Читать книгу Gordon of the Lost Lagoon - Robert Watson - Страница 10

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I was now undergoing a series of new experiences and in consequence I was in my element.

Sergeant Grier, as good as his promise, had seen to the banking of my letter, and Adamson, the manager of the Commercial Bank, had made me sign my name on the outside of the package, with the date of my twenty-second birthday—like a million years off—for purposes of later identification; had noted that I had a mole in the center of the dimple of my left cheek as well as a little brown spot in the gray-blue pupil of my right eye. Grier had interviewed Sam at the hospital, where he was progressing as well as could be expected. He had suffered a broken leg, and had lost his left eye by the penetration of a rusty nail when the house fell in. He had been badly burned, but there seemed no reason why he should not ultimately be as well as he had been before. Grier succeeded in demonstrating to Sam that it would be for my good that Sam should have nothing further to do with me; at least until he had demonstrated that he could control himself, leave liquor alone and had got together a little home somewhere that would prove considerably more than a broken-down, abandoned stable.

Sam had agreed with Sergeant Grier, but had refused to make any promises to him to mend his ways, although, when he and I were alone he vowed to me that he would show them yet that Sam Berry was a man, that Sam Berry was the best stevedore on the Pacific coast at the age of forty-five as he had been the most promising on the Liverpool quays at the age of twenty; that he could still navigate a boat; that he would be able to see more that required putting right on the waterfront with his one eye than any other wharfinger would see with two. Sam and I built castles in the air with the beer and whisky bottles that Sam had emptied in the course of his career, and the castle looked wonderful till the nurse came along and told me I had better go as it was time for Sam to get his regulation dose of castor-oil—when the castles tumbled about our ears.

I spent the few remaining weeks of my school term at the home of Grier's mother, and I now found myself installed for the term of the summer vacation—if I behaved myself—with a bunch of daily newspapers, aboard the coasting steamer, "Seagull," which made the bi-weekly round trip up the sound, touching at all the way points, holiday resorts, summer camps, lumbering camps and salmon canneries.

The "Seagull" generally had a fair complement of passengers, travelling both ways, who purchased newspapers. There were always little crowds at every landing wharf anxious to purchase the news of the day, so that I plied a fair trade and promised to be well on the way to being a Lord Northcliffe before the summer holidays were over, providing of course that the business kept up and I did not get into trouble.

Captain Fullerton of the "Seagull" had known the shiftless Sam for years, he was a friend of Grier's and he liked youngsters, so that there had been little difficulty in arranging for my feeding and sleeping accommodation during the holidays in exchange for a little help washing dishes in the cook's pantry between the ports of call.

But, although I had installed myself in the favor of the captain, the same could not be said in regard to my relations with Coogan the cook, not so much because of myself but on account of the depredations my dog, Bones, had made on the ship's stores on the first up-coast trip.

I had completed four trips in all. On my first, I had Bones safely hidden away below decks until the steamer left Vancouver, but the intoxicating odors from the pantry proved too much for a city dog of Bones' garbage-can antecedents, with no fixed meal hours, and Bones had committed the felony of petty larceny, and then the greater and more unforgivable felony of being caught in the act, with the upshot that he was severely kicked by Coogan and tied up for the remainder of the trip, while I was warned with dire pains and penalties if ever I brought the "thievin' spalpeen" aboard again.

For the following three trips, I had obeyed Coogan's commands and had left Bones ashore in the care of Cooney Duff.

At the end of the second and third trips, Bones had been waiting on the wharf for me, jumping with delight, but when the "Seagull" berthed on concluding the fourth little voyage, my disappointment was very keen, for Bones was not there to welcome me; worse than that, an hour afterwards the dog walked right through the freight sheds at the heels of Cooney, straight past me and without so much as sniffing in my direction. I could see how matters were shaping and that if I did not assert my ownership at once the dog would be Cooney's, so I promptly claimed my property, smuggled it aboard and hid it in a dingy cupboard among old ropes and paint pots, down below near the engine room.

