Читать книгу The Island of Gold: A Sailor's Yarn - Stables Gordon - Страница 4

“I’se glad ’oo’s tome back, ’Ansey. Has I been afeep (asleep), ’Ansey?”

“Oh, yes; and now I’m goin’ to feed Babs, and Babs’ll lie and look at the trees till I cook dinner for Bob and me.”

“That wady (lady) won’t take Babs away, ’Ansey?”

“No, Babs, no.”

Ransey Tansey fed Babs once more from the pickle bottle with the horn spoon, much to Miss Scragley’s and little Eedie’s astonishment and delight.

Then he commenced to build a fire at a little distance, and laid out some fish all ready to cook as soon as the blazing wood should die down to red embers.

“You’re a very interesting boy,” said Miss Scragley politely. “May I look on while you cook?”

“Oh, yes, mum. Sorry I ain’t got a chair to offer ye.”

“And oh, please, interesting boy,” begged Eedie, “may I talk to Babs?”

“Cer – tain – lee, pretty missie. – Babsie, sweet,” he added, “talk to this beautiful young lady.”

“There’s no charge for sittin’ on the grass, mum,” said Ransey the next minute.

And down sat Miss Scragley smiling.

The boy proceeded with the preparation of the meal in real gipsy fashion. He cooked fish, and he roasted potatoes. He hadn’t forgotten the salt either, nor a modicum of butter in a piece of paper, nor bread; and as he and Bob made a hearty dinner, he gave every now and then the sweetest of tit-bits to Babs.

Eedie and the child got on beautifully together.

“May I ask you a question or two, you most interesting boy?” said Miss Scragley.

“Oh, yes, if ye’re quite sure ye ain’t the gamekeeper’s wife. The keeper turned me out of the wood once. Bob warn’t there that day.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m not the gamekeeper’s wife. I am Miss Scragley of Scragley Hall.”

The boy was wiping his fingers and his knife with some moss.

“I wish I had a cap on,” he said.

“Why, dear?”

“So as I could take her off and make a bow,” he explained.

“And what is your name, curious boy?”

“Ransey; that’s my front name.”

“But your family name?”

“Ain’t got ne’er a family, ’cepting Babs.”

“But you have a surname – another name, you know.”

“Ransey Tansey all complete. There.”

“And where do you live, my lad?”

“Me and Babs and Bob and Murrams all lives, when we’re to home, at Hangman’s Hall; and father lives there, too, when ’ee’s to home; and the Admiral, yonder, he roosts in the gibbet-tree.”

“And what does father do?”

“Oh, father’s a capting.”

“A captain, dear boy?”

“No, he’s not a boy, but a man, and capting of the Merry Maiden, a canal barge, mum. An’ we all goes to sea sometimes together, ’cepting Murrams, our pussy, and the Admiral. We have such fun; and I ride Jim the canal hoss, and Babs laughs nearly all the time.”

“So you’re very happy all of you, and always were?”

“Oh, yes – ’cepting when father sometimes took too much rum; but that’s a hundred years ago, more or less, mum.”

“Poor lad! Have you a mother?”

“Oh, yes, we has a mother, but only she’s gone dead. The parson said she’d gone to heaven; but I don’t know, you know. Wish she’d come back, though,” he added with a sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” said Miss Scragley, patting his hand.

“Oh, don’t ye do that, mum, and don’t talk kind to me, else I’ll cry. I feels the tears a-comin’ now. Nobody ever, ever talks kindly to me and Babs when at home, ’cepting father, in course, ’cause we’re on’y common canal folks and outcasts from serciety.”

Ransey Tansey was very earnest. Miss Scragley had really a kind heart of her own, only she couldn’t help smiling at the boy’s language.

“Who told you so?”

“W’y, the man as opens the pews.”

“Oh, you’ve been to church, then?”

“Oh, yes; went the other Sunday. Had nuthin’ better to do, and thought I’d give Babs a treat.”

“And did you go in those – clothes?”

“Well, mum, I couldn’t go with nuthin’ on – could I, now? An’ the pew-man just turned us both out. But Babs was so good, and didn’t cry a bit till she got out. Then I took her away through the woods to hear the birds sing; and mebbe God was there too, ’cause mother said He was everywhere.”

“Yes, boy, God is everywhere. And where does your mother sleep, Ransey?”

“Sleep? Oh, in heaven. Leastways I s’pose so.”

“I mean, where was your gentle mother buried?”

“Oh, at sea, mum. Sailor’s grave, ye know.”

Ransey looked very sad just then.

“You don’t mean in the canal, surely?”

“Yes, mum. Father wouldn’t have it no other way. I can’t forget; ’tain’t much more’n a year ago, though it looks like ten. Father, ye know, ’ad been a long time in furrin parts afore he was capting o’ the Merry Maiden.”

