Mother's golden guineas
Date: 2025-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

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Title: Mother's golden guineas

Author: Annette Lyster

Illustrator: Frederic George Kitton

Release date: August 2, 2025 [eBook #76620]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1889

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOTHER'S GOLDEN GUINEAS ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

"ONE MIGHT DO," THOUGHT TOM,
LOOKING AT THE BRIGHT COINS.
Frontispiece.

MOTHER'S GOLDEN GUINEAS.

BY

ANNETTE LYSTER

AUTHOR OF "GRANNIE," "FAITHFUL," "OUT IN THE COLD,"
"THE WHITE GIPSY," "ALONE IN CROWDS," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY F. G. KITTON.

—————————————
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE COMMITTEE
OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION APPOINTED BY THE
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE.
—————————————

LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE

NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET. E.C.
BRIGHTON: 135, NORTH STREET.
NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG AND CO.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. BURDECK

II. TOM MAKES A HORSE-SHOE

III. TOM GOES TO SEA

IV. PRESSED

V. OLD GIDEON

VI. THE ARTICLES OF WAR

VII. "THREE CHEERS FOR CAPTAIN EGERTON!"

VIII. A "CUTTING-OUT" EXPEDITION

IX. PAID OFF

X. TOM'S ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY GUINEAS

XI. THE JOURNEY HOME

XII. BETTER THAN GOLDEN GUINEAS

MOTHER'S GOLDEN GUINEAS.

CHAPTER I.

BURDECK.

SOMEWHERE between Wakefield and Doncaster, but much nearer Wakefield, there is a little village called Burdeck, which even in these days of progress is but a small place, and of no importance in any way. But in the days of which I am about to tell you something, it was so utterly insignificant, so little known except to the few who lived there, and to the nobleman of whose estate it formed part, that had it been swallowed up by an earthquake, some time might have elapsed before it was missed. Yet to the twenty or thirty families who lived there, Burdeck was just as interesting and important as London is to such of my readers as may happen to live there; nay, perhaps more important, because you know other places as well as London, while to the people of Burdeck, Burdeck was the world—with Wakefield at a distance. No coach came near Burdeck; it returned no member to Parliament; a newspaper would have been of little use, for there were few who could read, and fewer still who cared to do so.

In Burdeck it was held to be not quite commendable to do anything but what one's parents had done in their day. The farms were not very extensive, but the farmers throve and employed a good deal of labour, the labourers living in the little village. There was almost no actual poverty, and no discontent. Things were as they had always been, and therefore were as they ought to be. I do not mean that there was no grumbling; the Burdeckers were Englishmen, and they grumbled heartily at many things. At the weather, at the charges Giles the blacksmith made for shoeing horses, etc., at the extortion practised at the one little shop, at the length of time the cobbler took to "welt" the shoes; oh yes, they grumbled, but then they enjoyed it. If all these small afflictions had been removed, if the weather had always suited them, the blacksmith had lowered his prices, the bread, bacon, and cheese had been cheaper, and the cobbler more punctual, Burdeck would have been at a loss for something to talk about. There were many things they could have better spared than their little grumbles.

All this took place early in the present century, now growing very old. Of course in these enlightened days no one grumbles.

It was a lovely evening in June; the work of the day was done, and the labourers had reached home, and were most of them employed in making a solid meal, each in his own clean and comfortable kitchen. Burdeck was a very clean place. The good women, not being overworked, kept a bright look-out on each other, and to have a dirty, untidy house, or to send out one's children ragged and unwashed, were sins soon visited by general condemnation.

But if there was one cottage more trimly-neat, inside and outside, one garden better stocked with vegetables of the common sorts, and brighter with the sweet old common flowers than the rest, that cottage and garden belonged to Thomas Adderley, ploughman at the Hill Farm. For Thomas was a sober, industrious man, and he had a wife who was a treasure in herself; a good, busy, thrifty woman, who found time for many small industries, besides bringing up her family carefully and comfortably.

There was a certain peddler who went his rounds regularly in that part of the country, and he always brought to Mrs. Adderley a quantity of woollen yarn, which she knit up into stockings, mittens, cuffs, and comforters, all of which he bought from her at his next visit. Then, too, she kept bees, and every autumn a dealer from Wakefield came out with his light cart, and bought all her honey and spare wax. She also kept a few hens, and if she did not make money by her eggs, she saved money by them, which is as good; she seldom sold eggs, but the bacon went twice as far when there was a fine dish of fried eggs with it. She worked in the garden herself, and taught the children to help her, so that honest Thomas could rest after his hard day's work, instead of having to turn out after supper to dig his garden. There was a fine apricot on one side of the cottage door, and a pear on the other, and the Wakefield shopkeeper bought all the fruit. Mrs. Adderley pruned and trimmed those trees herself, and woe betide the child who should be so misguided as to touch the fruit.

"I'm saving up against a rainy day," she said, "and you must help instead of hindering. Look, now—I'll take down the box and show you my golden guineas. One of these days you may be very glad to get help from that box, and when you want it, you'll be welcome to it. But you must not waste our substance now. Health and strength don't last for ever, and I mean to have something saved against a rainy day."

But even before a "rainy day" came, mother's golden guineas were called upon for help. When Sam, the eldest son, set up the horse and cart by which he now earned such good wages, mother gave him every penny she had to help him, the rest he had saved himself. When Dolly, the only girl, married Harry Sands, mother's golden guineas bought some useful furniture for the young couple. And when poor Harry was killed by a kick from a vicious horse, within a year of his marriage, and Dolly broke her heart and died, leaving her baby to her mother's care, the guineas had to pay for the two funerals. Poor mother! Little joy had she in that expenditure, though you may be sure she was pleased to do things "creditably."

You may imagine that, with all these calls upon the hoard, the number of guineas was not at any time very great. There would often be only one, with a few silver coins on their way to be transformed into a second by-and-by. Mrs. Adderley always got her friend the peddler to take her silver and give her gold, for, she said, "one might be tempted to spend a shilling or two, when one would not break into a guinea." Sometimes there were three, and more than once there had been five—but at the time when my story opens there were actually ten! For Sam had saved up by degrees, and had repaid his mother what she had given him when he bought his horse, and the fruit and honey had been very abundant last year. They promised well now, and Mrs. Adderley, standing in her doorway on the evening in June of which I spoke, mentioned this pleasing fact to her good man Thomas, who was steadily eating bread, bacon, and eggs, and drinking milk, in the cheery kitchen.

Beside him sat his son Sam, and on his knee was perched little Dolly, his grandchild, now three years old, and the pet of the whole household. Mrs. Adderley's cup and plate showed that she had been partaking of the meal; and there were another cup and plate on the table, not used as yet.

"Come your ways in, woman," said Thomas, as he popped a specially crisp morsel of bacon into Dolly's ready mouth, "and finish your supper. I doubt Tom wants no supper to-night."

"Dear, dear, Thomas, I wish the lad was home! I don't know how he expects to keep a place if he behaves like this!"

"If he behaves like what?" inquired Thomas. "Come, my woman, you'll have to tell me."

"Well—but you won't be hard upon him, Thomas, for he's a spirity, wild lad, and hardness will only harden him.—Oh, there's old Jerry Dwight. Tom's always after him, with his talk of Hull and Liverpool and sea-going that he's always gabbling about. Maybe he'll know.—Master Dwight! Master Dwight! Stop a bit!" She ran to the little gate. "Did you see our Tom to-day, Master Dwight?"

"Did I see who?" said old Dwight, putting his hand up to his ear—only to gain time, for he heard well enough.

"Our Tom! He hasn't come home yet."

"Your Tom? Ah yes, Tom—young Thomas Adderley. A fine, strapping, stirring lad, is Tom. And don't you believe, Mrs. Adderley, that you'll ever make such another as Sam out of Tom. Tom has notions. You just give him a little money, and let him go seek his fortunes. Tom would—"

"Master Dwight, I'm not one bit obliged to you for giving words to such a notion. Seek his fortunes, indeed! Seek a halter, you mean. Your wanderers do mostly end like that. Since I can remember, only two lads left Burdeck, and one of them 'listed for a soldier, and was shot dead in forran parts. The vicar rode over on a week-day to tell his mother, and you might have heard her screams a mile off. And the other was hanged in York city for sheep-stealing. Tom's a little bit idle and rampagious, but he'll settle down and be a comfort yet, if you'll let him alone with your talk of seeking fortunes. If fortunes are so easy to come by, why didn't 'you' get one with all your wandering? You just leave my Tom alone—do now, Master Dwight; I ask it as a favour."

"I leave your Tom alone?" old Dwight piped up in his shrill, cracked voice. "You get Tom to leave 'me' alone, and 'tis little I shall run after him. Your Tom is just the plague of my life. I be three score and ten years old, and 'twould become me to be thinking frequent of my latter end. And just when I'm set down in a sunny corner most conformable for a quiet think, with maybe a little nap to rest me after it, comes your Tom, begging and praying to hear of my adventures when young. Not that I blame him, for he's got some spirit and is clever beyond most Burdeck folk, and no doubt he finds me better company than a lot of fellows that never saw anything but Burdeck, and can scarce believe that the sun shines on other places.

"I've been to Hull, I have; and was born in Liverpool, and was once in London. If you disbelieve me, ask my darter. No doubt Tom likes to hear what one like me can tell him. But, anyhow, I didn't eat him alive this time, for here he comes. Good evening, Mrs. Adderley. I must be getting towards home."

Mrs. Adderley looked, and beheld her hopeful Tom just parting from a boy and girl of about his own age—Lucy Trayner and one of her numerous brothers, part of a family which lived in the next cottage. Tom stood talking to Lucy for a few moments, then came on, meeting old Dwight on his way.

"You'll catch it, my boy," said Dwight; "there's your mother on the look-out for you."

Tom laughed and ran on—a fine, well-grown, handsome lad of about fifteen, tall for his age, and strong and active beyond the common.

"Tom, where have you been all this day? Master Minchin sent a lass to see about you, at twelve—and I thinking you had gone to your work like a good lad!"

"Well, mother, I told old Minchin last night that I'd never take hold of a hay-fork again for him at fourpence a day. I do a man's work, and he must give me a man's wages. I want to save some money. So, you see, it's not my fault I wasn't at work. And I've had a grand day in the oak wood with Lucy Trayner, and I'm as hungry as a wolf, so come along and give me my supper."

"Supper's over," she said, "and father's ill-pleased, and said you'd get no supper to-night."

Tom whistled a lively tune as they both walked up to the house.

Thomas Adderley was now standing in the doorway.

"Where have you been, Tom?" said he.

"In the wood, father."

"Not at your work at all, then? I suppose Farmer Minchin will be dismissing you now—as Farmer Bell did at Christmas, and Farmer Cunlip at Hallowmass! Tom, I never lifted my hand to one of ye yet, but seems to me you'd be the better for a leathering."

"Farmer Bell dismissed me because I said 'twasn't fair to make me work Christmas Day, minding his horses, without paying me for it. Farmer Cunlip said I was idle, but 'twas his own son was idle. Old Minchin didn't dismiss me—'I' dismissed him."

At these audacious words the whole family—father, mother, and Sam—exclaimed, "Oh, laws!" Even little Dolly said it, but she was a little late with it, and ended by a delighted burst of baby laughter.

"I haven't said aught to surprise you so. I told old Minchin I would not work for him any more at fourpence a day. I do as much as any of the men, and he knows it, and I want to be saving money. He said he'd see me further, so I didn't go to-day."

"Mother," said Thomas, "this boy of yours will be a credit to us yet. He'll come to the gallows as sure as eggs is eggs. The boldness of him! I've had too much patience with you, Tom, that's how 'tis. Go to bed this moment, without any supper, not so much as a crust. I'll go to Farmer Minchin, and see if he'll overlook your folly just this once. You're a boy till you're eighteen, as all Burdeck knows, and, boy or man, you're bound to do as good a day's work as you can. Let me hear no more of this nonsense. If Farmer Minchin won't take you back, I'll go to Giles the blacksmith. Little Ben that blows the bellows is sick, and I'll hire you to him. It's small pay, and Giles is as like to give you a blow as a word—but 'twill do ye good. Now, mother, not a bite of anything is he to get, but go to bed empty. Idle, saucy fellow, as doesn't know when he's well off!"

It was not often that quiet Thomas Adderley made so long a speech, and that he should scold one of his children was a thing unheard of, as he "left all that to the missus" generally.

Accordingly, every one was much impressed. Dolly cried; Mrs. Adderley looked vexed and sorry; Sam made his escape from the scene, and went to visit Jane Waters, the girl he was slowly "courting;" even Tom failed to whistle as he stole off to bed, and lay down, hungry and weary, to think over his evil doings.

CHAPTER II.

TOM MAKES A HORSE-SHOE.

ADDERLEY came home late that night, and found his wife waiting for him, with a pint of beer warming on the hob, and a "bite" of bread-and-cheese on the table, ready for him.

"I thought you'd be hungry, Thomas," said she. "And now tell me, what did Master Minchin say?"

"Says Tom will come to the gallows yet."

"O mercy! My fine boy! But I don't mind Master Minchin. He's a hot-tempered man, and maybe he's angered at losing Tom."

"Maybe, but he 'says' he's glad to be rid of him. Says as Tom puts the other lads up to mischief, and gives impudence when spoken to. Only two days gone, when he was helped to his dinner, he took his plate in his two hands and walked all up the room to where Mrs. Minchin was cutting the bacon, and holds out the plate to her, and says, 'Ma'am, will ye please to show me the bacon?' says he. 'I see the cabbage and the bread,' says he. Mrs. Minchin, she up'd and boxed his ears, and says he, 'That's no argument,' and the men and lasses all sniggering."

Mrs. Adderley turned her face away, and her voice shook a little as she said—

"O laws, how could he have the face? No wonder you look grave over it, Thomas."

"Mother, you're laughing."

"Well," said she, "but will the Minchins take him back?"

"No. 'He' would, but 'she' wouldn't have it. So I saw Giles, and 'tis true he wants a boy. It's a poor place for a strapping fellow like Tom—only twopence a day and his dinner. But it will take the conceit out of him, and I'm not set on his earning money to save. Don't you be soft with him, now, and say he may keep part of that twopence. Say he eats more than twopence, but that it's better than nothing. I don't believe it's for any good he wants to be saving. He ain't like Sam."

"No, but you can't deny, Thomas, he's cleverer than Sam. See how he mended them stools. Carpenter couldn't do it handier. See how he patched his shoes t'other day. Cobbler couldn't beat it. And can tell every letter, though he got no more schooling than the others, and Sam can't tell the letters of his own name on his cart, no more than I can myself. Oh, he's clever both with his head and his fingers, and if we could 'prentice him in Wakefield, Thomas, he'd do well."

"'Prentice him in Wakefield! Woman dear, are ye losing your wits? Why, Master Bell's sons, two of 'em, is 'prenticed there, and I wonder what Farmer Bell and my own master would say if I tried to do the like with 'my' son? Little work I'd get, I do expect. Set Tom up, forsooth! Let him work honest for his daily bread, as his father, and my father, and 'his' father, ay, and 'his' father again, if so be he had one, did before him. No good comes of being proud and above your station. I'll keep Tom's nose to the grindstone for a goodish bit, and then maybe master will take him on, under me, and I'll teach him to plough, and have my eye upon him."

With these words, Thomas swallowed the last morsel of bread-and-cheese, and took up the pot of beer.

"Here, mother, take your share; and don't fret about Tom—I'll soon bring him in. Why, you've took no more than if you was a sparrer. Take another drop. Ye won't? Well, here's your health, then. We can't waste the good beer."

He finished the beer slowly, the better to enjoy it, and then said in a lower voice—

"I think I'll have a look at Tom. If I find him awake and hungry, a crust of bread won't set him up too much."

He crossed the kitchen, and opened the door of the little room where the boys slept. And finding Tom in bed and snoring, he never suspected how nearly he had caught him wide awake and listening eagerly at the keyhole.

"He's asleep. He'll make up for it at breakfast, never fear," said Thomas. "Sam isn't in bed."

"No; he's not in yet. You go off to bed, and I'll wait for Sam. He won't be long. Reg'lar as a clock, Sam is."

"Jenny Waters is a lucky young maid," remarked Thomas.

Mrs. Adderley said nothing—privately she thought her Sam a great deal too good for Jane Waters.

In a very short time, the house was shut up and every one was asleep, save Tom. He was hungry, and could not get to sleep, so he lay thinking.

"Reg'lar as clockwork, Sam is! Of course he is! He's just such another as father. It's my belief father wouldn't rise in life if he could. I'm not so. I want to get rich and have a farm, like old Minchin—only never will I be such a screw. And I want to see the world, and to have a chance to be something but a ploughman or a carter, and I will too. Old Dwight says if I had a few guineas, but I'd go if I had a few shillings saved. And I'm to blow the bellows—work fit for a four-year-old—for twopence a day, and I'm not to be let save! Well, I'm glad I know it's a set plan, for, if not, I might have gone on from day to day till I got to be as stupid as the rest of them. To work with Giles till the conceit is taken out of me, and then to learn ploughing under father's eye! Well, we'll see."

He fell asleep at last. When he had eaten a most tremendous breakfast next morning, he asked very innocently—

"Am I to go to Master Minchin's, father?"

Father, very naturally, improved the occasion.

Tom listened dutifully. Having heard that he was to go to the forge, he said not one word of remonstrance, but walked off, whistling. He was always whistling or singing.