The joy of the sea and of living on that old steamer was already tingling my blood. For the first time in my life, I seemed to be really and truly alive every minute of the day. Each port of call was a fresh diversion, every headland and every wooded island in the sound were new worlds to me which I craved to investigate. For an hour at a time, I would stand at the very bow of the "Seagull," braced, with legs apart, looking ahead, the strong salt wind blowing through my hair as I imagined that I was really the steamer, pushing boldly ahead into the unknown, and filling up internally with the glory of my ability to do so.

At other times I would be at the stern, bending far over the rail in a sort of hypnotic dream, as I watched the white foam whirling and rushing in behind and trailing off until it disappeared far in the wake like a railroad track over a horizon.

But it was my fifth up-coast trip on the "Seagull" that was fraught with many happenings that were destined to interweave with my future. I had just made a visit to Bones, down below among the steamer's inwards, and had found all well. I was quite proud of my achievement in getting thus far on our journey without discovery. I had given Bones a hard biscuit and had sympathized with him until he had whimpered in self-pity and in no uncertain way had me understand that he was already more than fed-up with the miserable treatment to which he was being subjected.

Later on, I was sitting astride a rail on the starboard side of the boat, my arm around a stanchion and my feet swinging in blissful abandon. I fancied every now and again that I could hear the doleful whine of Bones oozing up from below. I hoped that it was just the noise of the engines, but I knew quite well that it was not. Then I hoped that fortune would be kind enough to prevent Coogan, the cook, from hearing these long-drawn howls. A little later I forgot about Bones and Coogan the cook, as I watched the circling seagulls swoop down for the refuse that emptied into the sea from the scuppers.

A fresh breeze was sighing up Howe Sound, tempering the heat of the summer sun and piling the white-crested, bottle-green sea as it swept in between the rocky, fir-bedecked little islands and the headland; a real magnetic, salt-flavored sea, urged along by the great, rolling swell from the vast Pacific which lay not so very far in the rear under the horizon.

The "Seagull" had just tooted a warning whistle as she rounded Geary's point and came into full view of her next stopping place, the drowsy, little fishing, lumbering and farming settlement of Cohoe. The few passengers on board were already on the upper deck enjoying the scenery or gathering their baggage together preparatory to disembarking.

I had just jumped down from the rail and was gathering my newspapers up in anticipation of a brisk sale at Cohoe wharf, when I saw Coogan come out from his cabin and enter the galley. There was nothing unusual about this, but I had no time to blot out the picture when I heard an oath, the rattle of falling and breaking delf, a thud and a loud, frightened yelp.

Too well I knew that yelp, and my heart stood still.

Coogan came out from the galley, dragging the half-strangled Bones by the collar. The dog was strenuously protesting every inch of the way, but clinging tenaciously to a hunk of raw meat. Coogan made for the starboard rail.

"Drat you for a dirty thief," shouted the cook, flushed with anger as he clouted the struggling animal over the head.

I rushed in and interfered.

"Here,—let him alone! He isn't hurting you."

"Oh,—isn't he? Well, he sure won't when I've done with him. Why the skipper hasn't more savvy than to let a water-rat like you aboard, gets me. Didn't I tell you to leave this sneaky, nosey thief ashore? Didn't the skipper tell you too? Didn't I tell you what I'd do to him next time I caught him thievin'? Didn't I?" shouted Coogan, his voice rising at every fresh phrase. "Well—I'm going to do it—see!"

The irate cook swung Bones by the collar, lifting him clear off his hind legs. I ran at the cook, beating him with my fists.

"Let him alone! Let him alone, I tell you. If you don't, I'll kill you," I cried passionately.

Coogan grinned and pushed me aside, then he pitched the dog across the rail and overboard.

I let out a shout, sprang up on to the rail and made to jump after the dog, and it was only through the agility of Coogan that I did not succeed. As I was pulled back, I fought and kicked, giving the cook all he could do to master me, for I was as strong as a young cougar.

Captain Fullerton, who was standing alongside the chief officer at the wheel on the bridge, heard the commotion and came down the ladder.

"Say!—what's all this row? Let the kid alone, Coogan. What d'ye want picking on the youngster all the time for? It isn't the first time I've seen you man-handle him with your would-be fun."

