Читать книгу The War of the Axe; Or, Adventures in South Africa - J. Percy Groves - Страница 6

The sun was high in the heavens when young Weston awoke next morning, and on turning his face to the light, the first object that his eyes rested upon was Master Tom Flinders, seated on a portmanteau, regarding him with pitiful looks.

“Halloa, old fellow!” exclaimed our hero, colouring red as a turkey-cock, at being thus caught staring; “how do you find yourself this morning? You’ve had a jolly long caulk!”

For a moment young Weston appeared a little confused; but he quickly recollected the joyful events of the previous day, and feeling much refreshed by his protracted sleep, replied that he was all right, and would like to get up and go on deck.

“All serene!” said Tom; “turn out by all means; and while you’re washing, I’ll see what can be done in the way of clothes. There’s some water in the basin, and there’s my sponge and towels. It’s too late for you to have a tub, for the bath-room boy goes off duty at ten, and it’s now close on twelve.”

“Then I must have slept nearly twice the round of the clock!” cried the other in surprise.

“Going on that way,” laughed Tom, diving into his portmanteau and fishing out several garments. “My ‘duds’ are most of them packed away in my trunks,” he went on, “and they, you know, are down in the hold with the rest of the heavy luggage; but I’ll do my best to turn you out respectably. By the way, what’s your name?”

“George—George Maurice Weston.”

“Well, George, here’s a pair of white flannel ‘bags,’ and a ditto shirt—they’re my old cricketing ‘togs;’ but I thought they’d come in useful during the voyage, and so left ’em out. Here’s a jacket, rather the worse for wear, and that stupid fellow, the second steward, capsized a plate of soup over it the other night—see, there are the stains, down the right shoulder and arm! But you won’t mind that?”

“Not a bit,” put in George, taking the unlucky garment. “I’ve learnt not to be over particular.”

“There’s a collar, a cravat, and a pair of socks; and there’s a pair of shoes—nice, easy ones, too. Now, look alive, old chap; slip ’em on, and then we’ll go and get some grub.”

Rattling on in this manner, Tom helped his new friend to dress—or fitted him out “from truck to kelson,” as he expressed it; for Tom had become very nautical in his language since he joined the Surat Castle—and then surveyed him with a critical eye.

“Come, that’s not so bad! you look less like an ancient Briton now,” said he, crowning young Weston with a cricket cap upon which was embroidered the school-house badge. “Feel a bit queer though at first, eh, George Maurice?”

“Rather so,” George answered, wriggling himself. “The shoes and socks are the worst. You see I’ve gone barefoot for such a precious long time. However, I shall no doubt get accustomed to them in a day or two.”

“Of course you will,” assented Tom. “Now come along and I’ll introduce you to the ladies; we have five on board—three married women and two girls. Won’t they make a fuss over you and that little sister of yours!”

When our hero and his friend made their appearance on deck they found Mr. Weston (now shaven and shorn, and clad in a suit of true nautical cut, the property of Mr. Weatherhelm) standing near the skylight talking to the skipper and Mr. Rogerson, the chief mate of the Surat Castle.

“Halloa!” he exclaimed, catching sight of his son’s head-gear. “I ought to know that cap.”

“It is the Rugby school-house cap,” said its owner with conscious pride. “We have only lately worn them; but I’ve heard old school-house men say that they were introduced years ago—long before Arnold’s time—but dropped out after a while.”

“That’s quite right,” rejoined Mr. Weston. “I am an old Rugby boy myself, and well remember the school-house badge being introduced. It must be nearly five-and-thirty years ago,” he added with a sigh, “when I was about little Grade’s age.”

“Why!” Tom cried, his interest in the family increasing fourfold, “you must have been at Rugby with my father! Flinders is his name—Major—”

“Not dear old Matthew Flinders surely?” interrupted the other, “who afterwards went into the Cape Rifles?”

“The same,” answered Tom, nodding his head. “Did you know him?”

“Know Mat Flinders! Why, my dear boy, your father was the best and truest friend I ever had! But it is many, many years since we met. You must tell me all about him.”

Tom was delighted at this discovery, and he there and then proceeded to give Weston a full account of his father’s doings, and of their farm near Cape Town; in the midst of which he was interrupted by the steward announcing that “tiffin was on the table.”

“Well,” said the boy as they entered the saloon together, “they say the world is very small, and that one tumbles against friends and connections in all manner of queer places; but I should never have dreamed of meeting an old school-house man, a chum of the pater’s, on a desolate island in the South Atlantic Ocean.”

The Westons soon became favourites with both the officers and cabin passengers of the Surat Castle. Mr. Weston himself was a well-bred, well-informed man of pleasing address and manners; in person tall and powerfully built (old Weatherhelm was the only one on board who approached him in height), with a handsome but rather sad countenance, and dark curly hair just slightly grizzled.

George Weston, though he had not had the advantage of a public-school education, was as nice a lad as anyone could wish to meet; well-behaved and intelligent, quiet and studiously inclined. He was in his sixteenth year, had a pleasant bright look about his face, and was slight of figure, but active and sinewy withal.

As for Miss Gracie, when she recovered her spirits and got over her shyness, she became the life and soul of the ship; and must inevitably have been spoiled had she not been blessed with a sweet unspoilable disposition. As Tom had prophesied, the lady passengers made a great deal of Gracie and her brother, for their tender womanly hearts overflowed with compassion when they heard of the misfortunes and sufferings of the family.

It was not until he had been on board nearly a week that Mr. Weston gave a full account of the loss of the Sea-mew, and of his previous adventures; but one Saturday, when the cabin party were seated round the dinner-table chatting over their wine and walnuts, Captain Ladds suggested that he should spin them a yarn.

“Willingly,” replied Mr. Weston, pushing away his plate; “and as we are all friends here I will also give you a brief sketch of my career before I became skipper of a South Sea whaler. My life has been a chequered one, and not devoid of adventure, so I trust my story will interest you; anyhow, I feel assured that I am secure of your sympathy.”

And without further preamble Weston commenced his yarn, to which we will devote the next chapter.