Tom kept his place for about a week, and if Giles had cared to teach him his craft, this story would probably never have been written. For Tom took a fancy to the blacksmith's work, and longed to try his hand at it. And one day Giles, coming in suddenly, found his own hopeful son, a lazy young giant, blowing the bellows, and Tom Adderley working manfully at a horse-shoe. Moreover, at a better shoe than young Giles had yet made, though he was supposed to be learning. Giles dismissed Tom that night.

"Little Ben," he said, "is all right now, and you will easily get work. I don't want you about the forge, mind. Don't be coming here after my boys—I won't have it."

Tom whistled, and walked home.

"Father, Giles has dismissed me."

"And why, Tom?"

"'Cause I made a better horse-shoe than young Giles can, and he's afraid I'll learn the trade and set up for myself."

"The conceit of this boy!" cried Thomas Adderley, much moved. "I must go to Giles and see what he says."

"I don't know what he'll say, father, but I've told you the truth. I went to work to-day while he was out—young Giles is lazy and was glad to give up the hammer to me. Old Giles came in, and when he looked at the shoe, and then at me, I guessed how 'twould be. Three days, mother—there's sixpence."

Adderley went to the forge. Giles told him that Tom was idle, and had spoilt a horse-shoe, fiddling at it with the hammer, because his eye was off him for a moment. He preferred having little Ben, who was quite well again.

"My boy says he made a good horse-shoe," said Adderley.

"Judge for yourself; there 'tis," answered Giles.

But he did not say that he had heated the shoe and beaten it out of shape since Tom's departure.

"Tom Adderley's too clever for me," Giles said to his wife that night. "He'd be a better smith in six months than our boy will ever be; it wouldn't do at all."

Thomas Adderley went home, much grieved at this fresh instance of Tom's conceit. He hated to do it, but Tom really wanted a flogging so badly that he must have one; and he had one, and was sent off to bed afterwards. It was by no means a severe beating, and Tom was none the worse—except mentally. He had told the truth, and father would not believe him. He would have liked to be a blacksmith, and Giles would not let him. He had lost one place after another, and knew that it would be very hard to get work.

"I'll run away," muttered Tom. "I'll go to sea, and be a sailor, and see the world. I've good brains and strong arms, and I won't stay here to be treated like a baby. Let me see now; I must have 'some' money. Maybe Master Dwight would lend me some. He has savings, I know. I'll ask him, anyhow."

Tom was sent, next day, to work in the garden, as his father had nothing better to propose. He worked for an hour or so, and then jumped over the fence into the Trayners' garden. Peeping in at the window, he saw his friend Lucy alone in the kitchen, so he ran round to the door and went in.

"Lucy dear, if you hear that I've run away, don't you believe it—I mean, I'm going to run away, but I'll surely come back. I can't stay here, Lucy. I'll go, and I'll see the world, and get a lot of money, and then I'll come home and buy a farm, and marry you, Lucy, for I'm very fond of you. Don't you tell any one that I said a word to you, but I couldn't go with saying good-bye."

Lucy, a pretty, gentle girl, not burdened with more brains or more learning than her neighbours, was terribly frightened. She was sure he'd be caught and brought home, and beaten. She was sure he'd be lost, and starved to death. She was sure he'd get to be a great man, and forget every one at Burdeck, including herself. Tom combated all these predictions one by one; to the last, his reply was perhaps more sincere than gallant.

"That's impossible," said he, "for though I might forget you, Lucy, and every one else, I never could forget mother—nor father, though he did not believe me. Well, good-bye, Lucy; you'll see me again one of these days—maybe riding in my carriage, or on a fine horse. 'Then' you'll be proud of me. Mind now, keep my secret."

He ran off, leaving Lucy in tears.

Tom found old Dwight in his usual summer retreat, a warm corner in his son-in-law's garden. It is to be hoped that he had reflected duly on his latter end, for he was certainly taking the little doze which he had mentioned as being refreshing after that exercise. However, he woke up, and said he was glad to see Tom.

"I like you, Tom. You've got some brains, and you know the difference between a man like me and these fellows, honest fellows all of 'em, but that never saw the tenth milestone out o' Burdeck."

"I 'do' know the difference," said Tom, eagerly, "and I've made up my mind, Master Dwight, that I'll do as you did. I'll see the world. I'm going to run away. I'll be a sailor, and I'll make my fortune. I know I shan't do it all at once, but you'll see, I'll do it. And I want your advice and help."

"Seems to me," said old Dwight, "as you've pretty well made up your mind without my advice."

"Yes—to go. But tell me what you would advise me to do."

"Go to Hull—there's your place. How to get there, you say. Well, go to Wakefield—you know the road that leads to Wakefield. There's a coach goes through Wakefield, and at the coach office they'll tell you how to get to Hull. But let me tell you, my lad, you might do better than go for a sailor."

"Oh, but I must see the world!" cried Tom. "I'm that tired of everything here that it's like a hunger in me—the wish to see the world. And, Master Dwight, would you lend me money enough to pay the coach, and just to live till I get to Hull?"

"Oh, that's a very different matter," said Master Dwight, slowly. "Tom, I don't see how I could do that. To give you money to run away—when your father found it out, he'd have me in Wakefield Jail, he would. It's against the law, my boy. That's the plain truth. Only for that, I should be very glad to oblige you, and I think you're quite right to go, but I can't break the law for you."

It did not occur to Tom, at the moment, to doubt Master Dwight's assertion about the law. He looked very downcast.

"D'ye mind, my boy, what you told me once about your mother having some money saved? You talk her over, and get her to give you a guinea or so. If she lent you a good sum—say, 'ten' guineas for argument's sake—you'd be able to set up in some small way o' business, and you're sharp enough to make money, if you once had a decent start. Tell her it's only a lend, and that you'll surely pay it back. You'll do well, Tom; and when you're a rich man, you'll remember poor old Jeremiah Dwight that taught you, and heartened you up, and helped you all he could."

Master Dwight seemed quite affected, no doubt by his own generosity with Mrs. Adderley's money. If you ask me why he encouraged Tom to run away, I must confess that it was partly because he had so often sneered at the Burdeck people for their contented stupid ways that he felt ashamed to say a word against the result of his own words. Again, he found Burdeck very dull, and the row that would ensue when Tom was missed promised to be amusing.

"Well," remarked Tom, after a short pause for reflection, "you'll keep my secret, Master Dwight, though you can't help me? For I shall go, even if I go with only this—" holding out twopence—"in my pocket. I must run home now, or I may be missed. Good-bye, Master Dwight; I'm thankful to you for all you've taught me."

He ran off, and found that he had not been missed. For the rest of the day he worked very hard in the little garden.

CHAPTER III.

TOM GOES TO SEA.

ALL that afternoon, as Tom hoed and thinned the growing crops in the tiny garden, he was thinking over his difficulties, and determining upon his future course of action.

Not determining to run away, that was already a settled thing. That very night should see him on his way. But not to Hull. Reflecting over what had passed between himself and old Dwight, Tom did not feel satisfied with the conduct of that old humbug, and it struck him that old Dwight would, perhaps, give his father a hint to search for him on the Wakefield road, and might even mention Hull. Dwight had told him that there was a great seaport town on "the other side," as Tom put it, called Liverpool. It was further off, Dwight said, but even if he walked the whole way, he would get there in time.

To walk he had no objection, but then he had no idea how long it would take to get there, and to depend on twopence-worth of bread was not to be thought of. Money "must" be had somehow. If he asked mother to lend it, she would not only refuse, but she would tell his father all about it. This would put an end to the whole thing, he would be so well watched. To tell mother was out of the question. But when she saw him back again with a pocketful of money, and dressed like the sailor in Master Dwight's song-book—a volume out of which the old man had taught the boy many a song—in blue jacket, loose trousers, blue cap, and a knife with a twisted string to it, then she would forgive him, no matter how he got the money, particularly as he would restore it to her, and as much again as—well, as she had lent him.

To come back a sailor, with plenty of money and grand stories about foreign countries, such as he had heard from Master Dwight, who, however, had never seen foreign countries himself—this was the least unlikely of Tom's visions concerning his future return home. To drive up to his father's door in a grand coach with six horses and four servants—such as Master Dwight had seen in London—to ask,—

"Does Master Adderley live here?"

And then, when father, mother, Sam, and little Dolly had all gazed with respectful admiration at this wonderful apparition, to say,—

"Don't you know me? I'm Tom; and, mother, here's your money, and a lot more—"

This also was among those foolish visions. And before you laugh at him and say that no boy of fifteen could have been such a fool, remember that Tom, though naturally a clever, active-minded fellow, was more ignorant than any boy of fifteen in these days could well imagine. The only school in Burdeck was kept by an old woman, who could read (after a fashion), but who could not write at all. She kept the smaller children out of their mothers' way for a couple of hours every day; some of them learned their letters, some did not. Tom knew all the letters, both capital and small, and that was literally all the knowledge for which he was indebted to his school-days.

Things that we learn so early in life that I think some of us forget that we did not know them by nature—that England is an island, for instance, and what an island is; that all the world does not speak the same language; that in some places it is very hot, and in others very cold;—of all these common facts Tom was utterly ignorant, and very ignorant people are very childish in their ideas. So you need not laugh at poor Tom, who had bright, quick-working brains, and nothing for them to work on.

Then, again, he had hardly any knowledge of religion. Things were in a sad state in England then, and Burdeck, like many another place, had no resident clergyman. The little old grey church was opened for service every Sunday at four o'clock, a gentleman who had two other churches to serve read the service and preached a short sermon. Mrs. Adderley was a God-fearing woman, and lived up to her light—would that we all did the same. She taught Tom that if he was good, he would go to heaven, if bad, to hell; that it was wrong to lie or steal; and that he ought to say "Our Father" every morning and every night—at night adding the old lines about "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—" and she could teach him no more, for she knew no more.

Well, to go back to Tom. He did not say to himself, in so many words, "This night I'll open mother's hiding-place and take some of her golden guineas." But, for all that, he had the thought in his mind, and planned everything carefully. When night came, and he had been informed that Farmer Bell would give him a few days' work gathering stones off a field (Tom felt quite insulted), the family went to bed, and every one was soon asleep. Every one but Tom, and he was particularly wide awake.

He waited a good long time. Comfortable snores resounded through the house—Sam snored nearly as loudly as his father. Tom got up and dressed himself, but did not put on his shoes. The moon was bright, and there were neither shutters nor curtains to any of the windows, so that he had plenty of light. He got out his small stock of clothing and made it up into a neat bundle, which he tied up in a gay red handkerchief. Then he ventured out into the kitchen.

On the top shelf of the dresser stood an old, old pot—so old that no tinker would attempt the mending of it. In the pot there was a box, in the box a cunningly tied up parcel, in the parcel a smaller box, and in that box were "mother's golden guineas." There was no lock on either box, Mrs. Adderley trusting for safety to the exceeding ingenuity of her hiding-place. A worn-out iron pot! Who would think of searching in it for her golden guineas?

Tom quietly and cautiously lifted a stout stool, placed it before the dresser, and took down the pot. He descended carefully from the stool, and placed the pot on the floor. Then he lifted off the lid. After a pause, he removed the various coverings, until he came to the little wooden box which formed as it were the kernel of this big nut.

"One might do," thought Tom, looking at the bright coins, "but then I should be ever so much longer about making my fortune. It's better to take—half. Yes, I'll take half. No, I'll take all! Mother won't mind my taking all a bit more than if I take only half. It's only borrowing, and when I pay it back double, as I mean to do, she'd rather get twenty than only ten. Yes, but I do wish I could let her know that it's only borrowing. It can't be helped; she'll know when I come back."

And Tom took the ten golden guineas; then suddenly put one back into the box, muttering—

"I'll never 'say' I did that. I'll call it ten all the same."

Well, do you know, for some time Tom felt more surprised at his own moderation in replacing one guinea than at his bad conduct in taking the rest! Surely it is true that "the heart is deceitful."

He replaced the packings exactly as he found them, tied the money into the corner of his neck-kerchief and hid it in his bosom, lifted the pot to the old place, replaced the stool by the fire, and crept back into his bedroom. Sam still slept profoundly. This was lucky, as Tom had determined to leave the house by the little window just over his own bed, as the house door creaked so much that to open it might be dangerous. It was a very small window, but to judge by the ease and quickness with which Tom, having first tossed out his bundle, crept through and closed it from the outside, one might have been led to conclude that it was not the first time he had used it as a means of leaving the house. And indeed he had found it handy, in the apple season.

In the morning, great was the commotion. Tom was gone; so were his clothes. Adderley, poor dull good man, would never have remarked the footprints under Tom's window, but Mrs. Adderley saw them. She insisted on going to question old Dwight, who, however, gave her no real help, for he remarked that no doubt the lad would make for Hull, by Wakefield. Thomas Adderley lost a day's work by walking to Wakefield to make inquiries. Tom had not gone by any coach; that, he thought, he could feel sure of. And Mr. Trotter, the shopkeeper who bought Mrs. Adderley's fruit and honey, promised to write to a cousin in Hull and have inquiries made there. But, as we know, Tom had gone in quite the other direction, and so, of course, nothing came of these efforts.

If Thomas lost a day's work looking for Tom, his wife lost many a night's sleep thinking of him. But she did not discover the loss of her golden guineas for some time. She never dreamed that Tom would touch them.

If I were to recount all Tom's adventures on his journey, my space would be full. So I must content myself with saying that he got on much better than he deserved, and that he reached Liverpool safely. So far was he from feeling sorry for his conduct, that he had never been so happy in all his life. The world was so large, the people so amusing, and every morning he was laying up knowledge and experience for future use.

His natural shrewdness enabled him to behave prudently, and he was fortunate in falling in with honest people when he arrived in Liverpool. He asked a man who was painting some shutters in a small street to tell him where he could get decent lodgings, and the man pointed out a respectable place. The woman who managed this house took a fancy to Tom's handsome face, and had many a talk with him. Finding that he wished to go to sea, she introduced him to her cousin Peter Robins, a man who had been a sailor all his life. Robins took the lad to his captain, and finally Tom was transformed into "ship's boy" on board the "Star of the Sea," commanded by Captain George Collins, belonging to the great firm of Parker and Co., and trading to the West Indies.

Tom was very fortunate in his captain; indeed, in everything he was more fortunate than he knew himself at the time. Those were rough days; and many terrible tales are told of the sufferings of ship's boys, and even of full-grown sailors, whose captain chanced to be a bad, cruel man. But Captain Collins was a good, even-tempered man, very particular about his men, and very just in all his dealings with them. Some merchant captains allowed their men to bring with them a few articles to sell on their own account, at the various ports at which they touched; and Captain Collins was one of these. Robins had made quite a nice sum of money in this way; and when Tom confided to him that he had a little money and wished to do the same, Robins gave him all the help he could.

Tom became the happy proprietor of a little box filled with goods of the most tempting description. Very much surprised was Tom when Robins laughed heartily at his desire to "have a few warm woollen things for the winter."

"There's no winter out there, Tom!"

"No winter? Mr. Robins, you're laughing at me."

"For all that, 'tis very true. It's never cold there, and those black fellows cannot stand cold at all. Our cook died at Port Royal one voyage, and the captain hired a free black man to fill his place, promising to bring him back without charge next voyage. Well, he never had to do that; poor Quashy—he had a name, but we called him Quashy—he died a day or so after we landed. Just the cold—nothing else."

"Did you say 'black' people?" said Tom. "Not really black, for sure?"

"Black as my shoe; and they'll always buy crimson or yellow handkerchiefs to wear on their heads."

"Well, I'm longing to be there," said Tom. And he paid for his goods, but carefully concealed the rest of his money. However, Robins must have perceived that he had some money left, for he presently said—

"Tom, you had no need to go to sea. Why are you going?"

"Oh, I want to see the world and make my fortune," replied Tom.

"Well, I've made up my mind to go on with Captain Collins till I have a certain sum of money saved. Then I mean to buy a good boat—a Portsmouth wherry, maybe—and—set up for myself. You'll be a smart sailor by that time, Tom, and I like your looks. If you turn out as I expect, I'll give you a chance of making a fortune as 'is' a fortune. Not only a few guineas saved up, but—" and Robins made a gesture, flinging out both arms to indicate the immense size of the fortune "he" meant to make.

Tom thought Mr. Robins a very nice man.

The "Star of the Sea" sailed the next day—one of a number of vessels which were convoyed by three frigates and a few smaller armed ships. Without such protection no ships ventured far out of port in those days of war and plunder.

CHAPTER IV.

PRESSED.

FOUR years have passed since Tom Adderley began his new career. He has made four voyages with Captain Collins, and has risen from being ship's boy to being coxswain of the captain's boat. This gave him plenty of opportunities of landing and carrying on his own little trade; and Tom had made thirty pounds, which he kept tied up in a little canvas bag. He could pay his mother three times over, and she would be proud of her sailor son.

The Tom Adderley who was coming back to England with what seemed to him a large sum of money, intending at last to visit his home and repay the ten guineas (faithful to his resolution, he always thought of them as ten) threefold, was a very different person from the slip of a boy who had popped out so easily through the little window in his father's cottage. He had grown a good deal, he was strong and brown and sturdy, he walked with a little roll or swagger, call it which you like, as sailors do; and he was more changed in mind and ideas than in person. He could not read nor write, but he could keep accounts by means of nicks in a stick, and never make a mistake in them. He had learned to be a good sailor, for a merchant sailor; and he loved his profession, and had not a wish beyond it. So that he was now as steady and painstaking as he had once been idle and troublesome, he was well thought of by others, and exceedingly well pleased with himself.