"I'm not hurting him, sir. It's his darned dog. I've told him a dozen times to leave it ashore. You've told him too. It's a born thief and it has just been at it again. I told him I'd chuck it overboard." Coogan was panting from his exertion of holding me, as I was still wiggling in his grasp, "—and I've just been and gone and done it."

"All right, Coogan,—you leave Gordon to me."

The skipper caught me by the arm in a brusque but not unkindly way.

"See here—Grier asked me to and I agreed to let you come aboard during the summer holidays. You've been having a good time, and good grub, and you're a whole lot the better for it. But I simply won't have you upsetting the cook in this way. That dog's got to stay ashore after this."

"But he can't sir," I answered. "He hasn't any home, any more than I have."

"But he's a thief,—you're not. There's the difference."

"He just takes it because he's hungry. That's not really stealing, sir. Coogan won't even give him an old used bone; he'd rather throw the bone overboard."

The captain laughed.

"I'm the only pal he's got, sir, and now he's drowning and nobody's helping him."

"Well—that'll be enough just now. You run along and look after your work. There are plenty more dogs where that one came from." The captain's voice grew sterner. "Now,—no more nonsense!"

"Yes! All right, sir!" I answered meekly enough, but not by any means satisfied.

Captain Fullerton made his way up the bridge ladder again, for the "Seagull" was just approaching the wharf. But he had not got more than half-way when I was overboard.

I came up and started swimming vigorously in the direction of Bones, whose head I could see, away beyond, bobbing on the crest of each wave as he swam two hundred yards out in the bay.

Looking behind me, I could see a boat being lowered from the "Seagull." I redoubled my efforts to get to the dog. I turned on my side and swam overhand, then I changed into the crawl, hardly coming above the water at all as I plunged and plowed ahead. I could swim like a mermaid, but the boat with two men in it soon made up on me. One of the seamen leaned over and grabbed at me. I struggled. Both men had finally to lay hands on me before they succeeded in pulling me in. I pleaded with them to get the dog, but they were angry at the extra work I had given them and told me to "shut-up" as they turned back. I threatened to go overboard again, but one of the men held me tightly as the other rowed. The "Seagull" was standing by, passengers were eager to be off, there was no time to waste.

The small boat drew alongside the steamer; its occupants were transferred and the "Seagull" continued the few remaining hundred yards to her stopping place, the landing wharf of Cohoe.

Meantime, dripping wet, I stood by the off-rail. My eyes were searching away out to the little, brown, bobbing ball which seemed now no more than a pin head.

"Don't give up, old man! Good old dog!" I whimpered dejectedly; more to comfort myself than anything else.

As the steamer grated alongside, I ran round to the stern, got on to the rail again and sprang out on to the wharf, not waiting for any gangway.

A number of rowing boats were tied up alongside the private landing wharf belonging to the General Store which stood up on the main road. One of the boats contained oars. I scrambled down into it and, loosing the rope, was soon plying strongly out toward the Headland again.

I could row almost as well as I could swim. I was a Vancouver waterfront urchin and the sea was in my blood. Any boy who could ride a log in the tide-rip of the Inlet, with a barrel stave as a paddle, could have little difficulty with a boat and a pair of real oars.

In the excitement that the steamer's arrival always occasioned, no one had noticed my second attempt. Even had anyone done so, it is questionable if he would have paid any attention to the everyday occurrence in Cohoe—a boy in a rowing boat.

Out I went into the bay, gradually bringing the brown, bobbing ball closer to me.

When I was a hundred yards from the dog I stood up and shouted.

"Bones, Bones, old dog,—don't sink! Good old fellow!"

The almost exhausted animal saw me and took fresh courage. He gave vent to little, sharp yelps of relief as he changed his course and struggled toward the boat. I drew up, dropped my oars and hoisted the dripping Bones on to my knees, hugging him and talking foolishly to him, while the rangy Airedale snuggled and whimpered in self-pity.

I turned to my oars again, but to my consternation there was only one. The other had dropped into the water and was already fifty yards away. There was no other help for it; I got up and dived over the side and pushed after it. And, game to the last, poor, tired-out Bones came in after me and kept me company until the oar was rescued, the rowing boat was regained and was scrambled into as only a boy raised on the seaboard knows how to.

