Читать книгу Dutch the Diver; Or, A Man's Mistake - George Manville Fenn - Страница 4

“I say, Rasp. Confound the man! Rasp, will you leave that fire alone? Do you want to roast me?”

“What’s the good o’ you saying will I leave the fire alone, Mr Pug?” said the man addressed, stoking savagely at the grate; “you know as well as I do that if I leave it half hour you never touches it, but lets it go out.”

Half a scuttle of coals poured on.

“No, no. No more coals, Rasp.”

“They’re on now, Mr Pug,” said Rasp, with a grim grin. “You know how the governor grumbles if the fire’s out, and it’s me as ketches it.”

“The office is insufferably hot now.”

“Good job, too; for it’s cold enough outside, I can tell you; and there’s a draught where I sits just as if you’d got yer ear up again the escape-valve of the air-pump.”

“Get a screen, then,” said the first speaker, impatiently, as he scratched his thick, curly, crisp brown hair with the point of a pair of compasses, and gazed intently at a piece of drawing-paper pinned out upon the desk before him.

“Screen? Bah! What do I want wi’ screens? I can stand wind and cold, and a bit o’ fire, too, for the matter o’ that. I ain’t like some people.”

“Hang it all, Rasp, I wish you’d go,” said the first speaker. “You see how busy I am. What’s the matter with you this morning? Really, you’re about the most disagreeable old man I ever knew.”

“Disagreeable? Old?” cried Rasp, seizing the poker, and inserting it in the bars for another good stoke at the office fire, when the compasses were banged down on the desk, their owner leaped off the stool, twisted the poker out of the stoker’s hand, and laughingly threw it down on the fender.

“I’ll get Mr Parkley to find you a post somewhere as fireman at a furnace,” said the first speaker, laughing.

“I don’t want no fireman’s places,” growled Rasp. “How’d the work go on here wi’out me? Old, eh? Disagreeable, eh! Sixty ain’t so old, nayther; and just you wear diving soots for forty year, and get your head blown full o’ wind till you’re ’most ready to choke, and be always going down, and risking your blessed life, and see if you wouldn’t soon be disagreeable.”

“Well, Rasp, I’ve been down pretty frequently, and in as risky places as most men of my age, and it hasn’t made me such an old crab.”

“What, you? Bah! Nothing puts you out—nothing makes you cross ’cept too much fire, and you do get waxey over that. But you try it for forty year—forty year, you know, and just see what you’re like then, Mr Pug.”

“Confound it all, Rasp,” cried the younger man, “that’s the third time in the last ten minutes that you’ve called me Pug. My name is Pugh—PUGH—Pugh.”

“’Taint,” said the old fellow, roughly, “I ain’t lived sixty year in the world, and don’t know how to spell. PEW spells pew, and PUGH spells pug, with the H at the end and wi’out it, so you needn’t tell me.”

“You obstinate old crab,” said the other, good-humouredly, as he stopped him from making another dash at the poker. “There, be off, I’m very busy.”

“You allus are busy,” growled the old fellow; “you’ll get your brains all in a muddle wi’ your figuring and drawing them new dodges and plans. No one thinks the better o’ you, no matter how hard you works. It’s my opinion, Mr Dutch—there, will that suit yer, as you don’t like to be called Mr Pug?”

“There, call me what you like, Rasp, you’re a good, old fellow, and I shall never forget what you have done for me.”

“Bah! Don’t talk stuff,” cried the old fellow, snappishly.

“Stuff, eh?” said the other, laughing, as he took up his compasses, and resumed his seat. “Leave—that—fire—alone!” he cried, seizing a heavy ruler, and shaking it menacingly as the old man made once more for the poker. “And now, hark here—Mrs Pugh says you are to come out to the cottage on Sunday week to dinner, and spend the day.”

“Did she say that? Did she say that, Mr Dutch?” cried the old man, with exultation.

“Yes, she wants to have a long chat with the man who saved her husband’s life.”

“Now, what’s the good o’ talking such stuff as that, Mr Pug?” cried the old man, angrily. “Save life, indeed! Why, I only come down and put a rope round you. Any fool could ha’ done it.”

