Many Cargoes Part 42

"Five quid," replied the skipper.

"Well, we ought to do it," said the mate slowly; "'t wont be my fault if we don't."

"Mine neither," said the skipper. "As a matter o' fact, Joe, I reckon I've about made sure of it. All's fair in love and war and racing, Joe."

"Ay, ay," said the mate, more slowly than before, as he revolved this addition to the proverb.

"I just nipped round and saw a chap I used to know named Dibbs," said the skipper. "Keeps a boarding-house for sailors. Wonderful sharp little chap he is. Needles ain't nothing to him. There's heaps of needles, but only one Dibbs. He's going to make old Berrow's chaps as drunk as lords."

"Does he know 'em?" inquired the mate.

"He knows where to find 'em," said the other. "I told him they'd either be in the 'Duke's Head' or the 'Town o' Berwick.' But he'd find 'em wherever they was. Ah, even if they was in a coffee pallis, I b'leeve that man 'ud find 'em."

"They're steady chaps," objected the mate, but in a weak fashion, being somewhat staggered by this tribute to Mr. Dibbs' remarkable powers.

"My lad," said the skipper, "it's Dibbs' business to mix sailors'

liquors so's they don't know whether they're standing on their heads or their heels. He's the most wonderful mixer in Christendom; takes a reg'lar pride in it. Many a sailorman has got up a ship's side, thinking it was stairs, and gone off half acrost the world instead of going to bed, through him."

"We'll have a easy job of it, then," said the mate. "I b'leeve we could ha' managed it without that, though. 'Tain't quite what you'd call sport, is it?"

"There's nothing like making sure of a thing," said the skipper placidly. "What time's our chaps coming aboard?"

"Ten thirty, the latest," replied the mate. "Old Sam's with 'em, so they'll be all right."

"I'll turn in for a couple of hours," said the skipper, going towards his berth. "Lord! I'd give something to see old Berrow's face as his chaps come up the side."

"P'raps they won't git as far as that," remarked the mate.

"Oh, yes they will," said the skipper. "Dibbs is going to see to that. I don't want any chance of the race being scratched. Turn me out in a couple of hours."

He closed the door behind him, and the mate, having stuffed his clay with the coa.r.s.e tobacco, took some pink note-paper with scalloped edges from his drawer, and, placing the paper at his right side, and squaring his shoulders, began some private correspondence.

For some time he smoked and wrote in silence, until the increasing darkness warned him to finish his task. He signed the note, and, having put a few marks of a tender nature below his signature, sealed it ready for the post, and sat with half-closed eyes, finishing his pipe. Then his head nodded, and, placing his arms on the table, he too slept.

It seemed but a minute since he had closed his eyes when he was awakened by the entrance of the skipper, who came blundering into the darkness from his stateroom, vociferating loudly and nervously.

"Ay, ay!" said Joe, starting up.

"Where's the lights?" said the skipper. "What's the time? I dreamt I'd overslept myself. What's the time?"

"Plenty o' time," said the mate vaguely, as he stifled a yawn.

"Ha'-past ten," said the skipper, as he struck a match, "You've been asleep," he added severely.

"I ain't," said the mate stoutly, as he followed the other on deck.

"I've been thinking. I think better in the dark."

"It's about time our chaps was aboard," said the skipper, as he looked round the deserted deck. "I hope they won't be late."

"Sam's with 'em," said the mate confidently, as he went on to the side; "there ain't no festivities going on aboard the Good Intent, neither."

"There will be," said his worthy skipper, with a grin, as he looked across the intervening brig at the rival craft; "there will be."

He walked round the deck to see that everything was snug and ship-shape, and got back to the mate just as a howl of surprising weirdness was heard proceeding from the neighbouring stairs.

"I'm s'prised at Berrow allowing his men to make that noise," said the skipper waggishly. "Our chaps are there too, I think. I can hear Sam's voice."

"So can I," said the mate, with emphasis.

"Seems to be talking rather loud," said the master of the Thistle, knitting his brows.

"Sounds as though he's trying to sing," said the mate, as, after some delay, a heavily-laden boat put off from the stairs and made slowly for them. "No, he ain't; he's screaming."

There was no longer any doubt about it. The respectable and greatly-trusted Sam was letting off a series of wild howls which would have done credit to a penny-gaff Zulu, and was evidently very much out of temper about something.

"Ahoy, Thistle! Ahoy!" bellowed the waterman, as he neared the schooner.

"Chuck us a rope?-quick!"

The mate threw him one, and the boat came alongside. It was then seen that another waterman, using impatient and deplorable language, was forcibly holding Sam down in the boat.

"What's he done? What's the row?" demanded the mate.

"Done?" said the waterman, in disgust. "Done? He's 'ad a small lemon, an' it's got into his silly old head. He's making all this fuss 'cos he wanted to set the pub on fire, an' they wouldn't let him. Man ash.o.r.e told us they belonged to the Good Intent, but I know they're your men."

"Sam!" roared the skipper, with a sinking heart, as his glance fell on the rec.u.mbent figures in the boat; "come aboard at once, you drunken disgrace! D'ye hear?"

"I can't leave him," said Sam, whimpering.

"Leave who?" growled the skipper.

"Him," said Sam, placing his arms round the waterman's neck. "Him an'

me's like brothers."

"Get up, you old loonatic!" snarled the waterman, extricating himself with difficulty, and forcing the other towards the side. "Now, up you go!"

Aided by the shoulders of the waterman and the hands of his superior officers, Sam went up, and then the waterman turned his attention to the remainder of his fares, who were snoring contentedly in the bottom of the boat.

"Now, then!" he cried; "look alive with you! D'ye hear? Wake up! Wake up! Kick 'em, Bill!"

"I can't kick no 'arder," grumbled the other waterman.

"What the devil's the matter with 'em?" stormed the master of the Thistle, "Chuck a pail of water over 'em, Joe!"

Joe obeyed with gusto; and, as he never had much of a head for details, bestowed most of it upon the watermen. Through the row which ensued the Thistle's crew snored peacefully, and at last were handed up over the sides like sacks of potatoes, and the indignant watermen pulled back to the stairs.

"Here's a nice crew to win a race with!" wailed the skipper, almost crying with rage. "Chuck the water over 'em, Joe! Chuck the water over 'em!"

Joe obeyed willingly, until at length, to the skipper's great relief, one man stirred, and, sitting up on the deck, sleepily expressed his firm conviction that it was raining. For a moment they both had hopes of him, but as Joe went to the side for another bucketful, he evidently came to the conclusion that he had been dreaming, and, lying down again, resumed his nap. As he did so the first stroke of Big Ben came booming down the river.