A Bid for Fortune - Guy Boothby (ready player one ebook TXT) 📗

jumped out of my skin with astonishment, thought there couldn’t be two men with the same face and build, so smacked you on the back, discovered I was right, and here we are. Now spin your yarn. But stay, let’s first find a more convenient place than this.”

We strolled down the Strand together, and at last had the good fortune to discover a “house of call” ’ that met with even his critical approval. Here I narrated as much of my doings since we had last met, as I thought would satisfy his curiosity. My meeting with that mysterious individual at the French restaurant and my suspicions of Baxter particularly amused him.

“What a rum beggar you are, to be sure!” was his disconcerting criticism when I had finished. “What earthly reason have you for thinking that this chap, Baxter, has any designs upon your young swell, Beckenham, or whatever his name may be?”

“What makes you stand by to shorten sail when you see a suspicious look about the sky? Instinct, isn’t it?”

“That’s a poor way out of the argument, to my thinking.”

“Well, at any rate, time will show how far I’m right or wrong; though I don’t suppose I shall hear any more of the affair, as I return to Australia in the Saratoga on Friday next.”

“And what are you going to do now?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea. My business is completed, and I’m just kicking my heels in idleness till Friday comes and it is time for me to set off for Plymouth.”

“Then I have it. You’ll just come along down to the docks with me; I’m due back at the old hooker at five sharp. You’ll dine with us⁠—pot luck, of course. Your old friend Riley is still chief officer; I’m second; young Cleary, whom you remember as apprentice, is now third; and, if I’m not very much mistaken, we’ll find old Donald Maclean aboard too, tinkering away at his beloved engines. I don’t believe that fellow could take a holiday away from his thrust blocks and piston rods if he were paid to. We’ll have a palaver about old times, and I’ll put you ashore myself when you want to go. There, what do you say?”

“I’m your man,” said I, jumping at his offer with an alacrity which must have been flattering to him.

The truth was, I was delighted to have secured some sort of companionship, for London, despite its multitudinous places of amusement, and its five millions of inhabitants, is but a dismal caravanserai to be left alone in. Moreover, the Yarraman’s officers and I were old friends, and, if the truth must be told, my heart yearned for the sight of a ship and a talk about days gone by.

Accordingly, we made our way down to the Embankment, took the underground train at Charing Cross for Fenchurch Street, proceeding thence by “The London and Blackwall” to the West India Docks.

The Yarraman, travel-stained, and bearing on her weather-beaten plates evidences of the continuous tramp-like life she had led, lay well out in the stream. Having chartered a waterman, we were put on board, and I had the satisfaction of renewing my acquaintance with the chief officer, Riley, at the yawning mouth of the for’ard hatch. The whilom apprentice, Cleary, now raised to the dignity of third officer, grinned a welcome to me from among the disordered raffle of the fo’c’stle head, while that excellent artificer, Maclean, oilcan and spanner in hand, greeted me affectionately in Gaelic from the entrance to the engine-room. The skipper was ashore, so I seated myself on the steps leading to the hurricane deck, and felt at home immediately.

Upon the circumstances attending that reunion there is no necessity for me to dwell. Suffice it that we dined in the deserted saloon, and adjourned later to my friend Percival’s cabin in the alleyway just for’ard of the engine-room, where several bottles of Scotch whisky, a strange collection of glassware, and an assortment of excellent cigars, were produced. Percival and Cleary, being the juniors, ensconced themselves on the top bunk; Maclean (who had been induced to abandon his machinery in honour of our meeting) was given the washhandstand. Riley took the cushioned locker in the corner, while I, as their guest, was permitted the luxury of a canvas-backed deck-chair, the initials on the back of which were not those of its present owner. At first the conversation was circumscribed, and embraced Plimsoll, the attractions of London, and the decline in the price of freight; but, as the contents of the second bottle waned, speech became more unfettered, and the talk drifted into channels and latitudes widely different. Circumstances connected with bygone days were recalled; the faces of friends long hidden in the mists of time were brought again to mind; anecdotes illustrative of various types of maritime character succeeded each other in brisk succession, till Maclean, without warning, finding his voice, burst into incongruous melody. One song suggested another; a banjo was produced, and tuned to the noise of clinking glasses; and every moment the atmosphere grew thicker.

How long this concert would have lasted I cannot say, but I remember, after the third repetition of the chorus of the sea-chanty that might have been heard a mile away, glancing at my watch and discovering to my astonishment that it was past ten o’clock. Then rising to my feet I resisted all temptations to stay the night, and reminded my friend Percival of his promise to put me ashore again. He was true to his word, and five minutes later we were shoving off from the ship’s side amid the valedictions of my hosts. I have a recollection to this day of the face of the chief engineer gazing sadly down upon me from the bulwarks, while his quavering voice asserted the fact, in dolorous tones, that

“Aft hae I rov’d by bonny Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,
And fondly see did I o’ mine.”

With this