As to being ashamed of having taken his mother's money, he was nothing of the kind. The guineas had increased under his care. Whereas his mother would probably have kept them locked up, laid up rather (Tom laughed to himself as he remembered the old iron pot), idle and useless, waiting for a "rainy day" that might never come. As to the actual arrival of that rainy day, the idea never troubled his head. Nothing ever happened in Burdeck, and nothing ever would happen. Father and mother would live on, just as they had always lived, until he had made enough to buy a farm and stock it. And for this, he would begin to work and save as soon as he had been home and paid mother threefold.

Yet Tom could remember the deaths of poor Harry Sands and his own pretty sister Dolly. The remembrance might have been a warning to him, but it was not.

Tom was picturing to himself his return—his mother's delight, Sam's half-envious admiration, his father's surprise—as he stood one day in the top, holding lightly by the rigging, doing duty as "look-out man." The merchant fleet, about forty ships of varying tonnage, some of them carrying a couple of guns for self-defence, was sweeping along with a favouring breeze; the four ships of war forming the convoy sailed two on one side and two on the other of the fleet. They had had a splendid voyage, and would, if the weather continued to favour them, soon see England again. Some of them could have sailed much faster, had they dared to leave the convoy, but this they could not do.

Suddenly Tom's quick eye caught sight of an unexpected movement on board the "Dauntless," the three-decker commanded by the senior captain present. Presently up ran little coloured balls, which soon shook themselves out into little flags. They were signalling, and not to the fleet. Therefore Tom knew that the signals were intended to reach some vessel seen from the tall mast of the great line-of-battle ship, but not as yet visible to him.

"'Dauntless' signalling!" he called out.

And Mr. Boland, first mate, after a look through his glass, sent for the captain.

Tom saw that the captain was uneasy. Something seemed to worry him a good deal.

Presently Tom called again, "A sail!"

"Where away?" called Captain Collins.

"Coming up with 'Dauntless.' Starboard quarter, sir. 'Dauntless' signalling!"

The captain raised his long glasses, looked steadily, and then grunted as if vexed. "Orders to lay to," said he; "and that means that the stranger is a Frenchman, and that there are others at her heels. I thought we were getting off without a fight this time."

He then gave the necessary orders, and in ten minutes every ship had furled sails and lay as nearly motionless as could be managed.

"I don't understand this," Captain Collins presently remarked, "The ships are not getting ready for action; they are remaining in their stations. Aloft there! Any more sail?"

"No, sir, none."

"I don't like this; I don't like it at all," muttered Captain Collins.

Meantime the stranger had overtaken the "Dauntless," and a boat was seen to leave her and row towards the big ship. The new-comer was a frigate, and Captain Collins pronounced her English.

"Oh, then we're all right, sir," said Boland.

"I hope so," replied the more experienced captain.

Presently Tom gave notice that several boats were leaving the "Dauntless." Captain Collins stood watching them as they swept over the frisky little waves, steadily impelled by the skilful arms of men-o'-war's men. The boats separated, each going towards one of the merchant ships. The boat from the stranger steered straight for the "Star of the Sea."

"Yes," said Captain Collins; "I thought so! Robins, go aloft and send Adderley down. You're safe; you're too old for them, if they can get younger. Adderley, go below and stay there, if you're let. Brown, Carr, Jones, and Seacombe, you go too. I must not overdo it; the rest must remain and take their chance."

The wary captain, shrewdly suspecting the errand on which the boat came, had now sent the pick of his crew below. One of these men enlightened Tom.

"It's a press-gang, that's what 'tis. Yon frigate has lost some men, and some of us will have to go."

"Oh," cried young Carr, "and me that is to be married the week after I get home. Poor Kitty, she has waited for me so faithful. Look ye, boys; I'll hide here behind this barrel, and maybe they won't see me."

"Whatever you do," said Seacombe, the eldest among them, "make no sort o' resistance if you're took. For there's captains in the navy that would flog ye for it at once."

Tom felt very angry. He could hear, when this conversation ceased, what was going on, on deck, and he stood listening with a miserable conviction in his heart that he would be one of those selected.

He heard the boat touch the ship's side. The next sounds proved that several men had boarded the "Star."

"Captain George Collins, I suppose?" said the young officer in command.

"At your service," replied Captain Collins in a somewhat sulky voice.

"I am Lieutenant Carteret, of his Majesty's ship 'Imogene.' We've been in action and lost some of our men. We cannot leave the station, and we cannot be short-handed. Captain Egerton regrets very much being obliged to take such a step, but we must ask you to give us three men. Captain Strayn, of the 'Dauntless,' says you can spare three. We mean to take some from several ships, so as not to distress any."

"What must be, must," said Captain Collins, "and I won't deny there's justice in it. You defend us, and—My men, you heard what this gentleman said?"

"Will any of you volunteer?" said Mr. Carteret, who liked his present duty as little as did Captain Collins.

"Yes, sir; I may as well go willing," said that sly old fox, Robins, knowing very well that the officer would take younger men.

"No one else volunteers? Well, then, I must choose. But first, Mr. Collins, do I see all your crew?"

"Are ye all on deck, boys?" inquired Collins.

"We're here," answered several voices. But Mr. Carteret, after looking at the men for a moment, said to a little pink-and-white midshipman who stood by his side—

"Mr. Egerton, take two men and go below. Bring up any men you find there."

Mr. Egerton, aged twelve, thought it all great fun. He ran gleefully down the ladder, and presently the sound of a scuffle was heard.

At a word from Mr. Carteret, three more sailors went below, and very soon the five young men were brought on deck, Dick Carr in custody, as he had resisted when dragged out of his hiding-place.

"Five skulkers, Mr. Carteret; and this fellow resisted."

"Ah, well, we'll overlook that. Let him go, Collier. These are the men for us. I'll take you—" pointing at Tom—"and you—" Dick Carr—"and you—" the last being Jones. "Now, my lads, I'm sorry this duty fell to me, for I hate having to do it. But I must do my duty, and you must submit. You'll find yourselves better off in many ways than you are here; plenty of fighting—every Englishman likes that—plenty of prize-money, and a very comfortable ship. If I give you five minutes to get your kits, will you keep faith with me, and give me no further trouble?"

Tom stepped forward and said, "Captain Collins, must we go?"

"No help for it, Adderley. Go below and get your kit."

Tom lingered for a moment, but catching little Egerton grinning at him, he walked off in sulky silence. Carr followed him. In a few minutes they all reappeared, each man carrying a bundle. Tom had his precious canvas bag tied up in his bundle, for as a sailor from the stranger's boat had gone below with the "Star's" men, apparently to keep an eye on them, Tom had not cared to be seen concealing it about his person.

Captain Collins shook hands with each man as he went over the side. Carr asked him to give a message to his Kitty, and Jones gave him some money to carry to his old mother. Tom for a moment thought of doing the same. He knew that Captain Collins would spare no trouble about it. But then, how terribly the honour and glory of his return would be impaired—to go home with no store of golden guineas, and causing no surprise in Burdeck! No, a year or two could make no real difference to mother, so he merely shook hands and went over the side.

As Mr. Carteret was about to follow, Robins came up to him. "What about me, sir? I volunteered."

"I have a great mind to take you, you old humbug!" said the young officer, laughing.

The men laughed too—all except the three pressed men. And Robins retreated very hastily.

As they rowed to the frigate, Dick Carr, who was sitting beside Tom, suddenly cried out, "I can't bear it, and I won't. Good-bye, Tom." And, quick as light, he flung himself overboard.

Tom grasped at him as he sprang, caught him by the leg, and held on. Help was promptly given, and Carr was dragged into the boat again, and handcuffed, but the plunge seemed to have brought him to his senses, for he sat quite quiet. Tom now stooped to pick up his precious bundle, which he had dropped at his feet when he saw what Carr was about. It was gone!

"My kit—my money!" he cried.

"Your kit!" said Mr. Carteret. "What is the matter about it?"

"It is gone!" said Tom.

"It went overboard in the scuffle, sir," said one of the rowers. "Summat heavy it seemed, too, for it went down like lead."

"Are you 'sure' it went overboard?" cried Tom despairingly.

"Never mind, my man," Mr. Carteret said kindly. "We'll rig you out on board the 'Imogene.'"

"But maybe you took it," Tom said to the rower who had spoken. "You're the man that followed me below, and maybe you saw—"

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, youngster," said the man, "or you'll find the mess a little too hot for you. 'I' take your kit, forsooth! A lubberly merchant sailor!"

Tom sank down, utterly wretched. What followed, he did not know. When he recovered himself a little, he was one of a long row of men, all like himself taken from the merchant ships, and now standing before a naval officer in the undress uniform of a post captain. A man of middle height, with dark hair, grizzled here and there, and very curly; handsome clear features, bronzed by many a burning sun, and strangely light grey eyes.

He looked at his new men kindly and gravely, and after a few minutes spoke to them.

"My lieutenants have done well; you are all fine fellows, and look sailor-like and ship-shape. Nov, my lads, listen to me for a moment. Necessity knows no law, and this was a plain case of necessity. I could not leave the station; no ship on the station could spare me a single man, and I can't have the old 'Imogene' short-handed, and see her towed into a French port some fine day. I'm sorry for you, lads, and yet I'm a little ashamed of you, too. Ashamed to find that Englishmen pull a long face over having to serve their king and their country, to do which is the bounden duty of every able-bodied man in times like these. You'll live, I hope, to be proud of being king's men. And I'll see that you have fair play, and share and share alike with the rest, of work and of play, of grog and of prize-money, and—what some of you will think best of all—the chances of winning honour and glory for your king and Old England. Come now, three cheers for the king—King George and Old England! And if you do your duty by me, you shall find that I'll do mine by you."

Three cheers, tolerably hearty ones, were raised. The little mite of a middy who had been with Mr. Carteret was standing close to the captain, whose son he was.

"That fellow did not cheer," said he, pointing at Tom, "all because he lost his kit!"

"Mr. Egerton, go below," said the captain, shortly enough. "When you are a little older and a little wiser, you will know that sometimes it is well to be blind and deaf."

Little Mr. Egerton coloured all over his pretty little impudent face, and made off as fast as he could go.

"What is your name?" Captain Egerton asked of Tom.

"Adderley—Tom Adderley."

"Say 'sir;' we must have no merchant ship manners here. Touch your cap and say 'sir.' You lost your hit in saving this half-drowned lad here?"

"Yes."

Captain Egerton waited. Something in his cool, quiet eyes made Tom's hand find its way to his cap, and forced him to add "sir," after a very perceptible pause.

"Well, go to the purser and tell him to rig you out comfortably. You look a sailor, every inch of you, but don't ruin your chances by showing temper.—You are Richard Carr, I think?"

"Yes, sir."

"If I overlook your silly conduct in the boat, will you promise better behaviour for the future? I can make allowance for the surprise."

"Yes, sir; I won't do the like no more."

"That's right. Now go below and get dry."

The captain turned away, and as soon as he was out of hearing, Tom Adderley uttered a few words in a low, hissing tone—if his good mother could have seen his face and heard those words, she would have cried out in fear and amazement. An old sailor who stood near turned round and said gently—

"Don't thee use words like that, my lad. It's clear against the law of God and the rules of the service. Come along, both of ye, and I'll show you where to go. You'll like the life after a bit. I wouldn't change, not to be a bishop!"

Now, Gideon Terlizzeck was a fine-looking old salt, and a very good man, but he was not exactly one's idea of a bishop, as he stood before the two young men, hitching up his trousers and shaking his head amiably at them, so that his stiff pigtail flew about, describing a half-circle in the air. Many sailors of the Royal Navy still wore pigtails, and Gideon had a splendid one—long and thick and nearly white. Tom did not know what a bishop was, and replied roughly—

"What's that to me? I say it's a shame, a cruel shame; it's unjust—it's not to be put up with. I'll never do a stroke of work aboard this prison of a frigate."

"My lad," said old Terlizzeck, after a glance all round, "be you thankful as none heard that but me. You've served aboard a trader all your life, but maybe you know what I mean when I makes mention of the boatswain's mate and the cat?"

Tom started. "Let me see the man that will lay a hand on me!" said he, with a flash in his eyes.

"There's three hundred odd on board this here frigate would do it as soon as look at you, if the captain gave the word. Now, don't you be a fool, my lad. I'm sorry, for you—you seem to have some private reason for being angry, but you'll only knock your own head against a bulkhead, if you set yourself against discipline."

Tom was silent, but his heart was very full, more of anger than of sorrow.

CHAPTER V.

OLD GIDEON.

TOM Adderley, for the first time in his life, had been forced to do what he did not like. One way or another, he had generally had his own way at home, and since he had gone to sea, all things had prospered with him. All through his last voyage he had been looking forward to his visit to Burdeck; wondering if Sam had married Jane Waters that he was so sweet on; if little Dolly promised to be as pretty as her poor mother; if old Dwight were still alive; if father would heartily sanction his going to sea again (which he quite meant to do, anyhow); above all, if mother would throw her arms round his neck, kiss his brown face, and be proud of her sailor. Nay, he had even sent an occasional thought in the direction of Lucy Trayner. Lucy must be quite a woman now—would she have forgotten him? Ah, well! He would soon know. And by thus thinking of home, he had begun to feel more real love for his people than he had ever felt before; and added to this was the pride of showing them how he had succeeded in life—how he could pay thirty guineas for ten, and yet still have enough in hand to replenish the box for his next voyage.

And they had been so nearly home, too. And no one had a right to make a man-o'-war's man of him against his will. So, being thoroughly out of temper and disgusted with his lot, Tom vowed that the king should have a bad bargain of him; he would be as useless, troublesome, and disobedient as he could be, without actually getting punished.

Well! He kept his word. No one knew what a smart sailor he really was, and no one would have found it out from his proceedings now. He obeyed orders, of course—he must indeed have been a reckless man who had disobeyed orders on board a king's ship in those days, or, for that matter, should try it in these, though flogging is no longer the order of the day. But he did everything badly and slowly, and in a slovenly way, causing Mr. Carteret to regret that he had been taken in by the fellow's good looks, and Mr. Duncan, first lieutenant, to remark that merchant captains seldom trained smart sailors.

"That fellow hasn't sense enough to coil a rope," one sailor said to another, while watching Tom at work one day.

"Do you mean Tom Adderley?" cried Dick Carr, standing near. "Why, he's the best sailor, all round, that ever I saw."

"Oh, very like, but you're another of the same kidney," was the reply.

"Carr's not a bad man," said Gideon Terlizzeck.

"I couldn't hold a candle to Tom," replied Carr, laughing.

"Did well enough aboard the 'Lively Polly,' or whatsoever you called your old tub," said the first speaker. "But here, aboard the old 'Imogene,' he ain't up to the mark, that's plain."

Old Gideon walked away and stood thinking—about Tom.

"'Twould be a Christian deed to bring that poor lad to a better mind," said he to himself, "before he makes himself a bad name and gets punished, 'and' takes to drink, as lads do sometimes when they're crossed in love or the like."

So Gideon watched for an opportunity, and soon found one. Being on deck one afternoon, he saw Tom, who was one of the men on duty, standing alone, leaning over the taffrail, staring down into the water. Going to his side, Gideon pulled out a couple of pieces of tobacco, and said—just to start a conversation—

"We can't smoke here, Tom, but do you chew? Hev a bit, if so."

"I don't chew, nor yet smoke," Tom answered ungraciously.

"I smoke, but I allow it's wasteful," answered Gideon. "Still, I don't mind. A man must have some little comforts, and I have none depending on me."

Tom remained silent, keeping his shoulder turned to the speaker so as to hide his face.

"When I were a youngster, Tom Adderley," said the old man, approaching his subject in what he considered a most diplomatic and delicate way, "it befell me, as it do befall a many, for to fall in love. And although it came to nothing, seeing the lass took up with a soldier while I were at sea, and I found her a married woman and the mother of three when I got back, still it caused me a deal o' thought—an uneasiness, a pining in myself for some one that I could talk to about her. Ay, in all the troubles of life, a friend is a help and a comfort. You go with me so far?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, carelessly.

"And you're in trouble. And why I don't know, but you don't seem to take overmuch to your old messmates, Carr and Jones. So it did seem to me as you might find a relief in talking to one as has known trouble and knows the way out of it."

"There's no way out of mine," replied Tom.

"Is it a love affair, Tom?"

"Not it! I leave that balderdash to Dick Carr. No—and you can do nothing for me, though I believe you mean kindly. I'd rather be left alone."

"Well, if I must. But, Tom, I do truly know a cure for all troubles. If it's not love, Tom—Have you a mother at home?"

The question was unexpected, and Tom was young and unhappy. He stood quite still, with his back to Gideon, but his eyes filled, and a strangled sob presently escaped him.

"Can't ye let me alone?" he growled. "See now, you've made a baby of me—me, that's been a sailor these four years! Yes, I have a mother, as good a mother as ever lived; and I was going home to her, when—Well, never mind."

And Tom rubbed his eyes, and then put his hands into his pockets and began whistling.

Gideon listened to the clear, sweet sounds, and said when they ceased—

"You've a sweet pipe, Tom; for all the world like a thrush. There was one used to sing in an old elder-bush just over my mother's cottage, away in Devonshire; and I do seem to hear that bird now, along o' you."

"There was thrushes in Burdeck, too," said Tom.

"Where's Burdeck? 'Your' place, I suppose. Is it in Cornwall?"

"I—don't rightly know," answered Tom. "It's ten days from Liverpool, but maybe I didn't go the shortest way."

"Liverpool! Oh, I've been there," said Gideon. "Your ship belonged there, I suppose?"

