CHAPTER II.
From the clothes shop Charlie went to the Fishermen's Home, where he found his bow-legged friend.
'Well,' Charlie said, when they were alone, 'what do you think of my rig-out?'
'No good at all, sir,' the fisherman declared.
'Why not?' Charlie asked, somewhat astonished.
'Because, when you are cooking, the fewer things you have on the better you work. When you have a oven each side of you——'
'Are you a cook, then?' Charlie interrupted.
'Yes, sir.'
'Then why did you not tell me so? I can't go aboard the Sparrow-hawk as a cook, for I have never cooked anything but chestnuts in my life.'
'That doesn't matter, sir. North Sea fishermen are not very particular. The great thing to remember is always to serve up a meal at the proper time. If it isn't done, don't keep them waiting, but let them have it underdone. Never let your fire go out day or night, and always keep your kettle boiling.'
'Do the fellows ever want pudding?'
'Plum duff three times a week.'
'I shall have to give up the job, then, for I couldn't make plum duff to save my life.'
'That's just what I used to say when I first went as cook aboard ship, but I had a shot at it, and a nice mess I made of it. But when I came home from that trip I gave another cook a shilling to teach me how to make a few fancy things, and now I'm thought as good a cook as any in the North Sea.'
'But you know how to make plum duff. I don't.'
'I will tell you. When I discovered how to make anything, I put the particulars down in writing in a little book. I will lend you the book.'
The bow-legged cook put his hand in his pocket and drew out a grimy, paper-covered note-book.
'Plum duff comes first,' he said, as he handed the book to Charlie. 'Can you read it?'
'There are a few words which I can't quite understand,' Charlie replied, for the cookery-book was an extraordinary work. The writing was bad, the spelling was worse, and the abbreviations were confusing. But the cook went right through the book with him then and there.
'Now you'll be able to cook anything,' he declared, when they had got to the end.
'I'm not so sure of that,' Charlie answered; 'but anyhow, I shall have some idea of how to set to work. What time to-morrow shall I have to be aboard?'
'At six in the morning.'
'Won't the skipper discover me before we get out of the river?'
'No. He doesn't often pop his head into the galley. Anyhow, he cannot do without a cook, and if he does see you, he won't turn you off when he finds that I am not aboard. I will write a letter to the mate for you to give him, and perhaps he won't say a word to the skipper about you. Don't you worry yourself, you will be all right.'
Charlie slept that night at the Fishermen's Home. He had a clean and comfortable bed for ninepence, and a good breakfast for a few coppers. The bow-legged cook met him in the morning outside the Home, and gave him a letter to the mate.
'It took me two hours to write,' he declared, 'and when I finished it I didn't think it was worth while going to sleep. But that doesn't matter; I shall get plenty of sleep during the next few weeks. I'm going to live like a gentleman for a time.'
Charlie smiled, and drew his purse out of his pocket. 'Here is three pounds,' he said. 'The other three I will give you when I return.'
'Suppose you don't return, sir? Accidents happen at sea as well as on land. If you got washed overboard, should I lose my three pounds?'
'Oh, no. I have written to my father, telling him the agreement I have made with you, and if I should not return he will pay you the money. Here is his address.'
'Thank you, sir, very much,' the cook answered. 'And now, as it's a quarter to six, you had better hurry off to the Sparrow-hawk. Light the fire and put the kettle on it directly you get aboard. The chaps will want some tea long before they have their breakfast.'
'I'll remember,' Charlie promised; 'good-bye.' And with his bundle of belongings on his shoulder, he hurried off to where the Sparrow-hawk lay.
'Where is the mate?' Charlie inquired of a boy who looked at him sharply as he went aboard the Sparrow-hawk.
'For'ard,' the boy answered.
Charlie went for'ard, and seeing a man standing with his arms folded, watching three men who were working hard, concluded rightly that he was the mate, and handed him the cook's letter.
'Who is it from?' the mate asked.
'The cook, sir,' Charlie answered.
The mate tore open the envelope and glanced at the letter. 'He wrote it with a toasting-fork, I should think,' the mate declared, after looking at it for a few moments. 'He says he is ill. At any rate, he has not turned up. So you're his substitute? Well, take your things below and get into the galley sharp. I want a mug of tea as soon as possible.'
