Shifting Winds: A Tough Yarn by R. M. Ballantyne (freenovel24 .txt) 📗

Jess,” said Gaff, leading his son by the hand; “let’s set to work at once wi’ that there letter.”

“What’s all the hurry, Stephen?”

“I’ve just seed my old shipmate, Haco Barepoles, an’ it’s not unlikely he’ll be ready for sea day arter to-morrow; so the sooner we turn this little job out o’ hands the better. Come, Tottie, you’re a good girl; I see you’ve purvided the paper and ink. Get the table cleaned, lass, and you, Billy, come here.”

The Bu’ster, who had suddenly willed to have a shy at the household cat with a small crab which he had captured, and which was just then endeavouring vainly to ascend the leg of a chair, for a wonder did not carry out his will, but went at once to his sire.

“Whether would ye like to go play on the beach, lad, or stop here and hold the blottin’-paper while we write a letter?”

Billy elected to hold the blotting-paper and watch proceedings, being curious to know what the letter was to be about.

When all was ready—the table cleared of everything except what pertained to the literary work then in hand—Stephen Gaff sat down at one end of the table; his wife drew her chair to the other end; Tottie, feeling very proud and rather nervous, sat between them, with a new quill in her hand, and a spotless sheet of foolscap before her. The Bu’ster stood by with the blot-sheet, looking eager, as if he rather wished for blots, and was prepared to swab them up without delay.

“Are ye ready, Tot?” asked Gaff.

“Yes, quite,” answered the child.

“Then,” said Gaff; with the air of a general officer who gives the word for the commencement of a great fight, “begin, an’ fire away.”

“But what am I to say, daddy?”

“Ah, to be sure, you’d better begin, Tottie,” said Gaff, evidently in perplexity; “you’d better begin as they teach you to at the school, where you’ve larnt to write so butiful.”

Here Mrs Gaff advised, rather abruptly, that she had better write, “this comes hoping you’re well;” but her husband objected, on the ground that the words were untrue, inasmuch as he did not care a straw whether the person to be written to was well or ill.

“Is’t to a man or a ’ooman we’re a-writin’, daddie?” inquired the youthful scribe.

“It’s a gentleman.”

“Then we’d better begin ‘dear sir,’ don’t you think?”

“But he an’t dear to me,” said Gaff.

“No more is he to me,” observed his wife.

“Make it ‘sir,’ plain ‘sir’ means nothin’ in partickler, I b’lieve,” said Gaff with animation, “so we’ll begin it with plain ‘sir.’ Now, then, fire away, Tottie.”

“Very well,” said Tottie, dipping her pen in the ink-bottle, which was a stone one, and had been borrowed from a neighbour who was supposed to have literary tendencies in consequence of his keeping such an article in his cottage. Squaring her elbows, and putting her head very much on one side, to the admiration of her parents, she prepared to write.

The Bu’ster clutched the blotting-paper, and looked on eagerly, not to say hopefully.

“Oh!” exclaimed Tottie, “it’s red ink; see.”

She held up the pen to view, and no one could deny the fact, not even Billy, who, feeling that he had repressed his natural flow of spirits rather longer than he was accustomed to, and regarding the incident as in some degree destructive of his mother’s peace of mind, hailed the discovery with an exulting cheer.

Mrs Gaff’s palm instantly exploded like a pistol-shot on Billy’s ear, and he measured his length—exactly three feet six—on the floor.

To rise yelling, and receive shot number two from his mother, which sent him headlong into the arms of his father, who gave him the red ink-bottle, and bade him cut away and get it changed as fast as he could scuttle—to do all this, I say, was the work of a moment or two.

Presently Billy returned with the same bottle, and the information that the literary neighbour had a black-ink-bottle, but as there was no ink in it he didn’t think it worth while to send it. A kind offer was made of a bottle of shoe-blacking if the red ink would not do.

“This is awk’ard,” said Gaff, rubbing his nose.

“Try some tar in it,” suggested Mrs Gaff.

Gaff shook his head; but the suggestion led him to try a little soot, which was found to answer admirably, converting the red ink into a rich dark brown, which might pass for black.

Supplied with this fluid, which having been made too thick required a good deal of water to thin it, Tottie again squared her elbows on the table; the parents sat down, and the Bu’ster re-mounted guard with the blotting-paper, this time carefully out of earshot.

“Now, then, ‘dear sir,’” said Tottie, once more dipping her pen.

“No, no; didn’t I say, plain ‘Sir,’” remonstrated her father.

“Oh, I forgot, well—there—it—is—now, ‘Plane sur,’ but I’ve not been taught that way at school yet.”

“Never mind what you’ve bin taught at school,” said Mrs Gaff somewhat sharply, for her patience was gradually oozing out, “do you what you’re bid.”

“Why, it looks uncommon like two words, Tottie,” observed her father, eyeing the letters narrowly. “I would ha’ thought, now, that three letters or four at most would have done it, an’ some to spare.”

“Three letters, daddie!” exclaimed the scribe with a laugh, “there’s eight of ’em no less.”

“Eight!” exclaimed Gaff in amazement. “Let’s hear ’em, dear.”

Tottie spelled them off quite glibly. “P-l-a-n-e, that’s plane; s-u-r, that’s sur.”

“Oh, Tot,” said Gaff with a mingled expression of annoyance and amusement, “I didn’t want ye to write the word ‘plain.’ Well, well,” he added, patting the child on the head, while she blushed up to the roots of her hair and all down her neck and shoulders, “it’s not much matter, just you score it out; there, go over it again, once or twice, an’ scribble through it,—that’s your sort. Now, can ye read what it was?”