"She does. She's there by this, and—Ah, well, never mind."

"Four year at sea, and never saw your mother! It's hard to bear. But we'll be going home—Plymouth, most like—and then you can work your passage round to Liverpool, make sail for Burdeck, and—Eh, what's that you say?"

"That I'll never go now."

Gideon stared. "Why so, mate?" said he.

Tom put his arms on the top rail of the taffrail, and laid his head down on them.

"No use going now. I had my earnings, my savings—thirty golden guineas!—to take to her; now they're at the bottom of the sea, they tell me. No use going home now."

"Why, lad, you said your mother were a good woman!"

"Just as good a woman as ever lived," Tom replied.

"And yet you think she'd fail to welcome her son, because he brought her no money? Well, I wouldn't expect that, even of a bad mother. Mostly, they do love their sons."

"You don't understand," muttered Tom.

"I understand this much, Tom. When I went home from my first voyage, my mother—she's in heaven these thirty years—just catched me in her two arms and cried hearty. And 'twas not till next day that I so much as gave a thought to the handful of money I had for her. And, you may believe me, 'twould be the same with your mother."

"No, no; you don't know. Did your mother give consent to your being a sailor?"

"'Course she did. Father had been a sailor, my brothers were sailors; it runs in the family," said Gideon.

"But—mine didn't; nor yet father. We're inland folks. I ran away—if you must know."

"And I'm sorry to know it, Tom. And so you worked and saved, thinking to buy forgiveness? Oh, boy, it's never to be bought; you'd get it free! Listen to this here."

He pulled out a small and shabby Bible.

"What! Can you read?" said Tom, full of admiration.

"A little, when I know what's coming. Luke fifteen—that's the place." And, without further preface, he read the parable of the Prodigal Son.

But it had by no means the effect he expected. Tom listened attentively, but his face grew red and his eyes full of scorn.

"And do ye think I'm going to do like he—a fellow as wasted his money, and lived like a pig? I never did the like. No; till I can take mother her golden guineas, I won't go anigh her. And since I lost them, I keep thinking, thinking, she may be wanting them."

"She lent you money, then? I thought you ran away?"

"So I did. I—borrowed ten guineas she had saved. She lent Sam—that's my brother—five or six to buy a horse and cart, and he paid her back. She would have lent it to me, willing, for anything of that kind, but not for going to sea to seek my fortune, because that's a thing our folk don't understand. So I saved and worked for to pay her threefold, and I had it—thirty golden guineas—in a canvas bag; and it was lost with my kit when that everlasting booby, Dick Carr, wanted to drown himself, and I wish I'd let him do it. My kit went in the kick-up—and that's all about it."

Gideon looked at him sadly.

"Tom Adderley," said he, "I seem to see that you stole that money from your mother?"

"I did 'not!' I borrowed it—without leave."

"Which is just stealing," said the old man. "And you thinking yourself better than the son in the parable, who only spent what was his own!"

"Wasted it shameful," said Tom, "and I never wasted a penny. Kept it all for mother. And now they tell me the mermaids has it. And never will Burdeck see me any more. 'I'll' never go home, snivelling to be forgiven."

"Truly then, Tom, you do need forgiveness as sorely as he, or any man, ever did! And till you give up your wicked pride, and confess that you've sinned, you're in a very bad way, Tom. And I'll pray for you, my lad, for I misdoubt you don't pray for yourself."

"No," said Tom. "I used to, but I've forgotten how. It don't matter. Praying won't give me back my gold."

"No, perhaps not, but it may make you content to lose it," said Gideon.

"All hands to shorten sail!" sang out Mr. Carteret at this moment.

And Tom, excited by this long talk, forgot to crawl unwillingly up the rigging, and to handle the ropes as if they burnt his fingers. He was one of the first on the yard, and did his work in splendid style, until he saw Carr nudge one of the men and point at him. He relapsed into stupidity and laziness at once.

But Mr. Carteret, watching the men at their work, could not fail to perceive this little incident, and from that time Tom had really a hard life of it. Of course, he deserved it. I am not defending him. What Captain Egerton had said was perfectly true; every man is bound to defend his country and to obey his king, and this was what Tom was asked to do. But he was very ignorant, and the loss of his money embittered him. Without being actually insubordinate or impertinent, he was a most troublesome, uncomfortable sort of sailor.

Gideon Terlizzeck alone seemed inclined to befriend him, and for this Tom was really grateful, though he never showed it. Gideon insisted upon reading the Bible to him, and more than once asked him to join him in prayer. But Tom kept up a sulky, distant air, and only seemed to listen because he could not well help it.

But in his own mind, he wondered why a man like Gideon, a favourite both with officers and men, should take so much trouble about a sulky cub like himself. Tom used those very words—"a sulky cub;" he chose to appear like a sulky cub, and no one could deny that he succeeded to perfection.

CHAPTER VI.

THE ARTICLES OF WAR.

OLD Gideon Terlizzeck, as the men all called him, was not really an old man; he did not know his age exactly himself, so that I cannot be expected to do so. There could hardly be a more striking evidence than that afforded by his life, of what the grace of God can do for us, even in very adverse circumstances. His mother had been one of the earliest followers of John Wesley, when he preached in the fields near her native place, which was in Cornwall. She married young, and was early left a widow. She brought up her boys most carefully, and with wonderful success—they all turned out well. If in many respects she was but an ignorant woman, no wiser than others, she had the best learning and the highest wisdom—she could read her Bible, and she loved it; she could pray, and prayer brought her wisdom.

You will find plenty of people in these days to tell you that the Bible can teach you nothing, and that prayer is a superstitious waste of time. But you will generally find that these are people who do not read the Bible, and who do not pray. Those who do will tell you a very different story. And surely common sense teaches us that these last must know more about it than the others. Of religion only, among all the studies pursued by man, does the world believe that those who have only an outside acquaintance with it are better judges of the truth or falsehood of its assertions, than those who know it well and love it better than their lives.

Well, to return to Gideon's mother. Her husband was a Plymouth man and a sailor, and her sons were all sailors. As Gideon said, it ran in the family. They were all dead now, except Gideon, who had been the eldest. He had gone to sea as a boy, and had served afloat, with intervals of a month or two, ever since. He had seen much hard fighting, had endured much hardship; he had witnessed much sin, and heard much swearing and bad language. Yet now, with his hair white, and his strength beginning to be touched by the hand of age, Gideon had still the child's heart, the child's faith, and the child's hope, with which he had left his mother's cottage. I know he called himself a grievous sinner; that is one of the contradictions of which outsiders can make nothing. But though human, and therefore, of course, often going wrong, he was, like the prophet Samuel, one who, having been given to God by a pious mother, walked with God all the days of his life.

Gideon was a shy man, and very humble. He was no great talker when the men were all together, though to one companion he would talk freely. The men liked him—he was always so kind and helpful; to be in trouble was to have Gideon's hand held out to help you. They respected him; his presence restrained the worst of them in the use of bad language, and on Sundays they would often let him read the Bible to them. The "Imogene" being a frigate, did not carry a chaplain, but the captain read the Church service to the men every Sunday. It was the first time that Tom had ever been brought into contact with religion since he left his mother, and he was interested and impressed, in spite of himself. But he did not show it in any way, and Gideon, who had taken a fancy to him, was quite distressed about him.

Tom's discontent was not lessened when he discovered that the "Imogene" had only just come to the station, so that, for three or four years at the least, he would be kept out of England. Though he said he would not go home, yet now that he certainly 'could' not go, he longed to hear something of his people.

The "Imogene" was one of the small fleet employed in defending England's West Indian possessions against being surprised by the French, with whom, at that time, we were at war. Formerly the French had made constant attempts at these surprises, but since the great battle of Trafalgar, France had not so many ships to send to distant stations, and encounters between our ships and those of France were less frequent. Still, an occasional cruiser would appear, and it was in a very tough encounter with a French frigate that Captain Egerton had lost so many men that he had to take some from the merchant ships.

Of course, a good look-out was of the utmost importance. And when Tom had been some time on board, the look-out man, from some unaccountable carelessness, allowed a ship to come near enough to be seen by those on deck, before he gave notice of her approach.

She proved to be English, but this did not alter the fact that a grave offence had been committed; and the man who had offended was condemned to be flogged, according to the Articles of War in that case made and provided.

Captain Egerton seldom flogged, but in this case he thought it necessary. People in those days did not think of such things as we do, but Tom had never seen a man flogged, and the sight made a terrible impression upon him.

All hands were piped on deck; the Article of War dealing with the offence was read aloud by the captain, who looked very stern in his cocked hat, and then John Callcutt, able seaman, received four dozen lashes, and, if the truth must be told, did not think half as much of it as we are apt to fancy. But Tom was like one in a frenzy. He was faint and sick, angry and frightened, and, in fact, did not know what he was about. Gideon, with Dick Carr's assistance, hustled him away and took him below. Carr returned on deck, but Gideon stayed with Tom, and tried to calm him.

"Why, Tom," said he, "what a fellow you are! Here's a pother about a four dozen, well deserved, as we must all own! Why, if you'd served with Sir Lucas Cochrane as I did, you'd have seen six, ay, and seven dozen, given for half that. He'd flog a man for being last up the rigging! Ah, he were a bad-tempered man, but a grand officer. Now, our captain never is severe; and you'll see Callcutt about again in a week or so, not a hair the worse."

"Were you ever flogged?" asked Tom, looking up with white face and gleaming eyes.

"N—no, Tom, I can't say I ever was. I've been always very fortunate; and as to you, it's all in your own hands. You do your duty, and you and the cat will never come together."

"Now, look here," said Tom. "John Callcutt shipped with Captain Egerton of his own free will, and has been a man-o'-war's man all his life, so that he knew what lay before him. Equally, so did you. Maybe you like being treated like slaves or dumb beasts, but I was never asked my consent to being here. And I just tell you, what is no more than the truth, that if the like is ever done to me, I'll end my life the very first time I get the chance. I'll manage better than Dick Carr did, too. Do you think that I'm going back to my people, to tell them I was flogged like a hound? Never! I mean what I say, and—"

"Tom, be quiet; not so loud. No one's going to flog you unless 'you' go and deserve it."

"Deserve it! How can I deserve it, for not keeping rules I never promised to keep? You drag me away from my ship and my captain; you read me a lot of rules and laws that I know nothing about; I'm robbed of my hard-earned money, and—"

"Nonsense, Tom. My lad, you're off your head. Your money went to the bottom, as you yourself told me."

"I told you they all said so. But it's my belief that they grabbed it while I was laying hold of Carr."

"You're beside yourself. Tom, be quiet; here's an officer."

Gideon stood up; Tom jumped up too.

"The captain wants to know what is wrong with Adderley," said Mr. Carteret.

"First punishment he ever saw, sir; that's all," answered Gideon.

"Ay? Mr. Egerton fainted; so, you see, you're not the only one. I hope you're all right again, Adderley?"

"Yes—sir."

"What were you saying about being robbed, as I came in?"

"Nothing, sir," said Tom, sullenly.

"That's no answer; I heard you plainly. It is the first that has been heard of it. Were you robbed?"

"Greg Collier saw the kit go overboard," remarked Gideon.

But Mr. Carteret waited for Tom to reply, and he had to speak at last.

"I had my money in my kit, sir—a good deal of money—and when Carr jumped overboard and I caught hold of him, my kit disappeared. I dropped it at my feet as Carr passed me, and I don't see how it got overboard."

"Terlizzeck, were you with me? I forget."

"No, sir. But Greg Collier sat on the next bench, and he saw the kit go overboard."

"What made it go? No one had any call to touch it," said Tom, doggedly.

"Why did you not speak of this at once?" inquired Mr. Carteret.

"Because I knew 'twould be no use; they'd all stick together."

"The captain must be told of this," said Mr. Carteret.

And the captain was told, and inquired carefully into the matter. Three of the best men in the ship deposed to having seen the bundle go overboard and sink at once, and one said that Carr had kicked it as he made his spring. There was no reason to doubt this testimony, and all that Tom gained by his foolish suspicions was the dislike of Collier and of some others, and a good deal of joking about his "fine fortune that was in Davy Jones's locker."

All this combined to make Tom more miserable every day, until at last he was really in a very desperate humour; and just at this time the ship touched at Jamaica.

Captain Egerton found it necessary to get water, and as the beef and biscuits were getting low, he determined to make for Port Royal, as there he was sure of getting what he wanted.

Often had Tom been in Port Royal before; many a bright kerchief and gay ribbon had he sold there to black damsels, who used to declare that "Massa Add'ley had de lubly taste!"

The "Imogene" was detained for several days, getting in water and shipping stores, but at last she was ready to sail. Tom was one of several who went ashore on the morning of the last day, on the understanding that they would be ready when the boat came up for them in the afternoon. Captain Egerton wished to get them all on board early, as he meant to sail in the morning.

But when the midshipman in command counted his passengers, one was missing. And when he had called over the names, that one proved to be Tom Adderley. Gideon, who had been sent to ensure the discretion and safety of the mid, advised his commanding officer to wait a while. But Tom did not come, and a gun from the frigate warned them that they were delaying too long. It was very unwillingly, and with a foreboding heart, that Gideon heard the orders given, though he knew that there was no help for it.

All that night he kept hoping that the morning would see Tom alongside in a shore-boat, for then, of course, he would escape with a severe reprimand—what Gideon called "a proper wigging."

But the morning came, and Tom did not. Captain Egerton was not going to delay on account of the loss of Tom's not very valuable services. He communicated the fact that one of his men was "absent without leave" to the proper authorities, and sailed a little after daybreak.

This was just what Master Tom wished and expected. He was hidden in the house of an old negro, who was also an old acquaintance of his. He meant to discard his sailor dress and lie quiet until Captain Collins came into port. Then he would get on board the old "Star of the Sea," and be happy again.

Of course Captain Collins would have had nothing to say to him; equally, of course, he would have been arrested the first time he ventured out. But, as it happened, he never had time to experience these disappointments.

The "Imogene" met a French privateer before she was quite out of sight of Port Royal, took her, and came back into port with her, Captain Egerton not caring to spare men and officers to form a prize crew. Mr. Carteret, with a number of the "Imogene's" men, had just marched the few prisoners to the barracks, when Greg Collier caught sight of old Agamemnon, the negro, peeping nervously round a corner. Collier laid hold of him and took him to Mr. Carteret.

"This here knows where Adderley is, I'm pretty certain, sir. I've seen them discoursin' each other. Scouting round the corner, he were; and frightened out of his wits, as all may see!"

"Do you know where Thomas Adderley, able seaman, belonging to his Majesty's ship 'Imogene,' is hiding?" said Mr. Carteret, blandly.

But Agamemnon shook and shivered, and turned from black to a livid grey, so certain did he feel that this gentleness covered fearful designs. Still, Tom had been kind to him; and the poor old fellow was divided between fear for himself and a desire to save Tom. So, not being particular as to truth, he replied—

"Hidin'! Oh no, capta'n, not hidin'. Sick! Oh, he were berry sick—sick 'nuff to die nearly! When de ship sailed he were lyin' dar, most dead."

"Drunk, I suppose?" said Mr. Carteret.

Agamemnon rolled his eyes in a way which might mean yes or no, just as you liked to take it.

"Show me where he is!" Mr. Carteret went on.

And poor Agamemnon, all unworthy to bear the name of the "king of men," obeyed very meekly, so that in a few minutes, Tom was in custody, and was marched down to the landing-place, and conveyed on board the 'Imogene.' He was put in irons, and kept in strict confinement; and it is easy to imagine that he was very miserable. Now that he had tried and failed, he saw plainly enough the utter folly of his attempt to escape. Gideon's warnings came back to him; his entreaties that Tom would submit to what 'must' be, and try to do his duty in his new position. Now, too, that to see it was of no use to him, he saw that he had been leniently treated—that his officers had been very patient with him; and always he saw before him the punishment he had brought upon himself. Oh, if only he could begin again, and be once more the newly pressed man, how differently he would behave!

Even the loss of his money seemed nothing to him now; he felt that he had lost everything that made life worth having. It seemed to him that the only thing to be done was to get rid of his wretched life as soon as he could. I do not know that he would have kept to this resolution, but these were his thoughts as he sat there, alone, in his terrible misery. What! Go home, not only penniless, but disgraced? Go home to see his father ashamed of him, and his mother trying to keep his disgrace a secret? Never! He would die twenty times over, sooner than do that. Why, even to face the men of the "Imogene" after they had been witnesses of his degradation, was more than his proud heart could bear!

There he sat, poor Tom! almost in the dark, with heavy irons on his ankles, his face hidden in his hands. And all the time his imprisonment lasted, he never once looked up when any one spoke to him, or when his meals were brought to him, but just sat without a sound or a movement, and with black despair in his heart.

CHAPTER VII.

"THREE CHEERS FOR CAPTAIN EGERTON!"

"IF you please, Captain Egerton, may I say a few words to you, private?" said Gideon Terlizzeck to the captain, who was standing by the side, gazing down into the dark blue water.

The "Imogene" was at sea again.

"Eh, Terlizzeck? Yes, of course. Here—or will you come to my cabin?"

"I'll come to your cabin by-and-by, sir, if I may."

"No time like the present, Gideon. We'll go there now."

The captain led the way and Gideon followed, both silent. But Gideon's lips were moving, and if his captain did not hear his voice, it was heard by Him to whom the old man spoke.

The captain laid aside his sword and cap and seated himself.

"There's a chair close to you, Gideon," said he. "Well, old friend, what do you want?"