The lad had thrown himself down on the grass at a respectable distance from Miss Scragley, and his big blue, eyes grew bigger and sadder as he continued his story.

“’Twere jest like this, mum. Mother’d been bad for weeks and so quiet like, and father so kind, ’cause he didn’t never touch no rum when mother was sick. We was canal-ing most o’ the time; and one night we stopped at the ‘Bargee’s Chorus’ – only a little public-house, mum, as perhaps you wouldn’t hardly care to be seen drinkin’ at. We stopped here ’cause mother was wuss, and old dad sent for a doctor; and I put Jim into the meadow. Soon’s the doctor saw poor mother, he sez, sez he, ‘Ye’d better get the parson. No,’ he sez, ‘I won’t charge ye nuthin’ for attendance; it’s on’y jest her soul as wants seein’ to now.’

“Well, mum, the parson came. He’d a nice, kind face like you has, mum, and he told mother lots, and made her happy like. Then he said a prayer. I was kind o’ dazed, I dussay; but when mother called us to her, and kissed me and Babs, and told us she was goin’ on to a happier land, I broke out and cried awful. And Babs cried too, and said, ‘An’ me too, ma. Oh, take Babs.’

“Father led us away to the inn, and I jest hear him say to the parson, ‘No, no, sir, no. No parish burial for me. She’s a sailor’s wife; she’ll rest in a sailor’s grave!’

“I don’t know, mum, what happened that night and next day, for me and Babs didn’t go on board again.

“Only, the evenin’ arter, when the moon and stars was ashinin’ over the woods and deep down in the watur, father comes to me.

“‘Ransey,’ sez father, ‘fetch Jim; we’re goin’ on.’ And I goes and fetches Jim, and yokes him to and mounts; and father he put Babs up aside me, ’cause Jim’s good and never needs a whip.

“‘Go on, Ransey,’ sez he, an’ steps quietly on board and takes the tiller.

“Away we went – through the meadows and trees, and then through a long, quiet moor.

“Father kep’ the barge well out, and she looked sailin’ among the stars – which it wasn’t the stars, on’y their ’flection, mum. Well, we was halfway through the moor, and Babs was gone sound asleep ’cross my arm, when I gives Jim his head and looks back.

“An’, oh, mum, there was old dad standin’ holdin’ the tiller wi’ one hand. The moon was shinin’ on his face and on his hair, which is grey kind, and he kep’ lookin’ up and sayin’ somethin’.

“Then there was a plash. Oh, I knew then it was dead mother; and – and – I jest let Jim go on – and – and – ”

But Ransey’s story stopped right here. He was pursing up his lips and trying to swallow the lump in his throat; and Miss Scragley herself turned her head away to hide the moisture in her eyes.

Grief does not stay long at a time in the hearts of children. It comes there all the same, nevertheless, and is quite as poignant while it does last as it is in the breasts of older folks. Children are like the traditional April day – sunshine and showers.

“I think, mum,” said Ransey after a while, “it is time for us to bundle and go.”

Miss Scragley watched the lad with considerable interest while he struck his little camp. First he scattered the remains of his fire and ashes carefully, so that there should be no danger to the wood. Then he prepared to hide his ship.

“Did you make that pretty ship?” said Eedie.

“Oh, yes; I can make beautiful ships and boats, ’cause I seed lots on ’em w’en father took me to Southampton. Oh, that seems millions and millions o’ years ago. And ye see, miss,” he added, “I’m goin’ to be a sailor anyhow, and sail all over the wide world, like father did, and by-and-by I’ll be rich enough to have a real ship of my own.”

“Oh, how nice! And will Babs go with you?”

“As long as Babs is quite little,” he answered, “I can’t go to sea at all, ’cause Babs would die like dead mother if I went away.”

He had Babs in his arms by this time, and it was evident enough that the affection between these two little canal people was very strong indeed.

Seated on his left shoulder, and hugging Ransey’s head towards her, Babs evidently thought she was in a position to give a harangue.

She accordingly addressed herself to Eedie: —

“My bloder ’Ansey is doin’ to drow a big, big man. As big as dad. My bloder ’Ansey is doin’ to be a sailor in s’ips, and Babs is doin’. ’Oo mufn’t (mustn’t) take my bloder away from Babs. ’Oor mudder mufn’t, and noboddy mufn’t.”

Meanwhile her brother was nearly strangled by the vehemence of her affection. But he gently disengaged the little arm and set her on the moss once more. He speedily enveloped her in the shawl, and then hoisted her on his back.

Next he hung his bag in front, and handed the fishing-rod to Bob.

“We must all go now, lady.”

“Oh, yes, and we too must go. We have to thank you for a very interesting half-hour.”

Ransey wasn’t used to such politeness as this little speech indicated. What to say in reply did not readily occur to him.

“Wish,” he said awkwardly and shyly, “I could talk as nice like as you and t’other young lady.”