And as the whistle of the "Seagull" sounded and she drew out again toward the Headland, I and Bones came alongside the landing wharf of Cohoe.

Freight and baggage, lying in profusion, were being taken away in rickety wagons and hand-carts. A number of villagers were gossiping in twos and threes, while at the far corner of the wharf three boys, about my own age, were fishing soberly, like all earnest followers of Walton.

Bones shook himself and so got rid of his superfluous moisture. I could not follow his example, but I had a thought that shortly I would go along the shore a bit, take off my clothes and set them out on the rocks to dry. What I was going to do with myself during the process did not worry me a bit.

But first I turned my back on the sea and took in the village with my inquisitive eyes, for it was an unknown novelty to me to be ashore anywhere but at Vancouver.

I had seen Cohoe before, but I had never had the opportunity of giving it so close an examination as I did then. I had always felt drawn to the little place; it seemed to contain so much that might be explored and possibly exploited.

The wharf upon which I was standing continued on piles to the main road. The shore lay low and Cohoe was built on a hill that could not be hid. A few stores, ramshackle for the most part, took up the favored situation, while dwelling houses, also ramshackle for the main part, straggled off on both sides as far as the eye could see.

A gray, dusty road skirted the general store and ran sheer up the hill, disappearing finally from view but continuing, nevertheless, for twelve miles—connecting Cohoe with her sister town of Anvers farther up the coast. Side roads branched off and tapered to nowhere in particular, giving the gray, government trunk-road the appearance of the back-bone and ribs of a gigantic salmon. To the casual observer, Cohoe seemed a very small place indeed, hardly big enough to justify a government wharf and a bi-weekly call from the "Seagull," but Cohoe was the outlet for a large, general and sheep-farming community which spread itself up over the hills and along the expansive plateau on top.

On my right hand, the shore road ran apparently unending, but on my left there was a large saw-mill with truck rails running to the water, a burning sawdust pile and a boom of logs.

Farther over, toward the Headland, the country seemed heavy with virgin timber which dropped away in great shelving rocks into the sea.

By the time I got thus far in my survey, I had turned almost completely round, and I found myself once more looking out to sea, to the three little fir-dotted islands fairly close in, and to others still farther beyond; to the great island across the sound which seemed almost to land-lock Cohoe; then away farther up the green waters to the mountains which rose, tier on tier, range on range, as far as eyes could scan, blending their snowy heads with the great billowy banks of white, woolly clouds that perpetually clustered over there in the blue heavens.

By nature, I think, I am a dreamer, and thirteen years of rough and tumble about the waterfront of Vancouver, while it had smothered some of the outward signs of this part of my being, had merely impressed the love for nature's beauties the more deeply on the soul of me.

I had puddled about the city when the seeming, never-ending sleety drizzle of winter soaked me unmercifully. In the dim lamp-light of an evening, in a creepy sort of fear, I had run along Powell and Cordova streets for home, for every fifty yards or so at that time harbored a saloon with swing doors from which issued the clink of glasses and the sour, conglomerate odor of stale tobacco, damp sawdust and liquor; and often as not would also issue the maudlin, staggering figure of some rough waterfront loafer in a temper that brushed aside everything living that happened to get in his way.

But in that rough and tumble, I had also watched, morning after morning, the sun's rays kiss the great, snow-chiseled Lions that guarded Vancouver's gateway. I had seen the fog-clouds roll in from the wide Pacific, through The Narrows, filling Burrard Inlet and rising higher and higher until the mountain tops showed as mere tiny islands on an ocean of vapor. With longing eyes I had watched the ships go out, majestic in their confidence of conquest over time and space, and in awe I had seen them come in, battered and broken in their duel with the elements—beaten back but unconquered. I had gazed upon the great, frothy breakers—that aftermath of a hurricane on the Pacific—hurling in on English Bay and throwing themselves on the shore, like exhausted runners at the finish of a marathon; and I had seen the blazing sun go down in all its blood-red glory behind the fishing fleet at the mouth of the Fraser River.