Gideon did not sit down. He had taken off his straw hat, and now stood passing it absently round and round in his hands. At last he said—

"I don't think, sir, that I'm over-doing of it when I say that what I want you to give me is a life—and a soul."

"What do you mean, Gideon?"

"That there unfortunate boy, Tom Adderley, sir."

"Why, surely you know that his life is in no danger?"

"Not in the way you mean, sir. But if I may be so bold as speak out, sir, I think I can show you that what I said is true."

"Speak out, Gideon. I have known you all my life; you've sailed with me four times, and I rather think I owed you my life in that brush with the Malay pirates when I was a lieutenant. I know what a good old fellow you are, and I'm quite ready to listen to whatever you have to say. But I am rather surprised to find you interested in this young Adderley."

"Well, I am, sir. The boy has good in him, and he's been unfort'nate. Just let me tell you his story, sir. He comes from a place some days' journey inland from Liverpool; and being set on, seems to me, by an old man as lived there, to want to see the world and make a fortune, Tom ran off and shipped on that there merchant ship."

With this beginning Gideon told the tale of Tom's saving, and its object; his determination after four years of sailoring to go home, and his misery when he was not only prevented doing so, but lost his precious hoard. Very simply, but not unskilfully, was the story told.

"Now, sir, I took to the lad from the first; seemed to me he wanted a friend so bad. And I've talked to Carr and the other fellows that know him, and I find he was held to be the best and smartest man, all round, on board of that there trader, and Carr's a good man himself and knows what he is talking of. And—you'll acknowledge this, captain—the lad got hard lines."

"Very unlucky his losing that money—very."

"And being pressed, captain? You know I love the service, but I came of my own free will."

"Oh, come, Gideon," said the captain, laughing; "I can't allow that, you know. We 'must' get men."

"Yes, but one willing man is worth ten pressed men. And, captain, if you'd be so good as overlook this—this—folly of poor young Tom's, it's a willing man I do believe you might make of he. He's far from a bad lad. If you'd jaw him a bit, and get his promise to do better if you let him off; I'll be his surety he'll keep his word. And if Tom Adderley's flogged, sir, there's an end of he. He won't be alive in a month; he won't, indeed. If you'd 'a seen and heard him the time Callcutt was punished! Why, he were mad for a bit, and said plain and out that he'd never outlive such disgrace. He's proud, poor fellow, and—oh, sir, I do beseech you, spare him if you can."

"But how can I, Gideon? The fellow hides and lets us sail without him, and from what I can hear he was quite sober, and fully meant to escape altogether. Think of the example. You know I am not inclined to punish severely, but I really think Adderley must be made an example of. I'll give him only two dozen?"

"Oh, sir, one dozen would be as bad as six. It's the disgrace. There's some that never seem to think about it; there's some it kills, or drives to death, anyhow. I saw that long ago, before you entered the service, sir. 'Twas a man from my own place, and he were above the common, being one as had some education. Sir, he drowned himself, though we was watching him because we didn't like his looks. And this boy is such another for pride; and he's not twenty yet, and has a mother at home!"

"I don't see that I can do it, Terlizzeck."

"Sir, the old nigger that showed where he was hid told Mr. Carteret that when Tom stayed ashore the night before, it was because he was too ill to stir. Now, if you had him up private, and gave him a wigging, and then offered him another chance, why, Tom isn't likely to talk about it all, and the story that he was ill would come for to be believed."

"'You' don't believe it, Gideon?"

"No, sir, I'm sorry to say, I do not. But if you saw him, sir, sitting there silent—hardly eats a bit and never speaks—if he isn't ill, he's in a fair way to be. I do believe he were mad to try such a fool's trick, and that he's mad with himself now for having done it."

There was a short silence; then Gideon spoke again.

"Captain Egerton, I'm sorry I said that. You've the right to judge, sir, whether you can overlook his fault or not, and I know that the good of one lad must give way to the good of the ship's company and the service. Besides, if it's right to do it, it won't need hiding. Moreover, that wasn't an upright notion of mine, and I'm ashamed of it. But, captain, I've served man and boy, forty-seven years and three months, and did never ask a favour before that I can call to mind, beyond a day's leave at times; and my heart is wonderful set on Tom Adderley."

Captain Egerton got up, and walked up and down the very limited space at his command, once or twice. Then, sitting down again, he said—

"Terlizzeck, I will not refuse your request. I wish it to be known that Adderley is spared because you interceded for him. I fear I shall more than ever get the credit in the service of being too lenient, but I'll risk that, as you think it may be the saving of this young fellow. You'll keep an eye on him, Gideon."

"Sir, I do truly not know how to thank you!"

"If the lad turns out well, it is I that shall have to thank you. Just pass the word for the prisoner to be brought here, will you? And say to knock off the irons."

Gideon went and gave the necessary orders, and in about ten minutes the door was again opened, and Tom Adderley, being shoved into the cabin, stood where his guard left him, apparently not seeing where he was.

TOM STARTED, AND CRIED OUT HURRIEDLY,
"AM I TO BE FLOGGED?"

"You may go, my men. Leave Adderley here."

Captain Egerton looked at the prisoner for a few moments without speaking. Poor Tom! It was hard to believe just now that he had ever been a bright, active, intelligent sailor. His curly hair was all matted over his forehead; his face was deadly white, with a dull look of despair in it; his eyes were dazzled by the sudden light, so that he could scarcely open them.

"Adderley," began the captain.

Tom started, and cried out hurriedly, "Am I to be flogged?"

"What do you expect?" asked the captain.

Tom's head sank upon his breast.

"It don't matter what I expect," he said. "They'll never hear of it at home."

"Adderley, Gideon Terlizzeck has been speaking to me for you. Now, if I were to offer you another chance, will you promise me solemnly to behave so well that I may feel justified in having spared you?"

"I don't understand," said Tom, looking up.

"If I forgive you, and let you go back to duty, will you for the future do your best, and work willingly and well?"

"Forgive me? Do you mean that you won't flog me?"

"I do. At Gideon's earnest request, I have promised to overlook this offence. He answers for you, that for the future you will do better."

Tom staggered back, and, but for coming against the cabin door, would have fallen. His chest heaved; he covered his face with his hands and stood silent for a few moments. Then his arms fell; he straightened himself, and looked full in his captain's face.

"If ever I can die for you, or for Gideon, I'll do it, willing and free. It's not the pain—I'm not afraid of that—it's the shame of it. Yes, sir; I'll do my very best from this hour."

"Very good, Adderley. Take him with you, Terlizzeck. I'll give orders about him. Now, mind, Adderley; no more sulking."

"Never no more, sir," said Tom, half crying. "Oh, Gideon, you've saved my life."

From that hour, the only trouble with Tom Adderley was a fear that in his new-born zeal he would get himself killed by some too venturesome proceeding. As to the way in which his eyes followed the captain's movements, and the frequency of his "Yes, sir," even to the smallest mid, these were only to be equalled by his patience in listening to Gideon's reading, and to the rather long-winded and misty homilies the dear old man preached for his benefit. These poor Tom only dimly understood, but there was nothing he would not have done to please Gideon.

And he was surprised to find how much happier he was, too. He was busy, and every one was pleased with him. This was pleasanter than sulking and idling. Then, too, he felt the warmest gratitude to both Gideon and Captain Egerton. And, fallen as man is, there is this much of the original "Image" left in him—he is happier when his good feelings are called into play, than when his poor dark heart is full of hatred.

One day, about a fortnight or three weeks after Tom's release, the look-out man proclaimed that he saw a sail. Great was the excitement. Was it a Frenchman? But it proved to be a little English brig. "The wickedest little gun-brig in the service, and the sauciest," as old Gideon said, when she came near enough to be recognized—the "Warspite," commanded by a young lieutenant named Yeo, who signalled that he wanted to come on board and speak to Captain Egerton.

A little boat was soon spinning over the water, and Mr. Yeo came on board. He sprang up the side followed by a very small midshipman, who, with a somewhat older youth, represented Mr. Yeo's "officers."

"Look," whispered Gideon to Tom, "how Mr. Carteret and Mr. Bullen do gaze at Mr. Yeo."

"So I see. But why? Seems to me he's only a lieutenant, too."

"But has a separate command, Tom, and he only five and twenty. Nephew, he is, to our admiral. Our two junior lieutenants would give ten years to stand in his shoes. What's that? What are they cheering for?"

Gideon was cleaning the captain's fowling-piece, and did not like to leave it.

"I'll go forward and see," said Tom.

He came back with Greg Collier and a lot more of the men in a few minutes.

"Gideon, there's great news," said he.

"Eh, old Gid! What d'ye think? But we're at war with America!" cried Collier. "Think of 'that' for impudence, and she without a big ship belonging to her!"

"Well, well," said Gideon, "I be sorry. They can fight, I can tell you that; ay, as dogged as we can. And it do not seem Christian-like to kill and slay men as speaks English like ourselves."

"I don't know about that," said Collier. "But you're not the old Gid Terlizzeck if you don't feel your anger rise at the next bit of news. What do you think? But a Yankee frigate attacked the old 'Corinna,' thirty-four guns, Captain Harry Hervey—just let 'em know they was at war, and then went bang at her; ay, and towed her into New York after a blazin' fight. Captain badly wounded and a prisoner—he's out of the way. Then Admiral Sir George Kinnaird is dead—yellow Jack it was—and Captain Egerton, of this here blessed old 'Imogene,' is senior officer on the station, till a new admiral comes out."

"You don't say so, Collier!" cried Gideon. "Why, it's a great change for our captain. You do take my breath away."

"Three cheers for Captain Egerton!" shouted Tom, flinging his hat into the air with such good will that it went overboard, and probably disagreed terribly with the fishes.

But the men took up the cheers, and they were really hearty ones; and of all the spirit-stirring sounds that ever you will hear, three cheers coming from the hearts of a set of British sailors is the most stirring.

"We've not heard all the news yet," said Collier. "There's more to tell, or I'm a Dutchman."

"Yes," said another man, "Mr. Yeo, he told all that, for all to hear. And then he says, says he, 'What more I have to say is for your private ear, Captain Egerton.' And so they went to the captain's cabin."

CHAPTER VIII.

A "CUTTING-OUT" EXPEDITION.

YOU may be sure that both officers and men kept a bright look-out for the opening of the door of the captain's cabin. It was surprising how many of the officers found themselves on deck, though it was a broiling day, and they would have been cooler in the wardroom. Little Charlie Egerton, the youngest midshipman, so far forgot himself as to presume upon being the captain's son, and went to the door, knocking timidly. But he probably heard something not pleasant to his feelings, for he ran away with more haste than dignity.

Presently Mr. Duncan, first lieutenant (and in those days a frigate carried no commander, so that the "first luff" was second in command), was sent for, which greatly increased the excitement on board.

After some time, Mr. Duncan and Mr. Yeo came on deck together. Mr. Duncan briefly gave the order, "Pipe the side," and while Mr. Yeo's boat was being brought into position, these two talked together very earnestly.

Captain Egerton came on deck before Mr. Yeo departed. He looked about for a moment, and then said—

"We shall have to beat up against the wind the whole way. The 'Imogene' is pretty lively, so I dare say we shall keep together easily. Good-bye, Yeo; we shall have fine weather, I think."

"I think so, sir; good-bye."

And with a last shake hands, Mr. Yeo was gone.

"Mr. Duncan, I wish the men to come aft. I want to speak to them."

Mr. Duncan passed the order on to the boatswain, "All hands aft, Mr. Kenyon."

And in no time, so eager were they, every man not actually busy was ready for the captain's speech.

Mr. Duncan, who knew all about it, went and took the place of the man at the wheel—one of those small acts of good fellowship by which the English naval officer makes his men ready to follow him anywhere.

"My men," said the captain, "the 'Warspite' has brought us great news—some of it sad enough. The United States have declared war; rather unexpectedly, for it was supposed that we had arranged that difficulty. The American frigate 'Ontario' met, fought, and captured our frigate the 'Corinna.' Admiral Kinnaird has died of yellow fever. Thus the two officers senior to me on this station are removed, and the command is in my hands for the present. But I cannot rejoice in this, for Admiral Kinnaird is a terrible loss to the service, and Captain Hervey, of the 'Corinna,' is one of my dearest friends, and they say he is wounded.

"It becomes our duty, of course, to fight the Yankees wherever we can find them, and Mr. Yeo has brought me intelligence on which I mean to act. He had an encounter with an American brigantine two days ago, when they pounded at each other for some hours, until night overtook them. The brigantine was getting the worst of it, and she made off during the night. Mr. Yeo, after some searching, found that she had slipped into a certain creek on the north side of the little French island of S. Grégoire. She is larger and carries more men than the 'Warspite,' and there was the chance that the French officer in the fort might be able to send some men to help her. So Mr. Yeo thought it imprudent to follow her in, but knowing that we were not far off, he came down here in the hope of meeting us. And I have determined to attempt the capture of the brigantine; if possible, to surprise her and cut her out."

Tremendous cheering.

"What's cutting-out?" asked Tom, as soon as Gideon could hear him.

"I'll explain by-and-by. Hark, what more?"

"I am going to ask for volunteers," said the captain. "Mr. Duncan will command—"

"Three cheers for Mr. Duncan!" roared some one.

More cheering.

"He'll command. There will be our pinnace, yawl, and gig, and Mr. Yeo's gig—I want sixty men."

Sixty! He might have had every man there. But as all could not go, the captain proceeded to make his selection. And, to the unbounded pride and delight of Tom Adderley, he was chosen as one of the sixty.

After a while, Gideon and he being again together, Tom asked him for the promised explanation of the mysteries of "cutting-out."

"You get to know," said Gideon, "that the enemy is lying in some harbour or creek, as this here brigantine is said to do. You get as near as may be after dark. You send your boats, full of well-armed men—picked men—it's a thing for you to be proud of, Tom. Quiet—no noise, no cheering—you rows up alongside that ship, and you boards her. Then, mostly, there's a scrimmage, even if they don't see you and begin before you get alongside—though once I helped to cut out a small privateer, and every soul on board was asleep, and showed no fight at all. You beats them, claps them under hatches, let the anchor slip, and h'istes sail and away."

"What fun!" cried Tom, his eyes brightening.

Gideon looked approvingly at him.

"You're a chip of the old block," said he. "No fear but there'll be plenty of sailors, even when me and my mates are gone."

The love of fighting is, I think, one of the strangest things in our strange nature. Here was Tom, hitherto a youth of peaceful pursuits, and a particularly good-tempered one. Yet he no sooner hears that he is going to have a chance of being knocked on the head, than he is in such a state of delight and impatience that every hour seems four times as long as usual. And here is good, kind-hearted old Gideon, highly pleased to see his dear Tom in such a courageous frame of mind! Men are certainly very strange creatures.

Captain Egerton kept the "Imogene" beating up to the north-west all that day. Late in the evening she had got as far in that direction as he thought necessary, and now ran gaily before the wind for the tiny French island of S. Grégoire. The "Warspite" was not far off. Darkness fell just as they sighted the island, which was defended by a small fort on the south side, where there was a little harbour. The creek into which the American ship had crept, was not known to be fortified or defended in any way.

By nine o'clock the boats were ready. Every man had his cutlass, pistol, and knife, and the rowers were armed as well as the others. The "Warspite's" boats were with them, Mr. Yeo in command. Captain Egerton stood looking at his men as they went over the side one by one, saying a few words of encouragement and caution.

The oars were all muffled—a device quite new to Tom. His heart was beating wildly with excitement when his turn came to pass the captain. But he paused, for little Charlie Egerton had rushed up to his father in excitement even greater than Tom's.

"Father, Geering has fallen and hurt himself; the surgeon is with him now. I've got my dirk and my pistols; I can go at once. Let me go! Oh, do let me go instead of Geering."

Geering, the somewhat older mid, who was to have gone, had, indeed, contrived in his hurry to get a very bad fall, and could by no means go. Captain Egerton looked at his son. The words in his heart were, "What will his mother say to me?" The words on his lips were, "Off with you, then. Now, remember, my lads, no noise, and—and good-bye, Charlie."

Charlie tumbled into Mr. Duncan's boat as fast as he could. Tom looked in the captain's set, stern face, and said, half ashamed of himself—

"I'll be there, sir."

The captain gave him a quick glance and nodded. Tom took his place in the boat, almost wishing that he might be killed in saving Mr. Midshipman Egerton for his father's sake.

Away over the dark water, with here and there a strange light shining on the surface, some phosphorescent appearance with which they were quite familiar, but it has an eerie look to those who see it for the first time. They soon lost sight of the ships; then they were near enough to see the land by the soft starlight. The creek had a narrow mouth, and there was a tiny basin, and then a sudden turn to the west; the boats could only enter one by one. Not a word was spoken—there was no noise to betray them; three boats had entered by the narrow passage, when suddenly a blaze of light burst upon them. On the flat rock, on one side of the passage, a flame shot right up to the sky, and at the same moment a little battery, which must have been built quite recently, opened a brisk fire on the leading boat. This was the pinnace, and in it were Mr. Duncan, little Egerton, and Tom Adderley.

A yell burst from the sailors; the boat's advance was checked, for several of her rowers were killed or wounded. Mr. Duncan had fallen, and lay senseless in the bottom of the boat. The next boat nearly ran the pinnace down before it could be checked. The confusion was frightful. Mr. Yeo, who was in the third boat, was luckily a cool, clear-headed man. He took in the situation at a glance, called to his men to follow him, ran his boat close to the rocks, and landed. In five minutes he had driven the handful of Frenchmen out of the battery.