Miss Scragley smiled. She rather liked being thought a young lady even by a little canal boy like Ransey.

“Oh, you will some day. Can you read?”

“Ye-es. Mother taught me to read, and by-and-by I’ll teach Babs like one o’clock. I can read ‘Nick o’ the Woods’ and the ‘Rev’lations o’ Saint John;’ but Babs likes ‘Jack the Giant Killer’ better’n the Bible. An’ oh,” he added, somewhat proudly, “I got a letter to-day, and I could read that; and it was to say as how father was comin’ home in four days. And the postman cheeked us, and shook his head, threat’nin’ like, and I threw a big turmut and broke it.”

“What! broke his head?”

“Oh, no, mum, only jest the turmut. An’ Bob went after him, and down went postie. Ye would have larfed, mum.”

“I’m afraid you’re a bad boy sometimes.”

“Yes, I feels all over bad – sometimes.”

“I like bad boys best,” said Eedie boldly, “they’re such fun.”

“Babs,” said Ransey, “you’ll hang me dead if you hold so tight.”

“Well, dears, I’m going to come and see you to-morrow, perhaps, or next day, and bring Babs a pretty toy.”

“Babs,” said the child defiantly, “has dot a dolly-bone, all dlessed and boo’ful.” This was simply a ham-bone, on the ball of which Ransey had scratched eyes and a mouth and a nose, and dressed it in green moss and rags. And Babs thought nothing could beat that.

As she rode off triumphantly on Ransey’s back, Babs looked back, held one bare arm on high, and shouted, “Hullay!”

“What strange children!” said Miss Scragley to her niece. “They’re not at all like our little knights of the gutter down in the village where we visit. This opens up life to me in quite a new phase. I’m sure Captain Weathereye would be much interested. There is good, in those poor canal children, dear, only it wants developing. I wonder how we could befriend them without appearing officious or obtrusive. Consult the captain, did you say?”

“I did not speak at all, aunt.”

“Didn’t you? However, that would be best, as you suggested.”

Miss Scragley did not call at Hangman’s Hall next day – it looked showery; but about twelve o’clock, while Ransey Tansey was stewing that leveret with potatoes and a morsel of bacon, and Babs was nursing her dolly-bone in the bassinette, where Ransey had placed her to be out of the way, some one knocked sharply and loudly at the door.

The Admiral, swaying aloft in the gibbet-tree, sounded his tocsin, and Bob barked furiously.

“Down, Bob!” cried Ransey, running to the door. He half expected the postman.

He was mistaken, however, for there stood a smart but pale-faced flunkey in a brown coat with gilt buttons.

Now Ransey could never thoroughly appreciate “gentlemen’s gentlemen” any more than he could gamekeepers.

The flunkey had a large parcel under his arm, which he appeared to be rather ashamed of.

“Aw!” he began haughtily, “am I right in my conjecture that this is ’Angman’s ’All?”

“Your conjecture,” replied Ransey, mimicking the flunkey’s tone and manner, “is about as neah wight as conjectures gener’ly aw. What may be the naychure of your business?”

“Aw! An’ may I enquiah if you are the – the – the waggamuffin who saw Miss Scwagley in the wood yestah-day?”

“I’m the young gentleman” said Ransey, hitching up his suspender, “who had the honah of ’alf an hour’s convehsation with the lady. I am Ransey Tansey, Esq., eldest and only son of Captain Tansey of the Mewwy Maiden. And,” he added emphatically, “this is my dog Bob.”

Bob uttered a low, ominous growl, and walked round behind the flunkey on a tour of inspection.

The only comfort the flunkey had at that moment arose from the fact that his calves were stuffed with hay.

“Aw! Beautiful animal, to be shuah. May I ask if this is the doag that neahly killed the postman fellah?”

“That’s the doag,” replied Ransey, “who would have killed the postman fellah dead out, if I had tipped him the wink.”

“Aw! Well, my business is vewy bwief. Heah is a pawcel from Miss Scwagley, of which she begs your acceptance.”

“Ah, thank you. Dee – lighted. Pray walk in. Sorry my butler is out at pwesent. But what will you dwink – sherry, port, champagne – wum? Can highly wecommend the wum.”

“Oh, thanks. Then I’ll have just a spot of wum.”

Ransey brought out his father’s bottle – a bottle that had lain untouched for a long time indeed – and his father’s glass, and the flunkey drank his “spot,” and really seemed to enjoy it.

Ransey opened the door for him.

“Convey my best thanks to Miss Scwagley,” he said, “and inform her that we will be ree – joiced to receive her, and that Miss Tansey and myself will not fail to return the call at a future day. Good mo’ning.”

“Good mawning, I’m shuah.”

And the elegant flunkey lifted his hat and bowed.

Ransey ran in, gave the leveret stew just a couple of stirs to keep it from burning, then threw himself into his father’s chair, stretched out his legs, and laughed till the very rafters rang.