Betrothal -- Fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Seafaring life -- Fiction; Ship captains -- Fiction
The watchman, with the remainder of the crew, in various attitudes of expectant
curiosity, were waiting to receive them at the wharf. A curiosity which
increased in intensity as the mate, slamming the gate, put the big bar across
and turned to the watchman.
“Don’t open that to anybody till we’re off,” he said, sharply. “Cap’n Flower
has not turned up yet, I suppose?”
“No, sir,” said Ben.
They went aboard the schooner again, and the mate, remaining on deck, listened
anxiously for the return of the redoubtable Mrs. Tipping, occasionally glancing
over the side in expectation of being boarded from the neighbouring stairs;
but with the exception of a false alarm caused by two maddened seamen unable
to obtain admittance, and preferring insulting charges of somnolency against
the watchman, the time passed quietly until high water. With the schooner in
midstream slowly picking her way through the traffic, any twinges of remorse
that he might have had for the way he had treated two helpless women left him,
and he began to feel with his absent commander some of the charm which springs
from successful wrong-doing.
CHAPTER VII.
He brought up off Greenwich in the cold grey of the breaking day. Craft of all
shapes and sizes were passing up and down, but he looked in vain for any sign
of the skipper. It was galling to him as a seaman to stay there with the wind
blowing freshly down the river; but over an hour elapsed before a yell from
Tim, who was leaning over the bows, called his attention to a waterman’s skiff,
in the stern of which sat a passenger of somewhat dejected appearance. He had
the air of a man who had been up all night, and in place of returning the
hearty and significant greeting of the mate, sat down in an exhausted fashion
on the cabin skylight, and eyed him in stony silence until they were under way
again.
“Well,” he said at length, ungraciously.
Chilled by his manner, Fraser, in place of the dramatic fashion in which he had
intended to relate the events of the preceding night, told him in a few curt
sentences what had occurred. “And you can finish this business for yourself,”
he concluded, warmly; “I’ve had enough of it.”
“You’ve made a pretty mess of it,” groaned the other; “there’ll be a fine
set-out now. Why couldn’t you coax ’em away? That’s what I wanted you to do.
That’s what I told you to do.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of opportunities of coaxing yourself so far as I can
see,” retorted Fraser, grimly. “Then you’ll see how it works. It was the only
way of getting rid of them.”
“You ought to have sent round to me and let me know what you were doing,” said
Flower. “I sat in that blamed pub till they turned me out at twelve, expecting
you every minute. I’d only threepence left by then, and I crossed the water
with that, and then I had to shuffle along to Greenwich as best I could with a
bad foot. What’ll be the end of it all, I don’t know.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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