Young Egerton, gazing round, hardly knowing what had happened, heard an old sailor say in a low voice—

"Give the order to put back, Mr. Egerton. It's all up; we can do naught to-night."

The fair little face flushed. The boy looked at Mr. Duncan, and realized what had happened.

"I'm in command of this boat," said he. "Give way, my men; we'll do it yet."

But, very fortunately, poor Mr. Duncan had begun to come to his senses, and heard these words. He stretched out his hand and caught hold of the boy.

"No, Egerton, no. We must run for it."

All this passed very quickly, far more quickly than it can be told. None of the other boats had suffered as much as the pinnace, though when the "Warspites" came tumbling back into their boat, they had several wounded among them. Some unhurt men took the place of the rowers who could do no more, and Mr. Yeo gave his orders with perfect coolness. Poor Mr. Duncan had fainted again. The confusion was over; one by one the boats made for the passage, but as each boat reached it, a fire of musketry was opened on them from both sides.

The "Imogene's" pinnace was the last but one to pass through (Mr. Yeo, of course, remained to the last), and in the narrowest part of the passage, little Egerton, who had been bending over Mr. Duncan, suddenly raised himself, gave a faint cry, and fell into the water. And Tom Adderley was after him before the gleam of the fatal fire, which still blazed high, had ceased to glint on the boy's golden hair.

The last boat was close behind; there was no possibility of pausing, even for a moment.

Presently a rocket shot up from the "Imogene" to guide them; for, of course, the light had made Captain Egerton aware that there was something wrong.

When the pinnace lay alongside, Captain Egerton was there, giving his orders as quietly as if his heart had been at rest, instead of torn with cruel anxiety for his boy. Mr. Duncan was got up the side, and carried to his cabin; the other wounded were all brought up as carefully as possible. Then those who were unhurt began to follow, but the brave fellows came slowly, and not one of them could look at the captain.

"Is that all?" he said, after a pause.

"Captain, 'twere in the narrow place; 'twere a musket-shot did it."

The speaker, a big strong man, was crying like a child.

"Is—he—in the boat?" said the captain.

"No, sir. He fell overboard; and some one jumped after him, but I could not see who 'twas."

"'Twould be my poor Tom," said old Gideon. "Well, he did right."

"Mr. Egerton never blenched, sir. When the fire began, and Mr. Duncan fell, he took command of the boat as if he'd been a man grown, as bright and as cool."

Here the man broke off with a sudden shout—

"Hullo! Look at that!"

The "Warspite's" boat had come alongside during this conversation, and at this moment a small figure rushed into Captain Egerton's arms.

"Father, I'm safe!"

"My boy!"

For a few moments, I do not think there was a dry eye among the onlookers. Then the captain, making a tremendous effort to recover himself, set the boy on his feet, and said, in a voice that 'would' not be steady—

"Not wounded, Mr. Egerton?"

"No, sir. I don't know yet why I fell into the water."

But he knew presently, when he found his watch perfectly ruined, with a bullet well embedded in its works!

"How were you saved?"

"Some one caught hold of me, and the 'Warspite's' boat picked us both up. Here he is. I haven't seen his face yet."

It was a very red face, but it was the face of Tom Adderley. Captain Egerton shook hands with him then and there, and broke down in trying to thank him. Then Mr. Yeo came on board, and he, with the captain and Mr. Carteret, retired for a consultation. Gideon bore Tom off. It would be hard to say which of them was the happier at that moment.

It is not to be supposed that British sailors were going to put up with a rebuff like this! Next day, as many men as could be safely spared entered that creek in broad daylight, under Captain Egerton's command. They landed, routed the small force of men armed with muskets, who proved to be sailors from the brigantine, carried the battery, spiked the guns, and blew up the place. They took the brigantine, and, being fairly started on a career of conquest, they dashed across the little island to the fort, carried it by storm, and made the garrison prisoners. It was a very small fort, and the garrison consisted of forty half-starved looking Frenchmen, with two or three elderly officers, who swore such strange oaths that it was as well that there were few who understood them. Thus S. Grégoire became a part of the British empire.

N.B.*—Do not look for S. Grégoire on the map. But much of what this chapter contains really occurred.

* [N.B.—nota bene]

CHAPTER IX.

PAID OFF.

SPACE, or rather the want of it, forbids me to give you any more of Tom's adventures in the West Indies. Suffice it to say that he laid up materials enough for the entertainment of Burdeck for many years, should he ever return there to tell his story.

And to return no longer seemed impossible to him. He had redeemed his character, and had begun to understand his position and to love his profession. He knew now that he would receive all arrears of pay and a good little sum of prize-money when the "Imogene" went out of commission. You see, Tom still loved to lay by his money for his mother, but when Captain Egerton wanted to make him a handsome present for his good service to his son, Tom refused to receive it.

"Let me do it for nothin' but—because I owe you more than my life, sir," he said.

At last three years had passed away since the day when Tom became one of the "Imogene's" crew, and the "Imogene" was on her way home. Captain Egerton had, of course, long since handed over the command of the station to an admiral, and since that time the frigate had been in action several times. Once, indeed, she had been all but captured by two American frigates, and was only saved by a sudden storm, in which Captain Egerton, by his splendid seamanship, escaped from both the enemy's ships. Generally, the "Imogene" was successful, but she had been a good deal knocked about, and repairs were absolutely necessary. For these repairs she was going home, and it seemed likely that she would be paid off. For, in the interval, peace had been made with the United States, and Napoleon had been conquered and sent to Elba, so that for the future it would not be necessary to keep so many ships in commission.

They were nearly at home. They had met with rough weather, and had been forced out of their intended course, so that they were very near the coast of France, though they did not actually enter the Bay of Biscay.

Tom was on duty as look-out man, and Gideon Terlizzeck had joined him in his airy quarters, just for the pleasure of being with him. Gideon had become very fond of Tom, and Tom returned his affection.

"A sail!" shouted Tom.

And when he had answered all the questions of the officer on duty as to the whereabouts of the said sail, Gideon said—

"See what 'tis to have young eyes! 'I' see no sail yet. Ah, well, it do not matter now, as it would have mattered last year, when she might be an American or a Frenchman, layin' wait for us here."

Presently the ship Tom has espied afar off came much nearer. Captain Egerton came on deck with his telescope, and he looked at the stranger, whose movements puzzled him. Why was she bearing down upon him in this way? Had England been still at war, he would have understood the matter perfectly. But the war was over. However, the ship, a great three-decker, kept on her course, and Captain Egerton wondered more and more. When, to complete his amazement, she fired a shot across the "Imogene's" bows, and at the same time ran up the imperial colours of France.

"What on earth does the fellow mean?" cried Captain Egerton, angrily.

"I'm afraid there's something wrong that we haven't heard of," said Mr. Duncan, anxiously. "Can that fiend have escaped and taken the field again? I always said we ought to have shot him!"

Captain Egerton laughed, for he had argued that question with Mr. Duncan many and many a time.

"Shorten sail, Duncan; we'll stand off and on a bit. She's lowering a boat, so we shall know all about it soon. Carteret, you understand French—don't let them board us; just find out what they are at."

The boat drew near. A French officer stood up and made a polite bow, begging to know what ship this was.

"'Imogene,' Captain Egerton," Mr. Carteret replied. Then in French, "What do you mean by flying the imperial flag?"

"His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Napoleon has returned to France," was the reply. "This is the 'Monarque,' 130 guns. May I hope that your captain will see the necessity of surrendering to such superior force, thereby sparing useless bloodshed?"

The force was even more superior than the speaker supposed it to be. For the "Imogene" was known to be in a bad way, for want of a thorough overhauling, one of her masts was spliced, and she was somewhat short-handed, several of her men having consented to be transferred to other ships when she was ordered home. For all that, there was but one opinion on board the "Imogene."

"Surrender," said Captain Egerton, quietly, "without a gun fired? What does the fellow take us for? Send him about his business, Carteret.—Duncan, beat to quarters."

The Frenchman made a flourishing bow, and said, "Au revoir," which meant, "You will all be prisoners on board the 'Monarque' by-and-by, if we don't sink you."

But the "Imogene's" drums were beating to quarters before his fine bow was quite finished.

"I'd like to send a shot after that fellow," growled Mr. Carteret.

All was now activity on board the "Imogene;" activity, but not confusion. It is in a case of this kind that one sees what discipline is worth. Every man knew exactly what he had to do, and did it. Cheer after cheer was heard as the men ran to their stations.

"Duncan," said Captain Egerton, "if we get her broadside, we are done for. We'll board her, now—at once. Get the boarders ready as fast as you can. I'll lay her alongside, yardarm to yardarm; we have the wind, and we'll carry her before she has well gone to quarters. There, that's her drum now."

"Who shall lead the boarders?" said Mr. Duncan.

"You," said the captain. "Shake hands, Duncan. God bless you!"

Well, if those Frenchmen never knew before what British sailors can do and will do, they found it out that day. Before the last tap of the "Monarque's" drums, beating to quarters, had ceased to echo "'tween decks;" before the men were all in their stations, the little "Imogene" was upon them.

"Boarders, away!"

To his dying day, Tom was proud to say, "And I was one of them."

Tom had seen a good deal of fighting, but such a fight as this never before. The Frenchmen, surprised as they were, fought like brave men—fought desperately and furiously. The Englishmen fought as if each had at least six lives, and was prepared to lose them all. To be made prisoners almost in sight of home? Never!

The "Monarque" fired one broadside, but the greater number of her guns were too high above the "Imogene" to injure her, and the frigate's fire silenced the lower deck. After a fearful struggle, the upper deck was cleared and the Frenchmen driven below. Charlie Egerton pulled down the imperial flag, and this practically ended the fight. The French captain lay dead upon his own deck, and in neither ship was there an officer unwounded. Mr. Duncan was hurt, but not very seriously; Mr. Carteret was badly wounded; Captain Egerton lost an arm; and even gallant young Charlie had a cut over his right eye, of which, if the truth must be told, he was exceedingly proud. Tom Adderley escaped untouched, though he had been in the thickest of the fight from first to last. Old Gideon, too, was safe, but they had lost many a comrade, both among the boarders and the men who had served the guns.

A victory is not all pleasure, as many a man has acknowledged as well as poor Tom Adderley, as he helped to clear the decks that afternoon.

This engagement, which lasted for less than an hour, took place on the 10th of May, 1815, and on the 13th of May the "Imogene" and her big prize sailed into Cawsand Bay, near Plymouth.

The "Imogene" was paid off as soon as possible, the men receiving their arrears of pay and all their prize-money, except, of course, what they had won by taking the "Monarque."

And then Tom saw some comical scenes—comical in one way, but sad enough in another. For instance, he saw a dozen sailors, not quite as sober as they ought to have been, driving about in and on a hearse, which they had hired for the day. There was great struggling for seats on the top, the tars saying that they preferred to be on deck. They drove about the streets, visiting all the public-houses, where they not only got very drunk themselves, but insisted upon "treating" every one they could lay hold of. He saw a man, whom he had believed to be a quiet, sensible fellow, but who actually bought four watches, melted them down in a frying-pan, and wanted to try to eat them, but was prevented by old Gideon at considerable personal risk.

Tom was utterly surprised and shocked at these and similar scenes, but Gideon said that this kind of thing always went on when men were paid off, and that he had witnessed worse doings than these. There were no "Sailors' Homes" or "Sailors' Reading-rooms" in those days, and, little as either Gideon or Tom liked the life, they could not quite keep out of the way of their old comrades.

"Why," said Tom, "they won't have a guinea left out of all their money, at this rate."

"Not a silver shilling," said Gideon; "and then they'll all go to sea again."

"Well, if I hadn't seen it, I could never have believed that men could be such fools. What's the good of working hard to earn money, only to fling it away like this?"

"Worse than no good, Tom, if so be the poor souls could only see it. Soul and body they do injure. Why, already you'd hardly know Greg Collier; and as to your old shipmate, Dick Carr, 'twill be months before he is himself again."

"Dick has some excuse. You know he found out accidental, from a man he met in the dockyard, that his girl is married. But the rest—such a set of fools!"

"Well, Tom, no one ever taught 'em better, poor dear souls. Such rioting is not your temptation, and I'm thankful for that. Indeed, I think you're a good lad, Tom, and wish to do what's right, but don't ye be proud and despise your neighbours. It leads to no good. It's not only because it's in the Bible that I say that pride goes before a fall; it is likeways my own experience. We're all poor creatures, and each one has his own temptation. Tom, I do suppose you're going home for a sight of your good father and mother—when and how do you think to go?"

"I'm not going, Gideon. I mean to go to sea again. I met an old friend yesterday—a man by the name of Robins, who was aboard the 'Star of the Sea' with me. This fellow has a boat of his own now, and is making a heap of money. He says if I'll trust him with my savings, he'll double them for me. I have only twenty-five guineas—you know my share was a good bit less than those that served the whole time with the 'Imogene.' And I won't go home till I can do so with credit—pay my mother threefold, or even four. What I'd like would be to find some ship that's been a couple of years in commission, so that I could be free again, say, in two years. Then I could go home."

"Take my advice and go now," said Gideon. "You've been brought to see that you did very wrong to take that money from your mother. Go home and tell her so; for, you may believe me, those words will be more to her than all the gold in Solomon's temple—and you'll mind, Tom, there was a lot of gold in that there. Do now, my boy. Something tells me that if you don't, you'll be sorry for it."

"I don't like to go against your advice, Gideon. But you see, I've promised Robins. He used to talk of my being his partner long ago, but I shouldn't care for that now. And what ill can come of it? My father and mother are not to say old—I've heard her say she was seventeen when they were married, and he very little more. My poor sister that died was the oldest of us. Let me see; she was eighteen when she died, and little Dolly was three when I ran away—that's twenty-one years. Twenty-one and seventeen—" Tom paused and knit his brow—"that's thirty-eight. And four years aboard the old 'Star'—that's forty-two; and three in the 'Imogene'—that's forty-five; and that ain't old. Neither father nor mother can be much more than that."

"It's not to say old, but that's not the question. You owe it to them to go as soon as you can, and tell them you're sorry you disobeyed them and took what you'd no right to take. It's the principle of the thing, Tom; it's because you ought."

"I don't see it as you do, Gideon. I want to make amends to them, and what's twenty-five guineas? Now, if Robins goes on being as lucky as he has been, I'll soon have what would stock a small farm, and that would be worth talking about. And indeed, I may as well tell you, there's no use in talking, because I never thought you'd see things so different, and—I gave Robins the money."

"If you'd told me that at once, my lad, I'd have saved my breath to whistle for a wind. Well, I hope Robins is an honest man. I do declare, Tom, you're very risky."

"Why, I've known Robins this long time! 'Twas he first taught me to trade a little on my own account, and taught me to add up, and reckon, and all that. See, he gave me a reg'lar receipt, as he called it. Oh, the money is safe enough. And I was telling him of you, Gideon, and all your goodness to me. And he said if you'd trust him with a few guineas, he'll do as well for you as for me."

"Ay, ay; all that sounds very well, but before I do anything of the kind, I'd like to know something about the kind of trade he carries on. 'Twas that I mean, not that your money isn't safe; though I'm not so sure it be safe either. We'll see this Robins and make inquiry. I wish you'd 'a gone home, Tom; I wish you'd go even now."

"I couldn't do that. Don't ask it, Gideon."

"Well, come along, and let's see if we can get sight of this Robins."

But, curious to relate, this was what they could not do! They could by no means find Mr. Robins. Tom met him once again, when he was alone, and received an earnest assurance that his trade was "all fair and above-board." But when Gideon was with him, Tom was very unlucky in always missing his friend Robins.

The chance of meeting him was soon over, for happening to meet Mr. Duncan, now a commander, he told them that he had been appointed to the "Juno" (Captain Parkhurst), going out with Lord A—, the new Governor-General of India, to Calcutta. The ship was to come home and be paid off as soon as this duty was performed, and it would take a year or fourteen months.

This seemed to be the very thing Tom wanted, so both he and Gideon offered themselves, and were accepted. The "Juno" sailed in June, and the last thing Tom heard from his native land was the thunder of the guns firing for the great victory over Napoleon at Waterloo.

CHAPTER X.

TOM'S ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY GUINEAS.

THE "Juno" was back in Plymouth in less than two years. And when Tom and Gideon were paid off, Tom was in a fever of anxiety to see Robins and hear how his venture had prospered. He chose to go alone. Robins had a house in the Barbican, where his wife and children lived, and there Tom found him, and was informed that his twenty-five guineas had been turned and turned again to such advantage that one other voyage would make him the owner of one hundred and fifty guineas.

Now, Tom Adderley, though ignorant, was no fool, and Gideon's words had opened his eyes. He knew as well as any one could that money is not made thus rapidly in honest, lawful trade. Robins told him nothing, and he asked no questions, but he knew perfectly that the man was a smuggler, and that he ought to have nothing to say to him. But—a hundred and fifty guineas! Fancy walking into Burdeck the owner of such a sum as that! Why, no one in Burdeck had ever seen so much money! Very likely there were few that could count it. Tom felt that he could not give up the chance of this triumph, and he told himself that even if he took his money now, it had been made in the same way, so where was the use of stopping short of that magnificent hundred and fifty? And he did not actually know that Robins was a smuggler—only that Gideon was sure to say so.

Gideon did say so, and said a good deal more than that. In fact, he made himself so unpleasant that he and Tom had high words for the first time, and Tom went off and entered his name on board the "Inconstant," a frigate which had been in commission for some little time, and had put into Plymouth for repairs and a few new hands. She sailed the next day, so that Tom did not see Gideon again even to tell him what he had done.

