Читать книгу The Mutiny of the Flying Spray - Arthur Hunt Chute - Страница 6
ОглавлениеWE APPLY FOR A BERTH
One could not imagine two lads more unlike than Tug Wilson and myself. I suppose that’s why we were such inseparable pals, each a complement to the other.
The first time I saw Tug was characteristic. On a wager, he was running across the sloping roof of the dormitory in his nightshirt, while a garden party was in process below. As the young ladies wound up by screaming, I looked up to see him just escape breaking his neck by a frantic clutching at the eaves.
One might inquire how I happened to be so easily led about by this harum-scarum. Indeed, my dear mother was continually asking this question, as she deplored the dangers into which he led me.
We two had been accustomed to go off together on long sailing expeditions, which did much to increase one’s faith in Tug. He was given to blustering talk, and Father at first called him a braggart. But the way he handled our yacht outside soon caused respect.
Sailing was my father’s ultimate test of manhood. Tug emphatically made good at that test. He won more than one race for us by sheer nerve. I was better at the science of racing, but Tug beat us all the way he would crack on.
Many of the safe-and-sound gentlemen at the Squadron were scandalized by Tug’s desperate chancing, saying that it shouldn’t be allowed. “First thing you know that young pup’s goin’ to capsize outside and drown somebody.”
At which, Tug would laughingly reply:
“A guy that can’t swim in from Sandy Hook ain’t got any business on a yacht.”
During the period of my office apprenticeship, it was our custom to meet on Saturday afternoons, for sailing trips down Long Island Sound.
Sometimes, we got the loan of my father’s schooner yacht, and ventured far out to sea, on which occasions, we liked to imagine ourselves outbound for California.
During our sailing trips, almost our only theme of conversation was the gold rush. All through the week, at our respective offices, we heard unending tales of that fabulous frontier which had become, as it were, the firing line of American business.
Every new rumor spoke of California as the young man’s country, and so the more the monotony of the office palled upon us, the more did we yearn for an escape.
Every effort which we made led to the same blind alley. Finally, one Saturday, when Tug and I were about to set off in our catboat, I suggested that we might try for a place before the mast on the Flying Spray, one of my father’s clippers, due to sail the following day for San Francisco. My especial hope was pinned upon the fact that I knew the skipper, Captain Peabody, formerly of the Phantom, who had been a frequent visitor at our home.
Almost instantaneously with the suggestion, we were on our way off down the East River to Pier Nine, where the famous flyer was lying.
The fact that one of Gertridge’s ships, the Meteor, was on the adjacent berth gave a tang of excitement to the whole water front.
These two splendid Yankee clippers were loading night and day, preparatory to sailing a great ocean match over the fifteen-thousand-mile race course between Sandy Hook and the Golden Gate.
At that time, the American flag led the world in shipping. These two newest creations were about to join issue for a stake that was nothing less than the championship of the seas.
Long before we arrived at the pier, we caught a glimpse of the lofty truck of the Flying Spray, with my father’s house flag, gallant over all the water front. She carried three skysail yards across, and was by far the loftiest ship in port.
My father had taught me something of the secret of the slender waist and sharp clipper bows, made for coasting in the light airs of the tropics. But this was no light-air queen; her masts and spars were triple-stayed to stand the mightiest testing of the Horn.
While I was lost in admiration of her splendid lines, I felt a strong hand placed upon my shoulder, and turning, looked into the inscrutable face of Captain Calvin Peabody, a spare man of military erectness, punctilious to a degree.
He wore a beaver hat and frock coat buttoned tight. There was something suggestive in his tight-buttoned figure, speaking of one who was entirely self-contained. Obviously, his world was within, not without. But under all his reticence, there was no mistaking the master.
Turning on me a pair of pale blue eyes, that carried with them the deep inward look of the sea, he inquired:
“Aren’t you the son of Benjamin Curtis?”
“Yes, sir, we used to meet up at our home.”
“And what can I do for you, my lad?”
“Well, Sir, this is my friend Wilson. We two chaps want to ship with you for the voyage around the Horn.”
A bleak smile came over his face, about as cheerless as sunset on a bitter day.
“How did you want to ship, my young gentlemen, as cabin passengers?”
“No, Sir. We wanted to sign on as sailors before the mast.”
The thin lips closed firmly, while he seemed to ponder, then he asked:
“Did your father send you?”
“No, Sir.”
“Does he know your intentions?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, under the circumstances, I’m sure I can’t see my way clear to taking you. Why not try another ship?”
“We have, Sir, and they’ve all turned us down.”
“I’m not surprised. There are too many first-class A. B.’s clamoring for berths to leave much chance for tyros.”
“But we know a whole lot about sailing, Sir,” broke in Tug. “I guess we can soon learn to hold our own on your clipper.”
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” answered the Captain, with an approving glance at Tug’s shoulders. “But, it seems to me that Latin and Greek ought to be your portion right now. Why aren’t you two young gentlemen in school?”
“We were recently expelled from Phillips-Andover Academy,” said Tug, sheepishly.
“Well, well, don’t apologize for it. I was kicked out of Harvard College myself, twenty years ago. The question, my young friends, is not how you start out, but how you finish up. I would like nothing better than taking you to sea with me. But, without your father’s assent, it’s out of the question. Why not ask him?”
“It would be a waste of time,” I answered.
“Why?”
“Because he wants to keep me working my penance in a miserable, stuffy old office.”
“Ah, then I can see plainly that I mustn’t butt in,” and with a pleasant “Good day,” he left us, chagrined and crestfallen.
Just as we were leaving the wharf, a couple of villainous looking fellows rushed past with a policeman in hot pursuit. I watched them sharply, but Tug had lost interest in everything.
