The Slave of the Lamp Part 38

"Oh--yourn't a parlee voo, then!"

"No, I'm an Englishman."

"Indeed. Then you'll excuse me, but what in the name of glory are you doing here?"

Christian sat up and looked at his muddy shoes with some interest.

"Well, the truth is that I am bolting. I want to get across to England.

I saw where you hailed from by your rig, and clambered on board last night. It seemed to me that when an Englishman is in a hole he cannot do better than go to a fellow-countryman for help."

Captain Lebrun made a mighty effort to force a pa.s.sage through his pipe, and was rewarded by a very high-pitched squeak.

"Ay!" he said doubtfully. "But what sort of hole is it? Nothing dirty, I'm hopin'. Who are yer? Why are ye runnin' away, and who are ye runnin'

from?"

Though a trifle blunt the sailor's manner was not unfriendly, and Christian laughed before replying.

"Well," he said, "to tell you the whole story would take a long time.

You remember perhaps there was a row, about two months ago, respecting some English rifles found in Paris?"

"Of course I remember that; we had a lot o' trouble with the Customs just then. The thing was ferreted out by a young newspaper fellow!"

Christian rubbed his hands slowly together. He was terribly anxious to hear the sequel.

"I am that newspaper fellow," he said, with a quick smile.

Captain Lebrun slowly stood up. He contemplated his pipe thoughtfully, then laying it upon the table he turned solemnly towards Christian, and held out a broad brown hand which was covered with scales in lieu of skin.

"Shake hands, mister?" he said.

Christian obliged him.

"And now," he said quickly, "I want to know what has happened since--since I left England. Has there been a great row? Has ... has anybody wondered where I was?"

The old sailor may have had his suspicions. He may have guessed that Christian Vellacott had not left England at the dictates of his own free will, for he looked at him very kindly with his liquid blue eyes, and replied slowly:--

"I couldn't say that _n.o.body_ hasn't been wonderin' where ye was, but--but there's been nothing in the papers!"

"That is all right! And now will you give me a pa.s.sage, Captain?"

"Course I will! We sail about eleven this morning. I'm loaded and cleared out. But I should like you to have a change o' clothes. Can't bear to see ye in them black things. It makes me feel as if I was talkin' to a priest."

"I should like nothing better," replied Christian, as he rose and contemplated his own person reflectively.

"Come into my state-room then. I've got a few things of my own, and a bit of a slop-chest: jerseys and things as I sell to the men."

The Captain's wardrobe was of a marine character and somewhat rough in texture. He had, however, a coat and waistcoat of thick blue pilot-cloth which fitted Christian remarkably well, but the continuations thereof were so absurdly out of keeping with the young fellow's long limbs as to precipitate the skipper on to the verge of apoplexy. When he recovered, and his pipe was re-lighted, he left the cabin and went forward to borrow a pair of the required articles from Tom Slake, an ordinary seaman of tall and slim proportions. In a short time Christian Vellacott bore the outward semblance of a very fair specimen of the British tar, except that his cheeks were bleached and sunken, which discrepancy was promptly commented upon by the blunt old sailor.

Secrecy was absolutely necessary, so Tom, of the long legs, was the only person to whom Christian's presence was made known; and he it was who (in view of a possible berth as steward later on) was entrusted with the simple culinary duties of the vessel.

Breakfast, as served up by Tom, was of a n.o.ble simplicity. A long shiny loaf of yesterday's bread, some b.u.t.ter in a saucer--which vessel was deemed entirely superfluous in connection with cups--brown sugar in an old mustard-tin, with portions of yellow paper adhering to it, and solid slices of bacon brought from the galley in their native frying-pan. Such slight drawbacks, however, as there might have been in the matter of table-ware disappeared before the sense of kindly hospitality with which Captain Lebrun poured the tea into a cracked cup and a borrowed pannikin, dropping in the sugar with careful judgment from his brown fingers. Such defects as there might have lurked in the culinary art as carried on in the galley vanished before the friendly solicitude with which Tom tilted the frying-pan to pour into Christian's plate a bright flow of bacon-fat cunningly mingled with cinders.

When the meal had been duly despatched Captain Lebrun produced his pipe and proceeded to fill it, after having extracted from its inward parts the usual high-toned squeak.