Charlie Egerton was on board the "Inconstant," and when Tom came to himself and was very sorry for his behaviour to Gideon, he got Mr. Egerton to write a letter for him, which was sent to Captain Egerton, now living near Plymouth, who would, Tom was sure, do his best to find the old sailor.

The "Inconstant" was paid off in about a year, and Tom found himself once more in Plymouth, and free.

As soon as he could shake off the companionship of his late shipmates, he hastened to the house in the Barbican where he had left the Robins family. Alas! He found strangers living there, who did not even know the name of Robins. Tom knew no one in the neighbourhood, but he felt that he must make inquiries, at any risk; and it seemed possible that at the nearest public-house he might hear something of Robins.

He walked into the bar, asked for a glass of ale, and said to the lad who drew it for him, "I came here to see an old messmate of mine—a man called Peter Robins—and he lived over the way there, at the corner house. Do you know where he is now?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said the youth, carelessly.

But a door, which was already half-way open, was now opened a little more, and a jolly, good-tempered-looking woman, with bright ribbons in her cap, looked in at Tom. After watching him for a few moments, she said—

"Look here, you Jack ashore—you in the blue cap. Step this way. I want to speak to you."

Tom followed her into her snug little parlour, and she shut the door.

"Was it you I heard asking about Peter Robins just now?"

"It was, ma'am. He is an old shipmate of mine."

"Don't tell me! Robins never sailed in a king's ship!"

"No, ma'am; merchant ship—'Star of the Sea,' from Liverpool. I was in her too, but was pressed for the navy."

"Ay—that's more likely! Well, you're a decent looking lad, and I'll do you a good turn. Don't be heard asking for Robins any more. Robins—well, truth's best—he was a friend of mine, and many and many a keg of Hollands—But that don't matter to you. He got too venturesome, did Robins, with lace. 'Twas the lace that ruined him. His boat was seized, and he had a mighty narrow shave of being hung. And if you want to find him now, you may start for Botany Bay. That's the truth, young man. Why, what's the matter now?"

"My money!" moaned poor Tom. "Oh, mother, mother! What's to become of me now?"

He broke away from her, and ran out of the house. The fresh air brought him so far to himself that he walked along quietly. The next thing he knew, he was standing on the Hoe, near the Citadel, gazing out to sea.

All his money gone! Mother's golden guineas, father's little farm, his own fortune that he was so proud of—all gone! What was he to do now? He had about ten guineas—no more. For, counting on the money from Robins, and being without old Gideon's care and kindness, he had been a little extravagant of late. Only last night he had lost a good deal of money at some game, and still more in betting on his own play. He could never face his mother and father now! To be more than ten years away, and to return no richer than he went! That he would never do. To set to work again to save money? There was no prize-money to be had now, and it would be years before he could scrape together any considerable sum. To go to sea again, to forget his mother, put away all thoughts of home, to forget Gideon and his teaching, and enjoy life like other sailors;—this, he thought, was the only thing left for him to do.

"I'll go back to the 'Royal Tar,' treat the fellows all round, spend my money as fast as I can, and go to sea again. It's no use thinking of anything else. Gideon warned me, and I wouldn't heed him. I've lost him, and I've lost my own people, and there's no use in trying to be good; the bad comes more natural. I give up, and I'll have some fun, anyhow."

And in order to begin as soon as possible to be exceedingly jolly and merry, Tom here began to sing. He had a fine mellow voice, sweet and tuneful. And as he strode along, meaning to go through Plymouth and make his way to the public-house in Dock (as Devonport was then called) where he had left his comrades, he shouted out a long ditty about "the saucy 'Arethusa,'" and dashed along at a great pace.

Presently he almost ran against a gentleman with only one arm, who was coming out of a shop. And at the same moment, some one laid hold of him, saying—

"I'd know his pipe among a thousand! Stay a moment, Tom."

Tom turned. The speaker was Gideon Terlizzeck, and the gentleman was Captain Egerton.

"Why, Adderley, is this you?" said the captain, doubtfully; not doubting that this was Tom, but doubting much whether Tom was in a fit condition to be spoken to by his old captain.

"'Tis me, sir," said Tom. And he added, after a pause, "I'm all right, sir. I'm quite sober."

"Yes, I see you are.—Gideon, bring him home with you.—Mrs. Egerton's waiting for me, but I shall see you again presently, Tom. Gideon has been looking for you. We heard this morning that the 'Inconstant' was paid off."

"Yes, sir. You're very kind, Captain Egerton.—Oh, Gideon, Gideon, but I wish I'd never left you!"

"Come along, my lad; come with me now. Where have you been staying, Tom?"

"'Royal Tar,' near the dockyard gate."

"Ay, I know it. Your kit will be safe there; 'tis an honest house. The captain lives out the other way, on the Laira Road; and I live with him."

"Don't go to sea no more?" asked Tom.

"No more—unless the captain goes, and wishes to take me. He's served his time for his flag, and will be an admiral pretty soon, and his health has not been the same since he lost his arm. So I think his sea-going days are over; and, if so, mine are over too."

"Ay, ay," said Tom, in a dreary, absent tone. He did not more than half understand what Gideon said, and though he walked along beside his old friend, he did not know where he was going. His mind was in such a tumult of grief and anger—anger with Robins, not with himself—that he could think of nothing else. And all the time a small voice kept saying to him, "You are rightly served; you deserved to lose your money."

Gideon became silent when he saw that Tom did not attend to him. They left the town behind them, and walked along a fine open road, with the Laira (an inlet of the harbour) on one side, and on the other pretty little domains with gardens and comfortable houses, mostly inhabited by half-pay naval officers. At the gate of one of these Gideon stopped. There was a tiny red-brick gate-house, and to this he led the way.

"Here's where I've slung my hammock," said he, as he unlocked the door.

Tom roused up for the first time, and looked round with some interest. The one room was in the most exquisite state of cleanliness and order, but to our eyes it would have looked very bare. There was just enough furniture for one person, with an extra chair for a visitor. The floor was tiled, and the tiles were rubbed till they were as red as if new. Before the clumsy, comfortable, wooden armchair lay a small square of carpet, neatly edged round with fringe. On the white walls, which might have been white-washed that morning, hung a model of a frigate, and a picture representing a sea-fight, wherein smoke was the most conspicuous feature; a coffee-pot, a frying-pan, and a small tin saucepan. The little grate held a spark of fire, and a shining kettle set on the hob. Big hooks in the walls showed that when Gideon said he slung his hammock here, he had used no figure of speech; indeed, the hammock, its canvas as white as snow, lay rolled up neatly on a low shelf. Another shelf held a few cups and saucers and plates, and there was a cupboard for provisions. Gideon drew Tom in, and shut the door.

"My house, Tom. You're welcome, my son, right welcome. Do you know, I've prayed for this moment, many and many a time. Isn't it snug, Tom? Isn't it, now?" the old man said, looking proudly round.

He had taken Tom's hand in his. But now Tom pulled it away, dropped into the armchair, and laid his arms on the table. Down went his head, till his face was hidden on his outstretched arms, and then great sobs shook his broad shoulders, and poor Tom, quite broken down by Gideon's kindness and a sudden sense of his own unworthiness, cried like a baby.

"My lad! My dear lad! I sought you all yesterday and this morning, for to break the bad news to you like, but never went to the 'Royal Tar.' I went to the quiet old place where you and I used to stop."

"You know, then, about Robins, Gideon?" said Tom, raising his head and rubbing the tears away.

"Yes. The captain was in Plymouth the day his boat, and some others too, were seized, and he happened to mention it to me."

"Does the captain know about my money?"

"Yes; I told him as how Robins was an old comrade of yours, and that you had trusted him with some money to trade with. I had for to tell him that much—I'll explain why presently. How did you hear of it?"

"I went to his house, and the woman who has the public-house opposite told me. I was going back to the 'Royal Tar' when you met me."

GREAT SOBS SHOOK HIS BROAD SHOULDERS,
AND POOR TOM . . . CRIED LIKE A BABY.

"Tom, I'm sorry, 'very' sorry for you."

"Gideon, you're not sorry that I've lost that money. You can't be; for you 'are' good and upright. You warned me. I mind you said,—

"'Get back your twenty-five guineas that you gave him, and don't take another shilling, for his earnings are dishonest money, and you'll have no blessing on it.'

"Those were your words, and I wouldn't mind them. And now I'm ruined altogether."

"You've lost the money, Tom, but you've escaped a much worse thing than that. You'll soon see that you've a deal to be thankful for. That fellow Robins saved his life by turning king's evidence, and he gave your name as having given funds towards the business. 'Twere then I told the captain about it. And he went and got a lawyer, and they saw Robins, and made him own up that he told you 'twas all honest trade. And so, by saying how you had sailed with him, and giving you a good character, the captain got you out of that scrape, which might have been a very ugly one."

"Gideon, I'll tell you the truth. Robins told me 'twas all right, as you say, but I didn't believe him—not that last time."

"Well, I never was asked about anything but the first time. You never gave him any more, did you?"

"No. 'Twas very good of the captain to do all this for me, but 'twas better of you, Gideon, for I behaved ungrateful to you."

"You was angry, but you wrote, if you remember. Indeed, I didn't wait for that to forgive you, Tom. That letter was the means of bringing me to my present comfortable anchorage. I'm gardener, under the mistress, and I mind the pony, under the captain; and I get my dinner at the house, and live here in great peace and comfort. At first I had a girl to do for me, but, bless you, she made work for me—she did indeed. Females don't seem to me to know straight from crooked, nor yet how to put a real finish on anything. I do for myself now. Have a pipe, Tom? 'Twill soothe your spirits."

Pipes being lighted, both men were silent for a time. Presently a well-known voice called—

"Lodge ahoy! Are you there, Terlizzeck? Gate!"

Gideon hurried out to admit the pony carriage. Mrs. Egerton was driving, and as soon as she was inside the gate, she drew up.

"Adderley here?" said the captain.

"Ay, ay, sir," answered Tom, appearing at the door.

"Oh, come here, Tom Adderley," said Mrs. Egerton, "and let me thank you for saving my boy. It's an old story now, I know, but, you see, I never met you before."

"I'm sure, ma'am, you're very welcome," said Tom, blushing all over.

"Come up to the house to dinner with Gideon," said the captain, "and you'll see Mr. Egerton. He is at home, you know."

"Is he going afloat again, sir?" inquired Tom.

"Oh no, not just yet," Mrs. Egerton replied hastily.

The captain laughed, and said, "Drive on, Carrie." And off they drove.

"Nov, Tom, you stay here and make yourself at home, till such time as I hail you from the other end of the drive; then come to me. I must go to take the pony and make all snug."

"Let me go along and help you," said Tom. "I haven't forgotten how to tackle a pony yet."

By the time the pony was rubbed down, and the carriage washed, and the neat little stable, coach-house, and yard made snug, a bell rang.

"That's for dinner," said Gideon. "I used to live altogether in my own berth, but the mistress found out that I am no great hand at cooking, beyond a slice of fried bacon or an egg, so she regulated that I should dine here, and the moment the captain is served—and of course Mr. Charlie or any visitor—she carves for me, and I has my dinner in a little room off the kitchen. All to myself, like Joseph and his brethren—ye mind that, Tom? This way."

After dinner, Tom had a few kind words from the captain and Mrs. Egerton, and was then taken by Gideon to see the garden. Mrs. Egerton understood gardening well, and in Gideon she had a most zealous and painstaking assistant. The rows of peas and beans were as straight and even as if made by machinery. The cabbages were cut in rows—no looking about for the best was permitted here; and as each row disappeared, the ground was dug over and raked smooth. Not a morsel of rough ground was to be seen. As to weeds, they never had a chance of getting beyond two saucy little leaves.

The only point upon which Gideon and his mistress differed was that he, in his love of order, wanted to tie the rose trees to sticks, and to force every one of them to grow in exactly the same form; also, when a bed of mignonette began to look a little bit straggling, though still in full blossom, Gideon would have liked to pull it all up and rake the bed over, "trim and tidy." These things Mrs. Egerton would not allow, but, in spite of her, the flower garden was somewhat severely tidy.

Tom, however, approved of all he saw, and thought of mother's little garden at home with the bees in the flowers—mother's garden that he would never see again.

CHAPTER XI.

THE JOURNEY HOME.

AT six o'clock Gideon "knocked off" work, Tom having pulled off his jacket and handled a spade in fine style ever since dinner. In fact, he was able to teach Gideon a thing or two about digging, and Gideon was not above learning.

They returned to the lodge, where Gideon prepared an abundant meal for his guest—fried bacon, coffee, baker's bread, everything of the best, and plenty of it. After supper they sat by the fire, though it was very warm, and Gideon asked—

"And when do you go north, Tom?"

"North! Why, is there anything particular going on thereaway?"

"Going home, I mean," answered Gideon.

"Never," said Tom shortly.

"Ay, and why, my lad, if one may ask?"

"I think you hardly need ask, Gideon. I've been more than ten years away now, and to go back just as I left them—not even a few poor shillings to give mother, over and about the ten guineas I stole from her! I'd be the laughingstock of the place. They've forgot me by this time."

"Mothers don't forget, nor yet fathers, I'm told, but I never had one—I had only a mother. She was a good mother, and so is yours, kind and loving-hearted as a woman should be. And I tell you, Tom, if she has forgotten aught about you, 'twill be that you took that money without her leave."

"No, not she," answered Tom. "Mother's as good as gold, but she ain't one of your soft sort, and she—well, Gideon, she has a tongue, not scolding or brawling, but a tongue you'll have to mind."

There was a short silence. Then Tom said—

"I've done wrong, and I own to it. I began badly when I took that money. Having taken it, I ought to have got Captain Collins to write after my first voyage, and pay it back. I could have done it even then. I did not do that, and then came the time I was pressed. Well, when I was leaving the 'Star,' I had a notion to leave my money with Captain Collins to send to mother. I didn't do that, and in five minutes more the money was at the bottom of the sea. Then, when I had money again, you urged upon me to go home for a bit. But no, I must have more money to take with me. Then I met Robins, and you warned me again and again, and I only fell out with you. I see it all plain enough, now that it's too late. The money's gone, and I have no heart to begin again. It's just my punishment—to go on being a sailor, all alone in the world except for you, Gideon, all the rest of my life."

Terlizzeck gazed thoughtfully into the fire.

"You own up that you were in the wrong?" said he.

"I do, Gideon. My pride is broken down. I see that I was all wrong."

"No, Tom, your pride's not broken down. First time you and me ever had a yarn, I mind well reading you the parable about the son that went home after wasting his substance, and you said how you would never do that—go home empty-handed, asking to be forgiven. Since then, you've been changed in many ways, Tom. You've learned many a lesson, and you're a steady, decent lad, and not without the fear of God neither, but always your pride stands in your way. You don't like to be forgiven—you'd like to earn it; and you can't earn it, not even from your mother; and no one can earn it from God Almighty."

Gideon ceased to speak, but Tom made no attempt to reply.

"Seems to me," Gideon went on presently, "that you're mistaken when you think you've learned the lesson all this ought to have taught you. And another mistake—'twas you did wrong, and you're going to punish your mother."

"No, no; she won't want me. She has father and Sam."

"You can't say for sure. A many things can happen in ten years. Anyway, to my eyes, your duty is plain. And that is, to go home, confess your fault, pay back what you can, and hear what your mother may have to say to you; then to sea again with a good conscience. If you don't do this, you'll never be happy in your mind. You'll go to sea; the temptations are great—you'll not keep straight because you won't be helped. You know yourself how it's like to end."

Gideon here got up and busied himself in slinging his hammock, and a second, which Captain Egerton had lent him, for Tom. Then he read a chapter in the Bible aloud, said his prayers, and remarked—

"I'll turn in, my lad, for I've got to be early."

Gideon was soon asleep. Not so Tom. He lay there, thinking, then dozing, and then thinking again. He dreamed of his mother. He saw her working in her garden, busy and happy, and he was a boy again, helping her. Then suddenly she looked sad and ill, and she said to him, "Where are my golden guineas, Tom? Now the rainy day has come, I miss them."

Tom woke up and could sleep no more.

In the morning he said to Gideon—

"Old friend, you are right all round. I ought to go home and say I'm sorry, but I don't feel able to do it. That's the truth."

"You was never a coward, Tom," said the old man quietly.

They had breakfast, and then Tom said—

"I'd better go and see after my kit, and, if I may, I'll come back in the evening."

"You'll never be aught but welcome, my son," replied Gideon.

Tom came back in the evening in great spirits, saying—

"Oh, Gideon, I've had such a piece of luck. I met Mr. Egerton, walking with an old gentleman—I didn't take him for a sailor, but it was Sir Michael Elliott, who is going to hoist his flag aboard the 'Conqueror,' in the Mediterranean. And Mr. Egerton had been recommending me to him, as he wanted a sober young man for cox of his own boat! And he don't sail for two months, so I've plenty of time to go home; and I am going, Gideon."

"And you'll always be glad as you did so," remarked Gideon. "I'm real glad, Tom."

Tom made the voyage to Liverpool on board a collier brig returning for a cargo, and to see Mr. Tom turning up his nose at the dirt and untidiness of that collier was an amusing sight. But the collier was slow as well as dirty, and by the time Tom was landed in Liverpool, he had lost the glow of his good intentions and felt very much inclined to—run away. The idea of facing his people under his present circumstances was so galling that he lingered a whole day in Liverpool, and it is hard to say what he might have done, if he had not happened to meet Captain Collins. The last time he saw his old captain he was a hale, hearty man: now he was bent and aged and weak. Tom hardly knew him. Having with difficulty made the old man remember him, Tom inquired politely for Mrs. Collins. The old man sighed.

