The Wilderness Castaways. Dillon WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
to apologize for what I said about the trunks and cigarettes. I can get on without cigarettes if they’d spoil my shooting.”
“That’s all right, Paul. They certainly would spoil your shooting.”
Captain Bluntt was in excellent humor when he took his place at the head of the supper table.
“So you’re the young rascal,” he said to Paul, “who kept us waiting at Sydney.”
“Oh, I guess there wasn’t any great rush,” answered Paul, somewhat nettled. “We’re on a pleasure trip, and not trying to break a record.”
Captain Bluntt looked at him curiously for a moment under his shaggy eyebrows.
“Not much of a sailor, I guess, youngster. Well, you’ll learn something before you gets home. Got a wonderful lot to learn, too.”
Paul flushed angrily, and retorted impudently and boastfully:
“Oh, I don’t know. This isn’t my first yachting trip. I know a thing or two about sailing. Captains of yachts don’t usually tell the guests what they’re to do.”
“Yacht, eh?” And Captain Bluntt laughed good-naturedly. “Well, well, don’t get grumpy. No offence meant. No doubt you’re a great sailor; you look it. Yes, you look it!” Turning from Paul as from a child whose presence he had quite forgotten, he remarked:
“She’s off in fine style, Mr. Remington, fine style! And we’ll make a rare fine run, sir, if the weather holds. Yes, sir, if the weather holds!”
“Is there much ice reported off the Labrador coast?”
“We’ll meet some ice, sir; bay ice. No trouble with that, sir. Plenty of bergs! Wonderful crop of bergs, sir!”
They had finished eating, and Captain Bluntt was striking a match to light one of Remington’s cigars which he had accepted, when strains of music floated down to them. He paused with lighted match in mid air, an ear cocked to one side, his red beard bristling.
“By the imps of the sea!” he blurted. “There’s that Dan Rudd with his mouth organ, and I told him to keep un below! The rascal! Wring his neck! Yes, sir, I’ll wring his neck!” and he sprang up as though bent upon carrying his threat into immediate execution.
“I rather like it,” remarked Ainsworth. “May he play for us, Captain?”
“If you likes un, sir, if you likes un. But I don’t call un playin’, sir; I calls un just pipin’ a racket!”
“We would like to hear him,” said Remington. “Suppose we go above.”
On deck they found Dan working away with all his will at his harmonica, keeping time with one foot, while a sailor danced a breakdown, and other sailors clapped their hands and encouraged the dancer with:
“Go at un, Bill! Go at un, b’y! You’re a spry un, Bill!”
Then Dan glimpsed Captain Bluntt, slipped the harmonica into his pocket, and the dancing ceased.
“Oh, don’t stop playing—don’t mind us,” encouraged Remington. “We came to listen.”
“The skipper don’t like music, sir,” said Dan, looking regretfully after Captain Bluntt, who was disappearing in the chart house, leaving a cloud of smoke from his fragrant cigar in his wake.
“Captain Bluntt said you might play if you wished, so please do not stop.”
A little encouragement induced the dancer to resume his breakdown, and presently the fun was in full swing again. Another sailor took a turn, and then Dan suggested:
“Now Jack Griggs sing us ‘Th’ Minnie Dart.’”
“An’ you plays th’ tune,” assented Jack.
Dan struck up a lively tune and Jack began to bellow the song, which began:
“Th’ Minnie Dart were as fine a craft
As ever sailed th’ sea;
She were eighty ton, an’ a fore an’ aft,
An’ as smart as she could be,”
and closed with a weird description of the going down of the Minnie Dart with all her crew.
The music at an end, Remington and Ainsworth lounged aft to smoke and chat, while they enjoyed a perfect evening. A full moon had risen, transforming the gentle swell of the sea into molten silver, and to the right, in hazy distance, lay in faint outline the Newfoundland coast.
Paul strolled forward and soon became interested in watching the compass and the man at the wheel.
“What course are you sailing?” he asked.
The man made no reply.
“Let me try it. I can handle the wheel all right,” he continued, attempting to take the spokes.
At that moment Captain Bluntt observed him.
“By the imps of the sea!” he roared, striding forward and grasping Paul’s arm with a steel-like grip that made the youth wince as he vainly struggled to free himself. “Keep away from that wheelhouse or I’ll heave you overboard. By the imps of the sea I will! Heave you overboard! Heave you overboard!”
“I guess I can go where I want to,” answered Paul impudently, but none the less frightened.
Without releasing his grasp, or deigning to reply, the Captain half led, half dragged, Paul to Remington.
“This youngster must keep aft of the wheelhouse, sir! He was talking to the steersman, sir! Talking to him! I’ll not permit it, sir!”
“I’m sorry,” apologized Remington. “I’m sure he didn’t understand that he was doing wrong, and he won’t do it again.”
Captain Bluntt, mollified but still ruffled, returned to his duties, and Paul, almost in tears, lounged alone, amidships, sulking.
Dan had witnessed the disciplining of Paul, and in the hope of smoothing matters presently wandered over to the lad, who was still sulking and nursing his injured dignity.
“Th’ skipper’s wonderful gruff sometimes,” ventured Dan, “but he don’t mean nothin’. ’Tis sort o’ his way.”
“Mr. Remington hired this old tub, and I’m his guest, and I guess I can go where I want to on it.”
“’Tis an able craft, an’ no old tub,” resented Dan. “Th’ skipper is master at sea. ’Tis a rule of the sea.”
“He isn’t my master.”
“No, not that way. He’s just master o’ th’ ship. Your folks is payin’ th’ owners for th’ voyage, an’ they is payin’ th’ skipper t’ run th’ ship safe, an’ he has t’ make rules t’ run un safe or we’d be foulin’ reefs or gettin’ off our course.”
Paul deigned no reply, and after an awkward pause Dan inquired:
“What’s your name?”
“Paul Densmore.”
“Mine’s Dan Rudd. Dan’s short for Dan’l. It’s after Dan’l that was in th’ lion’s den, Dad says. Yours is from th’ Bible, too. I reckon you was named after th’ apostle Paul.”
“No, after my grandfather.”
“’Tis th’ same name, anyway. Dad reads out o’ th’ Bible nights when he’s home. We live in Ragged Cove, but Dad’s fishin’ down on th’ Labrador now with th’ Ready Hand.”
“The ‘Ready Hand?’ What’s that?”
“She’s a spry little schooner. Dad’s part owner.