Christian leant back against the bulkhead with his hands buried deeply in Tom's borrowed pockets. He felt much more at home in pilot cloth than in cashmere.

"There is one more thing I should like to borrow," he said.

"Ay?" repeated the captain interrogatively, as he searched in his waistcoat-pocket for a match.

"Ay, what is it?"

"A pipe. I have not had a smoke for two months."

The Captain struck a light upon his leg.

"I've got one somewhere," he replied rea.s.suringly; "carried it for many years now, just in case this one fell overboard or got broke."

Tom, who happened to be present, smiled audibly behind a hand which was hardly a recommendation for the coveted berth of steward, but Christian looked at the battered pipe with sympathetic gravity.

At ten o'clock the _Agnes and Mary_ warped out of harbour and dropped lazily down the Rance, setting sail as she went. Christian had spent most of the morning in the little cabin smoking Captain Lebrun's reserve pipe, and seeking to establish order among the accounts of the ship. The accounts were the _bete noire_ of the old sailor's existence. Upon his own confession he "wasn't no arithmetician," and Christian found, upon inspecting his accounts, no cause to contradict this ambiguous statement.

When the _Agnes and Mary_ was clear of the harbour he went on deck, where activity and maritime language reigned supreme. The channel was narrow and the wind light, consequently the little brig drifted more or less at her own sweet will. This would have been well enough had the waterway been clear of other vessels, but the Jersey steamer was coming in, with her yellow funnel gleaming in the sunlight, her mail-flag fluttering at her foremast, and her captain swearing on the bridge, with the whistle-pull in his hand.

Seeing that the _Agnes and Mary_ had no steerage way, the captain stopped his engines for a few minutes, and then went ahead again at half-speed. This brought the vessels close together, and, as is the invariable custom in such circ.u.mstances, the two crews stared stonily at each other. On the deck were one or two pa.s.sengers enjoying the morning air after a cramped and uncomfortable night. Among these was an old man with a singularly benign expression; he was standing near the after-wheel, gazing with senile placidity towards St. Malo. As the vessels neared each other, however, he walked towards the rail, and stood there with a pleasant smile upon his face, as if ready to exchange a greeting with any kindred soul upon the _Agnes and Mary_.

Christian Vellacott, seated upon the rail of the after-deck, saw the old man and watched him with some interest--not, however, altering his position or changing countenance. The vessels moved slowly on, and, in due course, the two men were opposite to each other, each at the extreme stern of his ship.

Then the young journalist removed Captain Lebrun's spare pipe from his lips, and leaning sideways over the water, called out:

"Good morning, Signor Bruno!"

The effect of this friendly greeting upon the benevolent old gentleman was peculiar. He grasped the rail before him with both hands, and stared at the young Englishman. Then he stamped upon the deck with a sudden access of fury.

"Ah!" he exclaimed fiercely, while a tiger-like gleam shone out from beneath his smooth white brows. "Ah! it is you!"

Christian swung his legs idly, and smiled with some amus.e.m.e.nt across the little strip of water.

Suddenly the old man plunged his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat. He appeared to be tugging wildly at some article which was caught in the lining of his clothes, when a remarkable change came over his face. A dull red colour flew to his cheeks, and his eyes gleamed ruddily, as if shot with blood. Then without a word he fell forward with his breast against the painted rail, remained there a second, and as the two ships pa.s.sed away from each other, rolled over upon his back on the clean deck, grasping a pistol in his right hand.

Christian Vellacott sat still upon the rail, swinging one leg, and smiling reflectively. He saw the old man fall and the other pa.s.sengers crowd round him, but the _Agnes and Mary_ had now caught the breeze and was moving rapidly out to sea, where the sunlight danced upon the water in little golden bars.

"Apperlexy!" said a voice in the journalist's ear. He turned and found Captain Lebrun standing at his side looking after the steamer.

"Apperlexy!"

"Do you think so?" asked Christian.

"I do," was the reply, given with some conviction. "I seen a man fall just like that; he was a broad-built man wi' a thick neck, and in a moment of excitement he fell just like that, and died a'most at once.

Apperlexy they said it was."