"I've buried her, Adderley. Lost her five years ago. Never the same since. I'm getting old—getting old. Time flies. Seems to me only yesterday I was a young fellow like you."

Somehow, this made Tom set off inland the next morning.

It was a longish tramp, but the worst of it was that he had to spend some of his money for food and lodging. Footsore and weary, he at last found himself in a familiar place. He knew that he was close to Burdeck.

Tom sat down and rested. He ate some food that he had with him, and then carefully arranged his dress and shook off the dust. He did not want to look weary and forlorn. Then he walked on. Ah! There was little Burdeck nestling in its valley, and that smoke came from the chimney of his old home.

And now he stood at the garden gate, half-hoping that mother would look-out and know him. The garden—what ailed it? And the apricot was dead; the pear tree hung loose and ragged from the wall. Half frightened, he opened the gate and strode to the door.

"Who's within?" he cried, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. He had to call more than once. At last, just as he was making up his mind to open the door for himself, it was opened by a dirty looking woman with a baby in her arms.

"What d'ye want?" said she, looking half frightened.

"Who are you?" he answered. "Your name is never Adderley?"

"No—I don't know the name. Be off now; I want no tramps about."

"Hold hard, mistress," said Tom, as she was going to shut the door. "Where is Thomas Adderley that lived here once?"

"'Twas before our time," she answered, and she shut the door.

He heard her lock it. After a moment or so, he walked away, and went up the garden of the next house, where the Trayners used to live. He felt quite stupid. A decent looking young woman was at the door. She, too, had a baby in her arms.

"Does Matthew Trayner live here still?" Tom said.

"No, Wat, his son. What do you want with the Trayners?"

"Mistress, I'm not a tramp," said Tom quickly. "I belong to these parts, and have been away at sea for years. All I want is to know where I may find my people."

"My husband is away at work, but he'll be back soon after six. Maybe I can tell you, but I'm not Burdeck born. I came from Wakefield."

"Thomas Adderley, my father, he lived in that cottage—where is he?"

"Are you an Adderley? Come in and sit down. I've heard my sister-in-law Lucy talk of you. You're Tom, that went away?"

"Yes. Oh, tell me, if you know, where I'll find my people."

"Sit down," she said gently, and she went and laid her baby in the cradle. "'Tis little I can tell you, and—it's not good news. Your poor father is dead; dead some years."

"My father dead!" said Tom. "A great strong man like he, and not to say old neither. I can scarce believe it."

"It is true; and I do wish Wat was here, for I hate telling you bad news. It wouldn't sound so bad in a friend's voice. 'Twas a fever that was very bad here; it was nine years ago. Wat's father and mother died of it, and your father got it and lived through it. But he was never the same again. He took on so about—" Here she paused.

"Go ahead, mistress. Tell me every word."

"'Twas about his oldest son. He was the first to get the fever, and he died. Your poor father, he got to be like a child—no sense, and not able to work. His master was very kind and left him in the cottage, and Mrs. Adderley worked for him and kept him wonderful comfortable. When he died, of course, she had to leave the cottage."

"And where is she now?" cried Tom, standing up and groping for his hat. "Poor father! Poor old Sam! But tell me where mother is, that I may go to her."

The young woman looked away from him.

"When Wat comes home," she said, "he'll be able to tell you; I can't. I can tell you no more."

She went and brought him a mug of clear, cold water, saying, "You look mazed—so you do. Drink some water, and sit here till Wat comes."

Tom drank the water. He really was not quite himself. He sat down, and Mrs. Trayner hoped he would stay quiet till her husband came in. But in a few minutes Tom was up again.

"Where are you going?" she asked him. "Do sit still a bit; you look—"

"I'm smothering. I must get out into the air," said Tom.

"Well, walk up that way, towards the church," she said, not wanting him to go on into the village.

He had left his bundle, so she knew he would come back. He walked a little way towards the church, then came back to her.

"Lookey here; you 'knows,' and you may as well tell me. Is she dead too?"

"Oh no. And Wat knows and will tell you where you'll find her."

Tom turned away, but this time he went on to the village.

The shop, the forge, all as of old, but no one knew him, nor did he look at any one. At last he was at the gate of the garden, in the corner of which old Master Dwight used to sit in the sun and "mind his latter end—" at least, so he said. Not thinking of what he did, Tom opened the gate and sought the well-remembered sunny corner. And there, looking as if he had never moved since Tom said good-bye to him, sat old Master Dwight, blinking in the hot sun, and mumbling to himself in a querulous tone—

"Too long! Too long! I'm living too long. They're all tired of my stories; no one comes to listen to 'em now. Who's this? A sailor; ay, and a king's man, too! Trust old Dwight to know that. What d'ye say, eh? Speak up! I'm getting a 'little' bit deaf."

"Don't you know me, Master Dwight?"

"To be sure I do," said the old fellow, genially. "You're Ben Benson, master of the 'Rosy Dawn.' But no; Ben's dead, so you can't be Ben. Adderley, is it? No, I don't know any one by that name, do I. Yes, to be sure, but only of late years, and things slip out of my head. Adderley! Yes, he died of the great fever, and so did his son Sam. And the other boy was run away; and the mother, foolish woman, blamed me for that.

"But, for all that, I stood up for her. When she buried her husband, and was ill with hardship and overwork, I stood up for her, though she had tongued me more than once. I said plainly as it was a shame to the whole village to let a decent, good woman like her go to the House. I said, 'One of ye take her in, and when she gets better, her work will be worth her keep.' But they're a mean lot here, and disgraceful poor. And there was the little maid, too—a pretty little maid, and of a good stock. But who'll marry her now, bred up in Wakefield Workhouse?"

Tom stood as if turned to stone. He had all the English peasant's horror of the workhouse. His mother—his tidy, thrifty, busy mother! So this was her fate! And pretty little Dolly! Ah, no wonder Wat Trayner's wife had disliked telling him this!

Old Dwight was still talking away, but Tom did not hear a word he said. He started after a few minutes, and, leaving the garden, walked quickly back to the Trayners' cottage.

"Mistress," he said, "I know all now. Old Dwight told me. You've a kind heart; you couldn't bring yourself to do it. And there's old Dwight, not a day older to look at; and my father and—Give me my bundle, like a good soul. I can reach Wakefield before night."

"You are not able for it. Do stay a bit, and Wat will tell you—"

"There's nothing more to tell. She buried her husband and her good son; and the son that ought to have been her support had run off; and worse, and—"

"If you had stayed, maybe you would have died of the fever too."

"And better I had," returned Tom. "Good-bye. You've been very kind to me."

CHAPTER XII.

BETTER THAN GOLDEN GUINEAS.

AT an early hour of the next day, a young man in sailor's garb might have been seen in the streets of Wakefield, asking the way to the workhouse, but he lost his way so often, in spite of all his questions, that he began to think the people were misleading him on purpose. He was standing at the corner of a street, wondering which of the two that lay before him he was to take, when a pretty, tidy young woman with a basket on her arm passed him.

She started a little when she saw him. Presently she turned and came back. As she drew near, she looked at something "very" interesting at the other side of the street, and said in a low voice, "I wonder is it—Tom Adderley?"

Tom looked at her. "Did you call me?" he said.

"Why, then, you 'are' Tom," said the girl, putting her hand on his arm. "Oh, Tom, what years and years it is since I saw you last! I kept your secret, Tom. No one ever knew that I saw you that day."

"If this ain't Lucy Trayner!" cried Tom, his face brightening a little. "Ah, Lucy, things are sore changed since that day. I got to Burdeck yesterday, to find strangers in the old home, and a new mistress in yours. I didn't see Wat, and not a soul knew me."

"But did no one tell you? Oh, poor Tom!"

"Yes, your sister-in-law told me; and a kind soul she is. And mother is in the workhouse here. Oh, Lucy, that's the worst of it all. She that was so clever and so busy, to be shut up there with no one to care for; and it's my fault! I declare I wonder you can bear to look at me, Lucy."

"Your fault, for running away? Well, 'twas wrong, I know, but your mother never says a word of blame to you, and—"

"Mother never blames me?"

"Never once—never to me, anyhow. I go to see her when I can. And oh, but I am glad you've come back to her! You'll make up to her now for all."

"Lucy, will you show me where the workhouse is?"

"In this street. Come, and I'll show you. I must not stay too long; I'm in service here. But my mistress is very kind."

She stopped presently at an iron gate in a high wall.

"This is the House, Tom. I know the matron; shall I just tell her who you are?"

"If you would, 'twould be a kindness."

"And you'll tell me what you mean to do? Ask for Dr. Cartwright's house in George Street; I live there."

A man came to the gate, and Lucy asked to see Mrs. Good, the mistress. They were admitted, and were soon in Mrs. Good's neat parlour.

Mrs. Good was a kindly, sentimental little woman, who cried over Lucy's story, and said it was real touching. "And I'll send for Mrs. Adderley, and then you can see her here comfortably, sir."

Lucy left them, as she could spare no more time.

Mrs. Good went away; she felt that the mother and son would be happier alone.

Tom thought that his mother would pass the window of the little parlour, so he stood watching for her.

But she came in by a back door, and Mrs. Good only told her that there was a young man wanting to see her.

Ah, some years ago—not many, for she had been but four years in the House—Mrs. Adderley would have suspected in a moment that the "young man" was Tom! But hope and expectation had died out of her, in the sameness and dreariness of her life. She just walked in and said, when the tall figure at the window did not turn round—

"What's your will, sir?"

She had fancied it might be Wat Trayner, who sometimes came to see her. Seeing that it was not he, she wondered a little why she was wanted.

Tom turned now, took a hasty step forward, and stopped. A little bent old woman, with a patient white face and weak eyes (much crying had dimmed them)—this was not his mother!

"It was Mrs. Adderley, from Burdeck—Oh, mother, mother!" For he knew her—suddenly.

"Who calls me 'mother'?" she said. "Come here; let me see you. Why, 'tis my Tom, my darling boy that I haven't seen these eleven years! Oh, Tom, be it really you?"

"Mother, it is. Your bad boy that robbed you and ran away, and left you to come to—this."

She was sobbing and laughing, and holding him by the arm, going on altogether like a crazy creature.

"My Tom! Grown a man, and such a fine man, too. My boy! The same curls on his head, and the same look in his eyes. Yes, you were bad, Tom, to run away and disobey poor father and me. And I hope you've repented of it. But don't fret, my boy; don't ye be 'too' sorry. Your poor father often said, 'Tom will get on; he were too stirring for Burdeck ways.' And he left his blessing for you, and his forgiveness—he did, Tom, truly. Oh, my own boy, I can die in peace now."

"Sit down, mother dear; you're all of a tremble. Tell me all, mother. I only know that poor father and Sam are both dead."

Mrs. Adderley told her story, but not very lucidly. She went backwards and forwards, she made mistakes and corrected them, and she told many particulars which had nothing to do with it. But all this was only doing after the fashion of women of her class when excited, and Tom understood very well. He gathered that she had never told any one that he had robbed her, not even her husband. Also, that if she had had a little money when Adderley died, she could have set up a little shop in Burdeck, and have supported herself and Dolly. Dolly was in service—put out by "the Board," they called themselves—and her grandmother had not seen her for many months.

"And she such a pet, Tom! I do fret after Dolly, the pretty little dear."

"Mother," answered Tom, "every word you say is like sticking a knife into me. I ought to have been here to work for you and little Dolly, and I've worse than that to confess to you. I can't be easy till I've told you all. But can you listen now?"

"Yes, I can," she said promptly. "The sound of your voice, Tom, though 'tis changed a bit, do make me feel so happy that I could listen for ever. But I don't know that I could give my mind to the meaning."

But she did give her mind to it, when Tom was fairly launched on his story. He concealed nothing. When he ceased, she knew his history as well as he knew it himself.

"So now, you see, mother, what a bad son I've been to you. Time and again I might have paid you back what I took—your golden guineas that you never said a word about, for fear I should be blamed. If I had sent that money by Captain Collins, it would have kept father in comfort and you from overworking yourself. If I'd come home when the 'Imogene' was paid off, I'd have been in time to set up the little shop for you. Now I've come at last, nearly empty-handed. But, mother, see; I'm kneeling here before you. Put your blessed old hand on my head, and say, 'Tom, I forgive you.' Do say it, mother. I was wrong all through—proud, and selfish, and careless—but forgive me, if you can, knowing all."

She put her hand on his head, but stopped to pull out one of the close curls and look at it lovingly.

"The times I've dreamt that the deep sea was hiding them curls!" she said. "Forgive ye, child? Mothers don't forgive; they don't need to." And she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him again and again.

"From this moment, mother, I belong to you. I'll get work here; I'll make a home for you and Dolly, and—and you'll be like yourself again."

To see how her changed face brightened, and how, in a moment, her business-like faculties were at work again! She made him tell her what money he had, and advised him to get Lucy Trayner to help him to look for lodgings—furnished, for he had not enough to buy furniture—they could do that by-and-by. Then he was to get her some clothes—

"For, you know, these I have on are not my own; and mind, now, 'very' little will do for a time."

And then he was to go to Mr. Samuel Trotter, in the main street. This was the fruiterer and vegetable dealer who used to buy all her fruit and honey in the good old days. And he would help Tom to get a place, for he was a kind man, and would remember her. And he was on no account to take Dolly from her place until Mrs. Adderley was ready to see after her.

Tom laughed, and promised obedience. "I know you again now, mother," said he.

All this was done as Mrs. Adderley directed, only Lucy and Tom were extravagant, she declared, in the purchase of clothes for her. A queen, she said, might have worn that plaid shawl, and thankful! Mr. Trotter took Tom into his own employment to drive his light cart, both for leaving goods at purchasers' houses, and going here and there in the season to buy fruit—a part of his work—for which Mr. Trotter had got too fat and lazy. Poor little Dolly was taken from a very hard, rough place, and began to go to school regularly. The church schools in Wakefield were very good, and Dolly, naturally clever, was soon able to teach her uncle to read, and even, as time went on, to write.

But for many a long day it was only by a great effort of his strong will that Tom kept up a cheerful demeanour before his mother and Dolly. He had really loved his profession, and had left it just when his prospects were very bright. He had got Lucy's master to write to Captain Egerton for him, begging him to tell Gideon how things were with him, and to explain to Admiral Elliott that he could not go to sea again. But life seemed very dull and his work very uninteresting. And sometimes he wondered, if his mother knew how he hated it, would she not insist on his going to sea again?

But he never told her. He fought against his feelings like a brave man—nay, better than that, like a Christian man; and, by God's help, he conquered himself, and came out of the conflict a better and a stronger man. And his mother was wonderfully happy, "keeping house" for him.

Tom saved and pinched his own personal expenditure, until he had saved up ten guineas. It took him a long time, but he got several Christmas-boxes in money from Mr. Trotter's customers, and this helped him. He bought a little wooden box, as like the old one as he could get it, and took box and all to his mother.

"Mother dear, take this. There's no interest, mother; it's only what I robbed you of."

Mrs. Adderley laughed at first, then cried a little, and finally counted the guineas.

"Ten," said she. "That's one too many, Tom. You only took nine."

Tom started.

"Right you are, mother. I said I'd always reckon that I took ten, and I declare I had forgotten that I put one back."

"And you needn't have done this, Tom, for you are better to me than any number of golden guineas."

"Lay them by to be a fortune for Dolly, by-and-by," said Tom, laughing.

But Tom was far too clever and painstaking to remain always in such a place as that of van-driver. He learned to read and write, and to keep accounts without the help of notched sticks. And, as old Mr. Trotter had no children and liked Tom very much, he took him into the shop as foreman, and afterwards as partner. Tom's cleverness and energy increased the business very much, and he found plenty of scope for both in his new employment.

After a while he married Lucy Trayner, who had never forgotten her promise to marry him when he came home. And some time after his marriage, old Gideon Terlizzeck paid him a long-promised visit, when Mrs. Adderley and Lucy heard more of Tom's life at sea than he had ever told them. One day Gideon happened to mention his intention to go with Admiral Elliott when he returned from visiting his mother. Tom had never spoken of it.

"Tom," said his mother, "if I'd known what a fine prospect you had before you, I don't believe I'd have let you give it up."

"Ah yes, ma'am, you would," said Gideon. "'Twas his clear duty, all the more because of the way he left you before. He'd have had no blessing on his life if he had left you again. And I don't see that a man could be happier or better off than he is now."

"That's very true," said Tom, "and I'll tell you the whole truth, mother. I did love the sea, and the excitement, and everything about it, and when I came here first I had a tough battle before I could take to my new life. A craving, it seemed; just like what poor Dick Carr used to say 'he' had when he went to sea after a time ashore, when he had been drinking. But I always felt that it would leave me, and it did. And since then, I've been happier than I ever was before. For I always felt that I was doing wrong, even when I denied it most. And I always had a feeling that, sooner or later, I'd be punished, if I didn't repent. When I lost my money, I knew I had expected it, though I would not say so. Well, if I got another trial, as I surely did, I owe it to you, Gideon. 'Twas you put the truth before me, so that I 'had' to face it. All through, you've been a true friend to me."

"That's pleasant for an old man to hear," said Gideon. And then he added, simply and reverently, "But let us give God the glory. His hand was over us for good."

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.

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Table of Contents

- MOTHER'S GOLDEN GUINEAS.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE