Читать книгу Hugh Stanford's Luck - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 4

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"Well, if you don't like Australia, son--all you've to do is just to drop me a line and come back."

The boy leaning on the verandah railing turned and shot a grateful look at his companion.

"It's awfully good of you, Mr. Harvey," he said; "and I don't want to go. I'd far rather stay in Ceylon. But--you know--Father--" He stopped, finding his voice uncertain.

"Yes, I know, old chap. Your Dad was very keen that you should go to his people, and you naturally want to do just as he wished. Any decent fellow would. Of course you'll go, and you'll shake down to it in no time, and end up by being a jolly good Australian--and, take 'em all round. I believe the Australians are hard to beat. Your Dad's brother is bound to be a good sort--his letters would make you feel that, even if one didn't naturally expect it from George Stanford's brother. All the same--"

Maurice Harvey paused, and looked fixedly for a moment at the glowing end of his long, thin cigar. He was a plump little man, pale as are most Europeans who live in Ceylon, with a cheery face and twinkling blue eyes. They were very kindly as he looked again at young Hugh Stanford.

"All the same, I want you not to forget something," he said. "I'm one of your trustees, Hugh, old son, and--failing your Uncle Robert--I'm your guardian. I've no youngsters of my own, so I've just naturally looked forward to the time when you'd grow up and help to work your Dad's plantation, next to mine. It's hitting me pretty hard to lose both of you. And if you aren't happy down under, just you drop me a line and before you know where you are I'll be across to that Kallowra place to suggest that after all it's Ceylon air that suits you best, and that it's time your Ceylon guardian took a turn at his job. It's a hundred to one you won't need me. But I want you to keep it at the back of your mind, Hugh."

"Thanks ever so much, Mr. Harvey," Hugh said. "I'm not likely to forget. Of course, everything ahead seems strange and queer. I haven't got used to doing without Father yet--I've a feeling all the time that I hear his voice, and that presently he'll come round a corner, whistling--the way he always used to."

"I know, old chap--I know," Maurice Harvey said. "It's tough, Hugh. But it will get easier in time. Things just naturally can't go on hurting always, like they do at first. And you're young. That helps. There will be heaps of new interests and new friends: and your Uncle Robert sounds so like your Dad that I expect you'll be great chums with him and his boys."

"I feel all right about Uncle Robert," said Hugh. "It's the boys I'm scared of. I've never known any boys, you see. And it isn't as if I were like other fellows, Mr. Harvey. Big, strong fellows don't want anyone like me."

He moved restlessly, and a crutch that had been leaning against the railing slipped and fell with a clatter that seemed to lend emphasis to his words. Maurice Harvey leaned forward involuntarily, as though to pick it up, and then sat back: Hugh hated to be helped, he knew. He sighed as the boy recovered it, with a deft sideways jerk. Looking at him as he stood propped against the post, slender and straight and broad-shouldered, it was hard to realize that one leg hung uselessly, hidden by the long trouser-leg--trousers that of themselves made people turn to look at him, since they were worn at an age when most boys thought of nothing beyond knickerbockers. But Hugh dreaded that anyone should look at his "queer" leg. He liked to cover it up.

Mr. Harvey drew at his cigar, and spoke slowly.

"I had a dog once, when I was in the Argentine," he said. "Best old dog ever I owned. A mule kicked him when he was just beginning to be useful, and broke his leg--smashed it so badly I thought the kindest thing to do was just to give him a bullet and be done with it. But I'd an old Mexican cook who was a great hand with sick animals, and he was fond of old Blackie, and he begged to be given a chance to cure him. He made a good job of it, too. Blackie was as lame as a duck ever after, but the leg was sound enough; and he did as much work with it as the ordinary dog does with a full set of spare parts. He'd the pluck of twenty dogs, and he just naturally made up his mind that he wouldn't be beaten by any old game leg. If I'd a tough job with cattle anywhere, Blackie was the dog I'd pick out to help me."

He paused, looking very straight at the boy.

"That'll be you, son," he said. "You've never let your leg get you down, even when it hurt worst. You've kept yourself fit and strong, and done all you could to develop your muscles in every way. Some boys would have lain down to it, but you never did: I'll say that for you. It helped your father no end--and he nearly broke his heart for you when it first happened. But as time went on and you kept on being a mate to him I know there were days when he clean forgot that you were lame. So don't let it get you down now, Hugh, old boy. There are worse things than a queer leg, and one of them is a heart that's perfectly good in every way except that the pluck has been left out. Thank goodness, you've your full allowance of pluck, Hugh, and it's going to pull you through everything."