Charlie went down into the foc's'le—a small, dark, stifling place where eight men slept. The thought of having to spend his nights in that dirty, close den made him half-inclined to jump ashore before the boat started. Quickly overcoming the thought, he set to work to discover which was his bunk, and while he was searching for some sign that would help him to settle the matter, a Chinaman came below. He was dressed in ordinary North Sea fishermen's clothes, and his pigtail was wound tightly round the top of his head. Charlie mistook his natural expression for a friendly smile, and therefore smiled in return.
'Which is the cook's bunk?' he asked immediately, and the Chinaman pointed it out to him.
The Chinaman watched Charlie as he stowed his things away and donned his cook's apron. Then he exclaimed suddenly, 'You no sailor-man!'
Charlie looked at the Chinaman in surprise. 'How can you tell?' he asked.
'Never mind,' the Chinaman answered, now smiling in reality; 'me no tellee any one. Me likee you first chop.'
Charlie's knowledge of 'pidgin' English was slight, but he concluded that 'first chop' meant 'very much,' and was pleased to find that he had made one friend so quickly.
'My name Ping Wang,' the Chinaman continued, 'but sailor men callee me Chinee. Skipper Dlummond welly bad man. Callee me tellible bad names. Good morning; no can stop.'
Ping Wang went on deck, and a few moments later Charlie followed and hurried to the galley, where his difficulties commenced. In spite of all his efforts he could not light the fire, and, remembering the bow-leg cook's injunction to keep the kettle always boiling, he began to think that he was making a very bad start. He left the galley in order to ask one of the men to show him how to make the fire burn, and met Ping Wang.
'Can tellee me how lightee fire?' Charlie asked.
Ping Wang nodded his head, popped into the galley, and pointed out to Charlie that he had omitted to pull out the damper. Then he relaid the fire, and, when he lighted it, it burned up quickly.
'You no sailor-man; you no cook!' Ping Wang whispered merrily, and then hurried away.
'Ping Wang and I will get on very well together,' Charlie said to himself as he filled the huge kettle with water. The kettle boiled quickly, and almost immediately after the ship had left the dock the mate's mug of tea was ready.
'Have you given the skipper any?' the mate asked; and when Charlie replied 'No,' he exclaimed, 'You had better be quick and take him some, then.'
Charlie filled another mug with tea and took it up on the bridge, but, just as he reached the top step of the ladder, he stumbled, and, to prevent himself from falling, dropped the mug. It fell with a crash on the bridge, and the tea splashed the skipper's shore trousers, which he had not yet changed.
Skipper Drummond, a short, stout, ill-tempered fellow, was thoroughly disliked by every one who knew him. He glared at Charlie for a moment as if he had committed some terrible offence, and then shouted fiercely 'What did you do that for, you idiot?'
'It was an accident,' Charlie answered bluntly, indignant at being abused.
'Saying it was an accident won't mend the mug.'
'I will pay for a new one,' Charlie rather unwisely replied.
'Pay for it, will you? So we have got a millionaire aboard, I suppose. I wonder you ever came to sea. Why did you? Do the police want you?'
Feeling that if he remained on the bridge he might speak his mind too freely, Charlie turned to go, but the skipper called him back.
'Come here, you ape!' he shouted. 'Do you think I am going to pick up these pieces? Gather them up and throw them overboard.'
"The mug fell with a crash on the bridge."
"The skipper glanced at his watch."
AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.
A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.
As soon as Charlie had filled another mug with tea, he hurried back to the bridge.
'You have been a fine long time getting this,' the skipper declared, anxious to resume bullying. But Charlie was determined not to give him an occasion for fault-finding, and therefore he made no reply; but, as he walked back to his galley, he vowed to himself that, do what he might, the skipper should not have the satisfaction of making him miserable. Already he had come to the conclusion that the man was dishonourable, and was more than ever determined to find out to what extent he hoped to defraud his father. He found that the galley contained very few cooking utensils, but the need of them was not likely to be felt that voyage, as the provisions consisted almost entirely of tinned meats. There was not even one joint of fresh or salted meat aboard. Charlie, therefore, did not have much difficulty in preparing the dinner, as each tin of provisions bore instructions for the cooking of its contents. Punctually at one o'clock he took a plate of mock-turtle soup to the skipper, who was then in his cabin under the bridge.
As Charlie entered, the skipper glanced at his watch hanging on a nail at the side of his bunk; but, finding that he could not abuse him on the ground of being late, he contented himself with scowling. But, a few moments later, he pretended that he had a real cause for complaint.