“But no other fool would risk his life as you did yours to save mine, Rasp,” said the younger man, quietly. “But, there, we won’t talk about it. It gives me the horrors. Now, mind, you’re to come down on Sunday week.”

“I ain’t comin’ out there to be buttered,” growled the old fellow, sourly.

“Buttered, man?”

“Well, yes—to be talked to and fussed and made much of by your missus, Master Dutch.”

“Nonsense!”

“’Taint nonsense. There, I tell you what, if she’ll make a contract not to say a word about the accident, and I may sit and smoke a pipe in that there harbour o’ yourn, I’ll come.”

“Arbour at this time of the year, Rasp?” laughed the younger man. “Why, it’s too cold.”

“What’s that to do wi’ it? Just as if I couldn’t stand cold. Deal better than you can heat.”

“Then I shall tell her you are coming, Rasp. What would you like for dinner?”

“Oh, anything’ll do for the likes o’ me. I ain’t particular.”

“No, but you may as well have what you like for dinner.”

“Oh, I ain’t particular. Have just what you like. But if there was a morsel o’ tripe on the way I might pick a bit.”

“Good!” said the other, smiling, “you shall have some tripe for dinner for one thing.”

“Don’t you get letting it be got o’ purpose for me. Anything’ll do for me—a bit o’ sooetty pudden, for instance.”

“All right, Rasp. Tripe and suet pudding on Sunday week.”

“If ever there was,” said Rasp, thoughtfully, as he made an offer to get at the poker, “a woman as was made to be a beautiful angel, and didn’t turn out to be one because they forgot her wings, that’s your missus, Master Dutch.”

“Thank you, Rasp, old fellow, thank you,” said the young man, smiling; and his eyes brightened as he listened to this homely praise of the woman he worshipped.

“But what’s a puzzle to me,” continued the old fellow, with a grim chuckle, “is how she as is so soft, and fair, and dark-haired, and gentle, could take up with such a strong, broad-shouldered chap as you, Mr Dutch.”

“Yes, it was strange,” said the young man.

“I should more like have expected to see you pair off wi’ Captain Studwick’s lass—Miss Bessy. Now, she’s a fine gal, if you like.”

“Yes, she’s a fine, handsome girl, Rasp; and her father’s very proud of her, too.”

“I should just think he ought to be,” said Rasp. “Why, it’s my belief, if any chap offended her, she’d give him such a clap aside o’ the head as would make his ears ring.”

“I don’t know about that, Rasp,” laughed the other; “but I do believe whoever wins her will have a true-hearted Englishwoman for his wife.”

“O’ course he will, else she wouldn’t be the skipper’s lass. Bless her!—she’s always got a nice, pleasant word to say to a man when she comes here with her father. He used to think you meant to make up to her, Master Dutch.”

“Nonsense, man, nonsense!”

“Oh, but he did; and then this other affair came off. I never could understand it, though.”

“Ah, it was a problem, eh?” laughed the younger man.

“For you ain’t good-looking, are you, sir?”

“Not at all, Rasp,” laughed the other. “We should neither of us get the prize for beauty, eh, Rasp?”

“I should think not,” said Rasp: “but I always was the ugliest man our way. I think she took to you because you were so straight, and stout, and strong.”

“Perhaps so, Rasp.”

“I’ve heerd say, as the more gentle, and soft, and tender a woman is, the more she likes a fellow as is all big bone and muscle, so as to take care of her, you know. That must ha’ been it, sir,” continued the old fellow, chuckling, “unless she took a fancy to your name. Ho! ho! ho!”

“No, I don’t think it was that, Rasp, my man,” said the other, quietly.

“More don’t I, sir; Dutch Pug. Ho! ho! ho!”

“Dutch Drayson Pugh, Master Rasp.”

“Pug’s bad enough,” said the old fellow; “but Dutch! What did they call you Dutch for?”

“It was a whim of my father,” said the other. “My grandfather married a lady in Holland, and in memory of the alliance my father said—so I’ve often been told—that as I was a fair, sturdy little fellow, like a Dutch burgomaster in miniature, I should be called Dutch; and that is my name, Mr Rasp, at your service.”

“Well, you can’t help it now, sir, any more than you can the Pug; but if it had been me I should have called myself Drayson.”

“And seemed ashamed of the name my dear old father gave me, Rasp! No, I’m not the man for that,” said Dutch, warmly.

“No, sir, you ain’t,” said Rasp, in a more respectful tone, as he looked at the colour flaming up in the younger man’s cheeks, and in his heart of hearts acknowledged that he was not such a bad-looking fellow after all; for, though far from handsome, he was bold, bluff, and Saxon of aspect, broad-shouldered, and evidently Herculean in strength, though, from his deep build and fine proportions, in no wise heavy.

Now, on the other hand, Rasp was a decidedly plain man, rough, rugged, grizzled, and with eyebrows and whiskers of the raggedest nature possible. Their peculiar bristly quality was partaken of also by his hair, which, though cut short, was abundant; and though you might have brushed it to your heart’s content, it was as obstinate as its owner, for it never lay in any direction but that it liked.

At this point Rasp, who was a favoured old servant of the firm in which Dutch Pugh held a confidential post, made another attempt to stoke the fire, was turned on his flank, and retreated, leaving the young man to busily resume the drawing of a plan for some piece of machinery.

It was a dark, gloomy-looking room, that in which he worked, for the one window opened upon the narrow street of the busy sea-port of Ramwich; and a heavy, yellow fog hung over the town, and made the office look gloomy and full of shadow.

The place was fitted up as a private office, and near the window was placed one of those great double-sloped desks, so arranged that four people could stand, or sit upon the high leather-covered stools, and write at it at the same time. A wide level divided the two slopes, and this was dominated by brass rails, beneath which stood a couple of those broad, flat, pewter inkstands common in commercial offices, and which in this case it was Rasp’s delight to keep clean.

There were other objects about the gloomy office, though, upon which Rasp bestowed his time; for in three places, fitted on stands, and strapped to the wall to prevent their falling forward, were what looked at first sight, as they peered from the gloom, like so many suits of grotesque armour; for what light there was gleamed from the huge polished helmets, with their great brass, latticed goggle glass eyes—whose crests were tubes, and ornamentation glistening rims and studs of copper. A nervous person coming upon them in the dark might easily have been startled, for, with a certain grim idea of humour, Rasp had by degrees so arranged them that they leaned forward in peculiarly life-like positions—the hand of one holding a copper lantern, another being in the act of striking with a massive hatchet, and the third poising a huge crowbar in a menacing mode.

Farther back in the gloom stood a strange-looking air-pump; while in various directions, coiled and trailed like snakes, great lengths of india-rubber tubing, apparently in disorder, but really carefully kept ready for instant use, this being Rasp’s special task, of which he was proud to a degree.

“This is a teaser,” said Dutch to himself, after making sundry lines on the paper before him, and then pausing, compasses in one hand, pen in the other. “Valve A to close tube B—escape-valve at A dash—small copper globe at B dash, as a reservoir, and—hum—ha—yes—to be sure, small stop-cock in the middle of the copper tube at H. That’s it! I’ve got it at last.”

“Of course you have—I knew you would,” said a short quick voice.

Dutch started, and turned sharply round, to confront the little, square-built man who had entered the office quietly, and stood peering over his shoulder.

“Ah, Mr Parkley! I didn’t hear you come in,” said Dutch, smiling.

“Too busy over your work,” said the new-comer, who seemed all hat and comforter, from between which peered a pair of keen, restless eyes. “I knew you’d work that out, Dutch, or else I shouldn’t have given you the job. Dutch Pugh, I’d give something for your cleverness with pen and pencil. Look at me, sir, a man dragged up instead of brought up—a man who never signs his name because he can’t write decently—a man who can hardly read a newspaper, unless the type’s big. Ignorant, ignorant to a degree—a man—”

“Of sound judgment, sir,” said Dutch, interrupting him, “who from the power of his brain and long experience has suggested more improvements in hydraulic machinery than any of our greatest scientists, and who has not only originated and made his great business, but whose opinion is sought from everywhere in all great diving cases.”

