Jack at Sea Part 1

Jack at Sea.

by George Manville Fenn.

CHAPTER ONE.

WHEN A BOY IS NOT A BOY.

"Fine morning, Jack; why don't you go and have a run?"

John Meadows--always "Jack," because his father's name was John--upon hearing that father's voice, raised his dull, dreamy eyes slowly from the perusal of the old Latin author over which he was bending, and looked in Sir John's face, gazing at him inquiringly as if he had been walking with Cicero in Rome--too far away to hear the question which had fallen upon his ears like a sound which conveyed no meaning.

Father and son were as much alike as a st.u.r.dy sun-browned man of forty can resemble a thin, pale youth of sixteen or so. In other words, they possessed the same features, but the elder suggested an outdoor plant, st.u.r.dy and well-grown, the younger a sickly exotic, raised in the hot steaming air of the building which gardeners call a stove, a place in which air is only admitted to pa.s.s over hot-water pipes, for fear the plants within should shiver and begin to droop.

Sir John had just entered the handsome library, bringing with him a good breezy, manly suggestion of having been tramping through woods and over downs; and as soon as he had closed the door, he glanced at the large fire near to which his son had drawn a small writing-table, said "Pff!"

unb.u.t.toned his rough heather-coloured Norfolk jacket, raised his eyes to the window as if he would like to throw it open, and then lowered them and wrinkled up his forehead as he gazed at his son, carefully dressed in dark-brown velvet, and wearing correctly fitting trousers and patent leather shoes, a strong contrast to his own knickerbockers, coa.r.s.e brown knitted stockings, and broad-soled shooting-boots.

Sir John looked anxious and worried, and he stretched out a strong brown hand to lay upon his son's shoulder, but he let it fall again, drew a deep breath, and then very gently asked him the question about the walk.

"Did you speak to me, father?" said the lad vacantly.

"Speak to you!" cried Sir John, in an impatient, angry tone, "of course I spoke to you. It worries me to see you so constantly sitting over the fire reading."

"Does it, father?" said the lad, wincing at the tone in which these words were spoken, and looking up in an apologetic way.

"I didn't mean to speak to you so sharply, my boy," continued Sir John, "but I don't like to see you neglecting your health so. Study's right enough, but too much of a good thing is bad for any one. Now, on a fine morning like this--"

"Is it fine, father? I thought it was cold."

"Cold! Tut--tut--tut! The weather is never cold to a healthy, manly boy."

"I'm afraid I'm not manly, father," said the lad.

"No, Jack, nor healthy neither; you are troubling me a great deal."

"Am I, father?" said the lad softly. "I'm very sorry. But I really am quite well."

"You are not, sir," cried Sir John, "and never will be if you spend all your time over books."

The lad gave him a sad, weary look.

"I thought you wanted me to study hard, father," he said reproachfully.

"Yes, yes, my boy, I do, and I should like to see you grow up into a distinguished man, but you are trying to make yourself into the proverbial dull boy."

"Am I? And I have worked so hard," said the lad in a weary, spiritless way.

"Yes; it's all work and no play with you, Jack, and it will not do, boy.

When I was your age I was captain of our football club."

Jack shuddered.

"I often carried out my bat at cricket."

The lad sighed.

"I could stick on anything, from a donkey up to an unbroken colt; throw a ball as far as any of my age, and come in smiling and ready for a good meal after a long paper-chase."

Jack's pitiable look of despair was almost comical.

"While you, sir," cried Sir John angrily, "you're a regular molly, and do nothing but coddle yourself over the fire and read. It's read, read, read, from morning till night, and when you do go out, it's warm wrappers and flannel and mackintoshes. Why, hang it all, boy! you go about as if you were afraid of being blown over, or that the rain would make you melt away."

"I am very sorry, father," said the youth piteously; "I'm afraid I am not like other boys."

"Not a bit."

"I can't help it."

"You don't try, Jack. You don't try, my boy. I always had the best of accounts about you from Daneborough. The reports are splendid. And, there, my dear boy, I am not angry with you, but it is very worrying to see you going about with lines in your forehead and this white face, when I want to see you st.u.r.dy and--well, as well and hearty as I am.

Why, Jack, you young dog!" he cried, slapping him on the shoulder, and making the lad wince, "I feel quite ashamed of myself. It isn't right for an old man like I am."

"You old, father!" said the lad, with more animation, and a faint flush came in his cheeks. "Why you look as well and young and strong as--"

"As you ought to be, sir. Why, Jack, boy, I could beat you at anything except books--walk you down, run you down, ride, jump, row, play cricket, shoot, or swim."

"Yes, father, I know," sighed the lad.

"But I'm ashamed to do anything of the kind when I see you moping like a sick bird in a cage."

"But I'm quite well, father, and happy--at least I should be if you were only satisfied with me."

"And I do want to see you happy, my boy, and I try to be satisfied with you. Now look here: come out with me more. I want to finish my collection of the _diptera_. Suppose you help me, and then we'll make another collection--birds say, or--no, I know: we'll take up the British fishes, and work them all. There's room there. It has never been half done. Why, what they call roach vary wonderfully. Even in two ponds close together the fish are as different as can be, and yet they call them all roach. Look here--we'll fish and net, and preserve in spirits, and you'll be surprised how much interest you will find in it combined with healthy exercise."

"I'll come with you, father, if you wish it," said the lad.

"Bah! That's of no use. I don't want you to come because I wish it. I want you to take a good healthy interest in the work, my boy. But it's of no use. I am right; you have worked too hard, and have read till your brain's getting worn out. There, I am right, Jack. You are not well."

"Doctor Instow, Sir John," said a servant, entering.

"Humph! lost no time," muttered the baronet. "Where is he, Edward?"

"In the drawing-room, Sir John."

"I'll come. No; show him in here."

"Father," whispered the lad excitedly, and a hectic spot showed in each cheek, "why has Doctor Instow come here?"

"Because I sent for him, my boy."