Wiggett, whose popularity was never for a moment in doubt, developing gifts to which his friend had never even alluded. He sang comic songs in a voice which made the glasses rattle on the shelves, asked some really clever riddles, and wound up with a conjuring trick which consisted in borrowing half a crown from Mr. Ketchmaid and making it pass into the pocket of Mr. Peter Smith. This last was perhaps not quite so satisfactory, as the utmost efforts of the tailor failed to discover the coin, and he went home under a cloud of suspicion which nearly drove him frantic.

“I ’ope you’re satisfied,” said Mr. Wiggett, as the landlord, having shot the bolts of the front door, returned to the bar.

“You went a bit too far,” said Mr. Ketchmaid, shortly; “you should ha’ been content with doing what I told you to do. And who asked you to ’and my cigars round?”

“I got a bit excited,” pleaded the other.

“And you forgot to tell ’em you’re going to start to-morrow to live with that niece of yours in New Zealand,” added the landlord.

“So I did,” said Mr. Wiggett, smiting his forehead; “so I did. I’m very sorry; I’ll tell ’em to-morrow night.”

“Mention it casual like, to-morrow morning,” commanded Mr. Ketchmaid, “and get off in the arternoon, then I’ll give you some dinner besides the five shillings as arranged.”

Mr. Wiggett thanked him warmly, and, taking a candle, withdrew to the unwonted luxury of clean sheets and a soft bed. For some time he lay awake in deep thought and then, smothering a laugh with the bed-clothes, he gave a sigh of content and fell asleep.