“Stuff—stuff—stuff, Dutch! I’m ashamed of my ignorance.”

“And who is one of the wealthiest men in Ramwich.”

“Gammon and flattery, Dutch, my lad,” said the other, taking off his great hat to place it jauntily on one of the diving-helmets, and then returning into the light, with his broad bald head shining, and his dark, restless eyes twinkling good-humouredly. “Here, catch hold of that,” he continued, thrusting one hand into his chest, and dragging out the fringed end of his white woollen comforter.

Dutch Pugh laid down his compasses, smiling, and took hold of the end of the comforter, when its wearer began slowly to turn round before the fire, as if he was being roasted, unwinding about three yards of comforter from his neck, and then giving a sigh of relief as he again went into the back part of the office, and hung the woollen wrap round one of the diver’s necks.

“I’ve managed to make bread and cheese, Pugh—bread and cheese,” he said, chuckling, as he came back, climbed upon a stool by that of his assistant, and sat with his hands on his knees. “Yes, bread and cheese; beef and horse-radish. Pugh, how’s the little wife?”

“Quite well, Mr Parkley,” said Dutch, smiling.

“That’s right, bless her! Tell her I’m coming down to spend a Sunday soon.”

“We shall only be too glad, sir,” said Dutch, smiling. “When shall it be?”

“Soon, man; but not yet. Too busy. I’ve got this big job on,” he continued, rubbing his bald head, which looked as if he had worn a diver’s helmet till all the hair had been frayed off. “Oh, here’s a letter.”

For just then Rasp came into the office, not quietly, like his master—who walked slowly and heavily, as if putting down boots with massive leaden soles, and seemed as if he were wading through deep water, and liable to get entangled amongst sunken rigging—but with a bang and a rush like a big wind, and even made the letter he held in his hand rustle as he held it out to Mr Parkley, saying, with a surly snarl—

“Letter. Answer. Waiting.”

Then, uttering a snort, he walked across to the diving suits, snatched off Mr Parkley’s hat, whisked off the comforter, and dabbed them both on a hat-peg close at hand; after which he took out a large blue-check cotton pocket-handkerchief drew forward a set of short steps, and, growling as he did so, began to breathe on the bright copper, gave it a good polishing, and then went off to his den.

“See that?” said Mr Parkley, nodding his head sideways at Rasp, as he went out—but not until he had seized the poker, rammed it between the bars with a scientific twist, and made the blaze go dancing up the chimney. “See that, Pugh! He’s the real master here. He’s a tyrant.”

“Well, really, sir, he has his own way pretty well.”

“Rare stuff though, Pugh, my dear boy—rare stuff. That man’s one you can always trust in any emergency. I’d leave my life in his hands at any time.”

“I know that, sir,” said Dutch, warmly. “He is as true as steel.”

“Right, Pugh, my dear boy—right. But look here,” he continued, thrusting a finger in the young man’s button-hole, “I wish you would drop that ‘sir’ to me. I don’t like it. I’m only a business fellow, and you’ve had the education of a gentleman, and I feel sometimes as if I ought to say ‘sir’ to you.”

“My dear sir—”

“There you go again.”

“Well, my dear Mr Parkley, then, I have you to thank for so much kindness.”

“Stuff! stuff! stuff!” cried the elder, laying his hand playfully on his mouth. “You came to me to help me, and I was to pay you for that help. Well, look here, Pugh, you’ve been no end of value to me, and get more useful every day. What I pay you is nonsense to what you are worth. Now, look here; in three months the current business year with me will be up, and I’m going to ask you to join me as junior partner.”

“Mr Parkley!” cried the young man, astounded, as his employer leaped off his stool, and took down and replaced his hat.

“Say no more,” he cried; “I don’t act without thinking, do I?”

“Never, sir.”

“Then it’s all right. Catch hold of this,” he continued, handing the young man one end of the comforter, and then, tucking the other in under his waistcoat, he slowly wound himself up in it again, tapped the letter, and said, “Big job on here—I’m going to see them about it;” and then, lifting his feet in his peculiar way, he seemed to move out of the office as if he were under water, and the door closed behind him.