Читать книгу The Vicar's People - Fenn George Manville - Страница 5

“Tell’ee what, Tom Jennen, you fishermen are more nice than wise.”

“And I tell’ee, Amos Pengelly, as you miner lads are more nasty than nice. Think of a man as calls hisself a Christian, and preaches to his fellows, buying a gashly chunk of twissening snake of a conger eel, and taking it home to eat.”

“And a good thing too, lad. Why, it’s fish, ar’n’t it?”

“Fish? Pah! I don’t call them fish.”

“Why, it’s as good as your hake, man?”

“What, good as hake? Why, ye’ll say next it’s good as mack’rel or pilchar’. I never see the like o’ you miner lads. Why, I see Joe Helston buy a skate one day.”

“Ay, and a good thing too. But look yonder on Pen Point! There’s some one got hold of the bushes. I say, Tom Jennen, who’s yonder big, good-looking chap?”

“I d’no’. Got on his Sunday clothes, whoever he be. Don’t call him good-looking, though. Big awk’ard chap in a boot. He’d always be in the way. He’s a ’venturer, that’s what he is. Whose money’s he going to chuck down a mine?”

“What a chap you are, Tom Jennen! What should we mining folk do if it wasn’t for the ’venturers? We must have metal got up, and somebody’s obliged to speck’late in mines.”

“Speck’late in mines, indeed,” said the other, contemptuously. “Why don’t they put their money in boots or nets, so as to make money out of mack’rel or pilchar’?”

“Ah, for the boots to go down and drown the poor lads in the first storm, and the nets to be cut and swept away.”

“Well, that’s better than chucking the money down a hole in the ground.”

“Hey, Tom, you don’t know what’s good for others, so don’t set up as a judge,” and the speaker, a short, lame, very thick-set man, in a rough canvas suit, stained all over of a deep red, showed his white teeth in a pleasant smile, which seemed like sunshine on his rough, repellent face.

“Maybe I do; maybe I don’t. I say I don’t call him a good-looking chap.”

“Just as if you could tell whether a man’s good-looking or not, Tom Jennen. That’s for the women to do.”

“Ha – ha – ha! yes. Bess Prawle says you’re the plainest man she ever see.”

The miner flushed scarlet, and an angry light flashed from his eyes, but he seemed to master the annoyance, and said cheerfully, —

“I dare say she’s right, Tom. I never set up for a handsome man.”

“Like yonder ’venturer chap. He’s the sort as would please old smuggler Prawle’s lass.”

The angry flush came into the miner’s face again, but he mastered his annoyance, and said, rather hoarsely, —

“Hold your tongue, lad; the gentleman will hear what you say.”

“What’s that man doing up on the cliff?” said Geoffrey Trethick, who had walked down by the harbour in making a tour of his new home. “The one waving those things in his hands.”

“Sighting a school,” said Tom Jennen, in a sing-song tone, as, after the manner of sea-side men, he leaned his back against the stout rail which guarded the edge of the cliff.

“Sighting a school, eh? Of fish, of course?”

“Mack’,” said Tom Jennen, so curtly that he cut the word in half, and then proceeded to add to the brown stains at the corners of his mouth by hacking off a piece of tobacco with his big knife.

“They do it in partnership like, sir,” said the miner, eagerly, as he gazed in the new-comer’s face, as if attracted by the sound of the word “adventurer.”

“One of them goes up on the highest part of the cliff yonder, Pen Dwavas that is, and he watches till he sees a school coming.”

“How can he see a school of fish coming?”

“Colour,” growled Tom Jennen, who had now turned round, and was trying to spit upon a particular boulder on the shore below.

“Yes, by the colour, sir,” said the miner, Amos, or more commonly Preaching Pengelly – “colour of the water; and then he signals to his mates. That’s them gone off in yon boat.”

“I see.”

“They have their boot ready with the seine in – long net, you know – and rows out, just as you see them now.”

“Yes; but what’s the use of his waving those things now?”