"I feel as if the allowance were a bit short when I think of Australia," Hugh said. "Father and you were always so awfully good to me, and made all sorts of excuses for me. One couldn't expect that with strangers. Oh, well, I suppose I'll worry through, somehow: and I'll stay out there until I've finished with school, as Father wishes. But I tell you straight, Mr. Harvey, if you're here when I'm eighteen you'll find me back on your doormat some morning asking for a job!"

"And you'll get it, old son--nothing surer. I'm going to hoe in at making the plantation one of the best on the Island, and there'll be any amount of work waiting for you. For goodness' sake learn all you can about book-keeping, for there's something in the very look of a column of figures that just naturally makes my spine feel like dough! I'll turn over all that part to you the minute you arrive: not to mention the management of the natives: I'll never be able to talk to them the way your Father and you could. Then I'll just sit back and get fatter and fatter, while you do all the work!"

"That's a bargain," said Hugh Stanford, solemnly. He held out a thin hand and grasped his friend's. "I'll be fourteen soon; it's only a little over four years. And you'll write often, and tell me all about the plantation and everything, won't you, Mr. Harvey?"

"Rather, son. My spelling is about as dicky as my sense of figures, but you won't mind that, I believe. And you'll do the same by me, Hugh? I'll be awfully anxious to know how everything goes with you. There's one thing, you know, old chap, that I don't believe you're taking sufficiently into consideration, and that's your Aunt--your Uncle Robert's wife. You never knew your own mother, and the old housekeeper is almost the only woman you've come in contact with, in Ceylon. You just naturally can't imagine what an educated, motherly woman is like. But you'll find out, and I reckon it will be a mighty big thing for you."

"Oh, Aunt Ursula has four children of her own," the boy said, heavily. "I expect she's rather bored with the prospect of having a lame nephew from the loneliest part of Ceylon to look after. Ten to one she's wondering if I'm civilized or not."

"Her letter didn't sound like that," said Maurice Harvey, quietly.

"No--but letters don't tell one anything. Oh, well, I'll find out soon enough. The only thing I can do is to be as little of a nuisance as possible. I say, Mr. Harvey, there's nine o'clock striking! Oughtn't I to be off?"

"I suppose you might as well get on board and get to sleep quietly before you sail," said Maurice Harvey. He got out of his long chair with an effort, "Gee, I'd better not get any fatter before you come back, Hugh, or I won't get done half the work I'm planning!"

They went down the steps of the Galle Face Hotel, where they had stayed for a day after the journey from the plantation. It was a very dark night, with a sky of velvet blackness, lit by innumerable stars. The lights of Colombo made a dull glow, low down on the horizon; near at hand were twinkling points that showed motor lamps, dimmed to await the arrival of their owners, or the glimmering lamp of rickshaws, flitting through the dusky gloom. Within the hotel were brightness and mirth and music; a dance was in progress, and the band was crashing out such a melody as negroes loved in old plantation days. Hugh's crutch tapped in time to it as they stood waiting for Mr. Harvey's car, which came up in a moment, a dark-faced Cingalese at the wheel.

"Like to drive, Hugh?"

"Rather!" the boy said eagerly. "I don't suppose I'll get any chances in Australia."

"You ought not to get one here," Mr. Harvey answered, laughing. "Out in the country it's different, but Colombo is another matter--and if the police anywhere catch a thirteen-year-old driving, trouble will be apt to occur. However--you're off to-night, and we'll chance it, old man." He settled himself beside the boy. "We have plenty of time; no need to go straight to the pier unless you want to."

Hugh very certainly did not want to. He turned the car away from the hotel, and they slid off through the velvety dusk, along a smooth road. The life of the East that never seems to sleep, was all around them. Rickshaw coolies trotted swiftly past; bullock-carts creaked at the side of the road, and motors flashed by, their head-lights suddenly revealing the scarlet blossoms of the gold-mohur trees, and as suddenly turning them to blackness again. Everywhere were natives, padding on noiseless bare feet; late as it was, half-naked brown children played and squabbled in dust-heaps by the footpath. It was all the life that Hugh Stanford had known, the life he had loved: before him lay only the unknown, and he shrank from it with all a nervous boy's dread.