Who, after all, could live among these splendors and not be a dreamer!

I awoke from my reverie, feeling wet and not exactly comfortable, but the sun was warm, so my damp clothes did not worry me as they might have done otherwise. I sauntered over to where the boys were fishing. I watched them for a time in silent interest.

Nearest to me was a boy of rangy proportions, probably a year older than myself, tousled of hair and brown faced, dressed in a tattered pair of pants and a faded, green sweater which seemed to have been thrown on him in mistake for his older brother. As this boy fished solemnly, I ventured a remark, for I also was keen on fishing.

"Lots of fish here, huh?"

The boy turned, looked fondly at his catch of six as they lay on the wharf at his feet, then pityingly at me, but he did not answer my question.

"What kind of bait do you use, kid?" I asked.

"Frogs legs!" came the answer.

"That so? Can't you do any better than dirty little perch with frogs legs?"

The fisher looked over and scowled.

"Sure! We catch sardines in the mornings, with their tins on, perch about this time, whales at night, gold-fish on Sundays and suckers like you 'most any old time."

The other boys alongside laughed gleefully.

I flushed. I always resented ridicule. But I did not feel particularly belligerent at that moment. I turned away and sat down on the edge of the wharf, dangling my feet over the side and wondering what they would be having for supper on the "Seagull."

My thoughts were interrupted by a sharp yelp from my friend Bones. It was a yelp more of fear and surprise than of actual pain.

As I jumped up, the dog yelped again. The cause of the trouble was the fisher with the voluminous sweater. Bones was circling him and the boy was doing his best to plant another kick on his canine person. I raced in angrily.

"Hey!" I shouted, "cut that out! What's the matter with you?"

Greensweater swung round. "Is that pot-licker yours?"

"He's my dog," I conceded with not a little pride.

"He is? Then I'll kick you and him too."

The other boys crowded round.

"You'd better leave him alone," I said.

"If you would only feed your old mongrel!"

"I do feed him," I retorted, although deep down in me I was beginning to get a little tired of my dog's habit of perpetual hunger.

"Gosh! He don't look like it. See his ribs, fellers! He chawed up all my fish."

I grinned, bent down and patted Bones. "Good dog!" I said, and he wagged his stump of a tail.

Greensweater flared up at once. He dropped his fishing line, and drew close to me and pushed me violently on the chest, sending me toppling over an iron cleat on to my back.

My head hit the wharf with a hard bump and I saw stars, but I was back on my feet at once. I put up my hand and felt that rising bump, gloomily appraising the extent of the damage and examining my fingers for signs of the blood I felt sure should be there. Then I went slowly over, using the same kind of play Greensweater had used, only a little more of it, and I sent him staggering backward. He recovered partly, then staggered afresh as his heel slid over the remains of his catch and my dog's repast. His arms fanned the air and he toppled over the edge of the wharf, head first, hitting the water with a splash fifteen feet below.

I called to Bones and sauntered up the wharf. But I did not get far. Greensweater's chums raised a hullaballoo. A woman with a parasol, who had been gossiping at the far end of the wharf, rushed to the edge, looked over and screamed. She came running at me, caught me by the arm and started in to belabor me with her parasol.

"You scamp! You little murderer!" she screamed. "He's drowning. Help! Help!"

"Not him!" I returned. "He can get out the way he got in."

"He can't swim, boy. He's drowning."

"What?—lives here and can't swim?—gee-whiskers!"

I raced back and as I looked over my incredulity departed. Greensweater was throwing his arms, windmill fashion, and swallowing the sea as fast as it could pour into him.

I dived over, feeling that to live in Cohoe meant living in a bathing suit. I landed on top of Greensweater, ducking him unmercifully. Next, I grabbed him by the mop of hair. He clutched, and I had a few exciting moments, but I finally hit him on the eye. I had owed him that much anyway. Then I dived under him and brought my knee into his stomach, so ending further struggles.

A man on the wharf let down a looped rope which I put round Greensweater and he was immediately hauled to safety. Before the rope could be lowered again, I dived under the wharf along the piles, for I had no stomach for further trouble.