“Them’s bushes, sir,” continued the miner, who was talking, and reading the new-comer at the same time. “Don’t you see, them in the boot being low down, couldn’t see which way to go, so he waves them on with the bushes.”

“To be sure, yes,” said Geoffrey. “I see now. They are throwing something over – yes, of course, the net. So that dark, ripply patch, then, is where the fish lie?”

“Yes, sir, that’s them,” said the miner, who seemed strangely attracted; “but you’ve got good eyes.”

“Think so?” said Geoffrey, smiling. Then, nodding his thanks, he walked farther along the cliff to watch what was a novelty to him – the taking of the shoal of mackerel.

“Ha, ha, ha?” laughed Tom Jennen. “On’y to think o’ the ignorance o’ these foreigners! Here’s a big, awkward chap of a good thirty year of age, and knowed nothing about bushes and a seine boat. If it had been you, Amos Pengelly, as is always grubbing down under the earth, like a long lug-worm, I shouldn’t have wondered; but a man as dresses up fine, and calls hisself a gentleman. Lor’, such gashly ignorance do cap me.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Amos, staring down at his section of conger eel, which he was carrying by a string. “Some folks seem to know a deal too much, Tom;” and, with a good-humoured nod, he followed the new-comer as if eager to see more of one who might be an adventurer, and the opener out of some great vein of tin or copper, till he saw him stop.

Geoffrey Trethick found that he was not the only one interested in the seine boat, for silvery mackerel meant silver coin to the fisher-folk of Carnac. The news had spread, and group after group began to assemble, and to note the progress of those shooting the net.

For, after rowing in various directions, as guided by the waving bushes on the point, the men in the boat had begun to pass their dark brown net rapidly over the stern, while those in the bows rowed steadily on, forming the arc of a circle, which was to enclose the fish; while these latter, having swum closer in, could now be seen to make the bright waters of the bay all a ripple of blue and silver sheen, with here and there a dash of pink and gold, as if the fish had left upon the surface the impress of their glowing sides.

It was an interesting sight to a stranger from town, and as Geoffrey Trethick watched he could hear the remarks of old hands around him canvassing the probability of the fish escaping, or the nets getting entangled among the rocks.

But the boat went steadily on, the men cautiously dipping their oars so as not to alarm the mackerel, and fathom after fathom of the piled-up brown stack of net glided into the sea, being passed out so skilfully that as the corks dotted the water the meshes stretched and fell softly down lower and lower till they formed a frail fence of umber thread in the bright waters of the calm bay, every fathom increasing the wall that was soon to encircle the shoal.

One dart of a frightened fish towards the unenclosed part, and away would have gone the whole school; but the mackerel seemed to be intent on playing near the surface, and the seine boat went on shaking out fathom after fathom of the net till seaward there was a half-circle of brown corks, ever increasing to three-quarters.

And now Geoffrey Trethick, who had become deeply interested, unaware of the fact that he was the chief object of attraction to the people on the cliff, saw for the first time that a small boat, managed by a couple of men, remained by the other end of the net, and that as the first boat came nearer towards making a circle, the lesser boat was put in motion.

These were the most anxious moments, and the little crowd upon the cliff seemed to hold its breath. Then as the dark dots that represented the corks were seen to have nearly joined, the two boats being in the open space, there was a bit of a cheer.

“Tchah! Fools!” said a harsh voice close to Trethick’s ear. “They have not caught them yet!”

Geoffrey turned, and found that the words proceeded from a little, withered, yellow-faced man, in a very old-fashioned dress. He was well-to-do, evidently, for a bunch of heavy gold seals hung from a black watch-ribbon, his Panama hat was of the finest quality, and there was something dapper and suggestive of the William the Fourth gentleman, in the blue coat, with gilt buttons, and neat drab trousers.

“I said, Tchah! Fools!” repeated the little man, on noticing Geoffrey’s inquiring gaze. “They have not got them yet!”

“Many a slip betwixt cup and lip, eh?” said Geoffrey, quietly. “Yes: one pull of the net over a rock – one blunder, and away goes the school; and that’s life?”