The car purred gently along. His father had taught him to drive when he was a very small boy--it was the only thing that he could do without feeling that his lame leg hampered him, and he knew the big car and its engine as well as any mechanic. They turned into a less-frequented road, and he let her out in a burst of swift speed that devoured the miles tirelessly. Then they came back to the main road and drove more soberly; past the Galle Face, where the band still brayed wild jazz-music, and so, in sight of the harbour and the riding-lights of the ships at their moorings. They turned into the busy streets of Colombo and slid down towards the water-front, threading their way in and out of the press of traffic. A sailor, half-drunk, whom they barely missed as he reeled across the road, looked after them with a bewildered expression of wrath.

"Kid drivin'!" he uttered. "Ought to be in bed hours ago!"

Hugh did not hear him. He guided the car gently to a standstill near the pier, and got out, making an awkward business of it as he groped for his crutch. As he limped by, he patted the car on the bonnet.

"Good-bye, old lady," he said. "I'll come back and drive you some day."

"She'll do me until you come," said Maurice Harvey. "Then we'll choose a new one together, old man. No difficulty about a licence for you then, eh?"

They went slowly along the pier; all Hugh's luggage had already gone on board. People were beginning to hurry back to the ship; each car that flashed down brought a load of cheery, tired people, loaded with curios and sated with a long day's sight-seeing. The launch that waited was soon packed, and they slipped quietly away from the pier, edging in and out among boats, big and little. Someone had brought a mandolin, and presently began to strum an air; and soon half the people on the launch were singing:--

I'm goin' back to Dixie, no mo' I'm goin' to wander,

I'm goin' back to Dixie, I can't stay here no longer,

I miss the old plantation,

My friends, an' my relation,

My heart's turned back to Dixie, an' I must go.

They sang it with a touch of real feeling, home-sick suddenly for the land to which they were going. But to Hugh Stanford, whose heart seemed all to be in the cemetery where his father lay, and in the plantation behind the hills of Kandy where he had known only happiness, the words struck home with cruel force. He gripped his crutch, staring out to sea. Then he felt Maurice Harvey's big hand on his knee, and comfort came in the touch. After all, he had one good friend: and Ceylon and Australia were not so very far apart.

The launch came to rest, rocking quietly beside the great bulk of the mail-steamer that towered above them, light streaming from every port-hole. He limped up the long gangway, shrugging aside a stranger's well-meant offer of help. Mr. Harvey knew the Captain, and quickly made his way to him, so that he might introduce Hugh. The boy liked the big, kindly man in his trim uniform, who greeted him cheerily.

"Glad you're coming with us, my boy; I knew your father. You'll have a quiet trip; not many youngsters on board, and we're singularly free from boys this time"--at which Hugh experienced a throb of relief. No one knew how he dreaded boys.

"I'll keep an eye on him, Harvey." Hugh had gone to look over the side, and the Captain spoke in a low tone. "He can manage for himself in most things, I suppose?"

"Oh--quite. He's fiercely independent. They've given him a little deck-cabin to himself--he's very sensitive about his leg. Keep an eye on him, old man, he's a good youngster, and desperately lonely."

"Poor kid," said the Captain. "I'll see that he's all right, as far as I can. Well, good-bye, old chap, this is my busy time." He went off quickly, and Mr. Harvey crossed the deck to Hugh's side.

"I must be off, Hugh, old son. That's the last launch for the shore."

They gripped hands. The young face was white and strained in the glare of the electric lights of the ship.

"I'll just have a look at your cabin," Mr. Harvey said.

They found it easily: a cosy little place with a comfortable sofa and the berth neatly made up. A pleasant-faced young steward hovered near. Mr. Harvey drew him aside for a moment's conversation and slipped something into his hand.

"I'll look after the young gentleman, sir," said the steward, pocketing his tip. "He'll be right as rain here, and the bathroom's not far off. You can depend on anything I can do for him."

"Oh, he'll have a great trip, I'm certain." Maurice Harvey said.

A warning blast came from a bugle.

"All visitors ashore!"

Hugh went to the head of the gangway with his friend. People were coming and going in a merry crowd; there was a hum of chatter and laughter. He felt a sudden loneliness that brought a hard ache into his throat: a fierce longing to be going down the gangway again, back to the life he knew and loved--the life where his lame leg had never seemed to count. Then the memory of his father's face came before him, and he straightened up proudly.

"Good-bye, Mr. Harvey. Thanks ever so for bringing me down. And--I'll be back when I'm eighteen."

"That's a bargain, old chap. I'll be expecting you."

They shook hands again. Mr. Harvey went quickly down the steps to the waiting launch. It cast off almost immediately. Hugh leaned on the rail to watch it turn and cleave swiftly across the dark water towards the twinkling lights of Colombo.