Part 40 (1/2)

”I s.h.i.+pped for a stoker,” said Bill.

”But what'll it cost?”

”I don't want ter speak boas'ful, after the tone you took with me this mornin'”--Bill spoke with scarcely dissembled pride--”but that's where the cleverness comes in. You see, there ain't no skipper to 'er-- leastways not till ter-morrow. The old man's taken train an' off to Bristol, to attend a revival meetin', or something o' the sort--bein'

turned pious since 'is wife died, w'ich is about eighteen months ago.

I got that from the mate, when 'e s.h.i.+pped me. The mate's in charge; with the engineer an' two 'ands. The engineer--'e's a Scotchman--'as as much whisky inside 'im already as a man can 'old an' keep 'is legs; an'

the 'ole gang'll be goin' ash.o.r.e again to-night--all but the mate.

The mate 'as to keep moderate sober an' lock 'er out on first 'igh water ter-morrow for Kingroad, where she'll pick up the old man; and as natcher'lly 'e'll want _somebody_ sober down in the engine-room, 'e's got to rely on me. So now you see.”

”I think I see,” said Tilda slowly. ”We're to s.h.i.+p as stowaways.”

”You may call it so, though the word don't 'ardly seem to fit. I've 'eard tell of stowaways, but never as I remember of a pair as 'ad the use of the captain's cabin, and 'im a widower with an extry bunk still fitted for the deceased. O' course we'll 'ave to smuggle yer away somewheres before the old man comes aboard. But the mate'll do that easy. 'E promised me.”

”Bill, you _are_ an angel!”

It was, after all, absurdly easy, as Bill had promised; and the easier by help of the river-fog, which by nine o'clock--the hour agreed upon-- had gathered to a thick grey consistency. If the dock were policed at this hour, no police, save by the veriest accident, could have detected the children crouching with 'Dolph behind a breastwork of paraffin-casks, and waiting for Bill's signal--the first two or three bars of _The Blue Bells of Scotland_ whistled thrice over.

The signal came. The gang-plank was out, ready for the crew's return; and at the head of it Bill met the fugitives, with a caution to tread softly when they reached the deck. The mate was nowhere to be seen.

Bill whispered that he was in his own cabin ”holding off the drink,”

whatever that might mean.

He conducted them to the after-companion, where, repeating his caution, he stepped in front of the children and led the way down a narrow twisting staircase. At the foot of it he pushed open a door, and they gazed into a neat apartment, panelled with mirrors and bird's-eye maple.

A swing-lamp shone down upon a white-covered table; and upon the table were bread and cheese and biscuits, with a jug of water and gla.s.ses.

Alongside the table ran two bunks, half-curtained, clean, cosy and inviting.

”Say what yer like,” said Tilda half an hour later as, having selected their bunks, the children composed themselves to sleep, ”but Bill 'as the 'ead of the two.”

”Which two?” asked the boy, not quite ingenuously.

”As if I didn' know yer was comparin' 'im with Sam Bossom all day! W'y, I seen it in yer face!” Getting no answer, she went on after a pause, ”Sam 'd never a' thought o' this, not if 'e'd lived to be a 'undred.”

”All the same, I like Sam better,” said the boy sleepily.

They slept soundly after their wanderings. The crew returned shortly before half-past eleven, and tumbled aboard ”happy and glorious”--so Bill afterwards described their condition, in the language of the National Anthem. But the racket was mainly for'ard, and did not awake the children. After this, silence descended on the _Evan Evans_, and lasted for five long hours. Still they slept; and the voice of the mate, when a little before dawn he started cursing and calling to the men to tumble up, was a voice heard in dreams and without alarm.

It was, as a matter of fact, scarcely more operative in the forecastle than in the cabin. But Bill in the intervals of slumber had visited the furnaces, and kept up a good head of steam; and in the chill of dawn he and the mate cast off warps and (with the pilot) worked the steamer out through the s.h.i.+p lock, practically unaided. The mate, when not in liquor, was a first-cla.s.s seaman; and Bill, left alone between the furnaces and the engines, perspired in all the glory of his true vocation.

The noise of hooting, loud and protracted, awoke Tilda at last, and she raised herself in her bunk to stare at the apparition of Bill in the cabin doorway--a terrifying apparition, too, black with coal-dust and s.h.i.+ning with sweat.

”Wot's 'appened?”

For one moment her sleepy brain confused him with the diabolical noise overhead.

”Nothin',” he answered, ”'cept that you must tumble out quick, you two.

We're off Avonmouth, an' the whistle's goin' for the old man.”

They tumbled out and redded up the place in a hurry, folding away the rugs and linen--which Bill, with his grimed fingers, did not dare to touch--and stowing them as he directed. A damp fog permeated the cabin.