“You mean that’s your idea of life,” said Geoffrey. “No, I don’t, boy. I mean that’s life!”

“According to your view,” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“According to what it is,” said the old man, testily. “What the devil do you know of life, at your age?”

“Ah! that would take some telling,” replied Geoffrey. “You and I would have to argue that matter out.”

“Argue? Bah! Do I look a man with time to waste in argument?”

“Well, no; nor yet in getting out of temper, and calling people fools,” said Geoffrey, with a smile.

The old man thumped his thick malacca cane upon the stones, and stared aghast at the stranger who dared to speak to him in so free and contradictory a manner in a place where, after a fashion, he had been a kind of king.

“Here, you: Rumsey!” he cried, panting with anger and pointing at Geoffrey with his cane, as a fair, fresh-coloured man in grey tweed came slowly up; “who the devil is this fellow?”

“Don’t be cross, old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “I will tell you my name if you like.”

“Confound your name, sir! What the deuce are you – a bagman?”

“No,” said Geoffrey; “but look,” he added quickly, as he pointed to the circle of nets. “What does that mean?”

“Ha, ha, ha! I told you so,” chuckled the old man, whose face underwent a complete change. “They’ve got on a rock, and the whole school has gone.”

“Poor fellows! What a disappointment,” said Geoffrey.

“Bah! A man must expect disappointments here. Rumsey, I’m horribly bilious this morning,” he continued, turning to the fresh-coloured man.

“Yes, so you seem,” was the reply; and Geoffrey smiled at the frank confession. “Exceeded your dose last night.”

“Dose?” said the old gentleman. “Hang it, man, don’t call a glass of spirits and water by the same name as your filthy drugs. Good-morning, boy! and don’t you laugh at me.”

Hooking the fresh-coloured man by the arm, he was moving off.

“Good-morning,” said Geoffrey, smiling. “But stop a moment. Perhaps you gentlemen can help me.”

“Come away, Rumsey!” cried the old fellow, with mock horror in his thin face. “He’s a book canvasser, or a collector for some confounded charity. Who the devil are you, sir; and what do you want?”

“Why, what a jolly old pepperbox you are!” cried Geoffrey, merrily. “Have you been out in India?”

“Yes, sir – I have been out in India,” cried the old man, turning yellow with anger once more. “Confounded puppy!” he muttered, thumping down his stick.

“I thought so,” replied Geoffrey, coolly; “I had an uncle just like you.”

“Confound your uncle, sir!” cried the choleric old man. “Hang it all, Rumsey, don’t you hear the fellow insulting me? Why don’t you knock him down, or poison him?”

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Dr Rumsey?” said Geoffrey.

“That is my name,” said the fresh-coloured man, looking suspiciously at the speaker as one who seemed too lusty and well to be in his way.

“I am coming to live here, doctor,” said Geoffrey, in a free, frank way that seemed to set him at ease with those whom he had addressed. “I only came in by the coach this morning. Where can I get comfortable, inexpensive apartments – just a bed and sitting-room, you know? I have been asking everywhere, but there seems to be no such thing to be had.”

The doctor glanced at the old gentleman, and the old gentleman returned the look, following it up by poking Geoffrey in the side with his cane.

“Here, young fellow – you, sir! Who are your – what are you?” he exclaimed.

“Who am I, my unceremonious old friend, and what am I? Well, my name is Trethick, and I’m a mining engineer.”

“But are you respectable?”

“No,” said Geoffrey, solemnly. “I am very poor; so I don’t think I am.”

“Confound you, sir!” cried the old gentleman. “Your eyes are twinkling. You’re laughing at me.”

“True, oh, king,” said Geoffrey.

“But can you pay regularly for your lodgings?”

“I hope so,” replied Geoffrey, whom the choleric old fellow thoroughly amused.

“Come here,” cried the latter, dropping the doctor and hooking Geoffrey by the arm, as if taking him into custody. “You’re good for the bile! Rumsey, I’ll take him up to Mrs Mullion’s, or she’ll be letting her rooms to the new parson out of spite.”