“No, daddie.”

“Are ye sure?”

“Quite sure, for I’ve scratched it into a hole right through the paper.”

“Never mind, it’s all the better.”

“Humph!” interjected Mrs Gaff. “He’ll think we began ‘dear sir,’ and then changed our minds and scratched out the ‘dear!’”

To this Gaff replied that what was done couldn’t be undone, and ordered Tottie to “fire away once more.”

“What next,” asked the scribe, a good deal flurried and nervous by this time, in consequence of which she dipped the pen much too deep, and brought up a globule of ink, which fell on the paper just under the word that had been written down with so much pains, making a blot as large as a sixpence.

The Bu’ster came down on it like lightning with the blot-sheet, and squashed it into an irregular mass bigger than half-a-crown.

For this he received another open-hander on the ear, and was summarily dismissed to the sea-beach.

By this time the family tea-hour had arrived, so Mrs Gaff proposed an adjournment until after tea. Tottie, who was now blotting the letter with an occasional tear, seconded the motion, which was carried by acclamation. While the meal was being prepared, Gaff fondled Tottie until she was restored to her wonted equanimity, so that after tea the task was resumed with spirit. Words and ideas seemed to flow more easily, and the letter was finally concluded, amid many sighs of relief, about bed-time.

Much blotted, and almost unreadable though it was, I think it worthy of being presented to my readers without correction.

“I beggs to stait that ittle bee for yoor int’rest for to look arter that air gurl cald Eme as was left yoor doar sum dais bak, if yoo doant ittle bee wors for yer, yood giv yer eer an noas too to no wot i nos abowt that gurl, it’s not bostin nor yet threttenin I am, no, I’m in Downrite arnist wen I sais as yool bee sorrie if yoo doant do it.”

(This part was at first written, “if you doant look arter the gurl,” but by the advice of Mrs Gaff the latter part was cut out, and “doant do it” substituted as being more hambigoo-ous and alarming! The letter continued:—)

“Now sur, i must cloas, not becaws my papers dun, no nor yet my idees, but becaws a nods as good as a wink—yoo no the rest. Wot ive said is troo as gospl it’s of no use tryn to find owt hoo i am, caws whi—yoo kant, and if yoo cood it wood doo yoo no good.

“Yoors to comand,

“The riter.”

When this letter was placed in Mr Stuart’s hands the following morning he was in the act of concluding a conversation with Haco Barepoles.

“Well, Haco,” he said, regarding the ill-folded and dirty epistle with suspicion, as it lay on the table before him; “of course I have no wish that men should risk their lives in my service, so you may lay up the sloop in dock and have her overhauled; but I have always been under the impression until now that you were a fearless seaman. However, do as you please.”

Mr Stuart knew well the character of the man with whom he had to do, and spoke thus with design. Haco fired at once, but he displayed no temper.

“Very likely I am gittin’ summat fusty an’ weak about the buzzum,” he said, almost sadly. “A man can’t expect to keep young and strong for ever, Mr Stuart. Hows’ever, I’ll look at her bottom again, an’ if she can float, I’ll set sail with the first o’ the ebb day arter to-morrow. Good-day, sir.” Haco bowed and left the room quite modestly, for he hated the very appearance of boasting; but when he was in the passage his teeth snapped together like nut-crackers as he compressed his lips, and on gaining the street he put on his hat with a bang that would have ruinously crushed it had it not been made of some glazed material that was evidently indestructible.

Going straight to the docks he gave orders to the carpenter to have all tight before next morning—this in a tone that the carpenter knew from experience meant, “fail if you dare.”

Then he went up to the Home, and ordered his men and the Russians to get ready for sea. Thereafter he went away at full speed to Cove, with his red locks and his huge coat-tails flowing in the breeze. Rapping at the door he was bid to enter.

“How are ’ee, lad?” said Haco to Uncle John, who was seated at the fireside smoking.

“Thank’ee, rather shaky. I must ha’ bin pretty nigh finished that night; but I feel as if I’d be all taught and ready for sea in a few days.”

“That’s right!” said Haco heartily. “Is Gaff hereabouts to-day?”

The man in request entered at the moment.

“Good-day, skipper,” said Gaff, “I seed ’ee comin’. Ony news?”

“Ay, the ‘Coffin’ starts day arter to-morrow. I just run down to let you know. Sink or swim, fair or foul, it’s up anchor with the first o’ the mornin’ ebb. I’m goin’ up to see Cap’n Bingley now. Not a moment to spare.”

“Avast heavin’,” said Gaff, pulling on a pilot coat; “I’m goin’ with ’ee. Goin’ to jine the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society. Since my last swim I’ve bin thinkin’ that three shillin’s a year is but a small sum, and the good that they’d do to my widder and childer, if I was drownded, would be worth while havin’.”

“Right, lad, right; every sailor and fisherman should jine it. But come along; no time for talkin’ here. My respects to the missus. Good-bye, lad.”

Shaking hands with Uncle John, the restless skipper once more put on the imperishable hat with inconceivable violence and left the hut, followed by his friend.

Returning to Mr Stuart, we find him perusing the ambiguous letter. His first glance at the contents called forth a look of indignation, which was succeeded by one of surprise, and that was followed by a smile of contempt, mingled with amusement.

“Kenneth,” he said, tossing the letter to his son, who entered at the moment, “can you