At Sunwich Port [complete]Jacobs, W. W. (William Wymark)
General
At Sunwich Port [complete]
Jacobs, W. W. (William Wymark)
Betrothal -- Fiction; Family -- England -- Fiction; Fathers and sons -- Fiction; Ship captains -- Fiction
“No, no, sir,” said Mr. Smith, in a shocked voice, “I ain’t so bad as
that; I’ve got some ’art, I hope. He’s just gone for a little trip with
’is old pal Hardy on the _Conqueror_. Kybird’s idea it was.”
“Don’t you know it’s punishable?” demanded the shipbroker, recovering.
[Illustration: “I ’ave heard of ’em exploding.”]
To Mr. Smith’s great surprise his visitor sat down suddenly and began
to laugh. Tears of honest mirth suffused his eyes and dimmed his
glasses. Mr. Smith, regarding him with an air of kindly interest, began
to laugh to keep him company.
Mr. Smith shook his head and became serious. “The cap’n fell into ’is
own trap,” he said, slowly. “There’s no lor for ’im! He’d only get
laughed at. The idea of trying to get me to put little Amelia Kybird’s
young man away. Why, I was ’er god-father.”
Mr. Swann stared at him, and then with a friendly “good morning”
departed. Half-way along the passage he stopped, and retracing
his steps produced his cigar-case and offered the astonished
boarding-master a cigar.
“I s’pose,” said that gentleman as he watched the other’s retreating
figure and dubiously smelt the cigar; “I s’pose it’s all right; but
he’s a larky sort, and I ’ave heard of ’em exploding. I’ll give it to
Kybird, in case.”
CHAPTER XIV
Captain Nugent awoke the morning after his attempt to crimp his son
with a bad headache. Not an ordinary headache, to disappear with a
little cold water and fresh air; but a splitting, racking affair, which
made him feel all head and dulness. Weights pressed upon his eye-lids
and the back of his head seemed glued to his pillow.
He groaned faintly and, raising himself upon his elbow, opened his
eyes and sat up with a sharp exclamation. His bed was higher from the
floor than usual and, moreover, the floor was different. In the dim
light he distinctly saw a ship’s forecastle, untidy bunks with frouzy
bedclothes, and shiny oil-skins hanging from the bulkhead.
For a few moments he stared about in mystification; he was certainly
ill, and no doubt the forecastle was an hallucination. It was a strange
symptom, and the odd part of it was that everything was so distinct.
Even the smell. He stared harder, in the hope that his surroundings
would give place to the usual ones, and, leaning a little bit more
on his elbow, nearly rolled out of the bunk. Resolved to probe this
mystery to the bottom he lowered himself to the floor and felt
distinctly the motion of a ship at sea.
[Illustration: “He stepped to the side and looked over.”]
There was no doubt about it. He staggered to the door and, holding by
the side, looked on to the deck. The steamer was rolling in a fresh
sea and a sweet strong wind blew refreshingly into his face. Funnels,
bridge, and masts swung with a rhythmical motion; loose gear rattled,
and every now and then a distant tinkle sounded faintly from the
steward’s pantry.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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