When Charlie returned with the next course the skipper said, sharply: 'Look here, young fellow, don't you be so generous with other people's things. There is enough meat for two men here. I'll eat it this time, but remember I won't have any waste on this trawler. I know exactly what provisions you have, and if they go too quickly, I shall give you in charge for robbery. So just you be careful.'
Charlie had not given the skipper a very big allowance of food, and was naturally surprised at the reprimand which he had received. Had he known that the skipper had a private stock of provisions, kept under lock and key in his cabin, he would not have been surprised at his small appetite.
'Can I bring you anything more, Sir?' Charlie asked.
'No,' the skipper replied, 'and don't you come bothering for these things until after two o'clock.'
That order was given so that Charlie should not return until he had removed all traces of his private provisions.
Glad to have finished for a time with the skipper, Charlie, with the aid of the ship's boy, carried the men's food to the foc's'le. There was no mock-turtle soup for them, but simply tinned meat, boiled and floating in brown liquid.
The crew of the Sparrow-hawk were a brutal, low-minded set of men, and their conversation sickened Charlie even more than the discomfort of his life; so, after swallowing a few mouthfuls of the food, he went on deck, and, going aft, sat down on a coil of rope to think.
When he had been there about ten minutes Ping Wang joined him.
'This is the first time you have been to sea on a trawler,' the Chinaman declared as he sat down beside him.
'How do you know?' Charlie asked, astounded to find that Ping Wang could speak excellent English.
'I could see that you were surprised at the way in which the men eat and talked. If you had known that they behaved in that manner, you would not have come to sea.'
'That is very likely,' Charlie admitted.
'Why have you come?' Ping Wang inquired.
'One must do something for a living.'
'You could have got a better job ashore. I am certain of that. You have come to sea for fun.'
'If I had, I fancy that I should be disappointed.'
'The skipper has been bullying you, I suppose. He bullies every one.'
'Yes, he has been bullying me, but I will let him know very soon that I won't stand much of it.'
'I advise you not to quarrel with him. I should not have come aboard this trip had I known that he was coming. He told us last voyage that that was his last trip.'
'Where did he expect to be? In jail?'
'No,' the Chinaman answered, smiling; 'he said that he was going to retire. He was going to sell the trawler to some rich old fellow who knows nothing about such things. The mate told me that the skipper hopes to get half as much again as the trawler was worth. Last trip he cut down expenses, and he is doing the same again now, so that the gentleman who is buying her will think the cost of running a trawler is less than it is. We are a hand short this trip.'
'Is the trawler a sound boat?'
'This is the only one I have ever been on, but the fellows on the foc's'le say that she is the rottenest trawler on the North Sea. The engines are patched up, and they have to be very careful of them.'
'Then the skipper intends to swindle the man over the sale of her?'
'Of course he does.'
'I hope that the man won't buy her.'
'So do I, but the skipper is confident that he will. If he doesn't, the skipper's temper will be worse than ever next voyage. I shall take very good care not to make another trip with him.'
'Do you like a fisherman's life?'
'No. I dislike it very much indeed.'
'Then why are you aboard this ship?'
'Did you not tell me that one must do something for a living?'
'That is true; but, at the same time, I cannot understand why an educated Chinaman should travel so many thousands of miles to become a fisherman.'
'I came to England to make my fortune,' Ping Wang declared. 'I thought that when I got to London, I should be able, having an English education, to get employment in the office of some merchant doing business with China. But I soon found that nobody wanted me. The only offers I received were not to my liking. One was a place in a laundry, and the other was to stand outside a tea merchant's and distribute bills. No one seemed to think that it was possible for a Chinaman to be a gentleman, or to have any self-respect. At last, when all my money was gone, I got a job as steward on board a pleasure boat. The owner became bankrupt, and I was paid off at Yarmouth. I walked from Yarmouth to Grimsby, and, after I had been hanging about the docks for a few days, the skipper of this boat took me on.'
'Then he is not such a heartless brute as I imagined,' Charlie remarked.
'It was not out of compassion that he took me,' Ping Wang answered. 'He said that as I had never been on a trawler, he would have to give me small wages. After I had been at sea three days I could do my work as well as any of the other men, but I only received half the wages that they did. He knew very well that I should be able to do my work after a few days' practice, and by taking me on he made a saving in his wages bill. This trip he is giving me three-quarters of what he pays the other men. We were only in dock for two or three days, and I had no time to find another job, but I have made up my mind never to go to sea again on a trawler, even if I have to starve. When we get back to Grimsby I shall go to London, and see if the Chinese Embassy or the Home for Asiatics will pay my passage home. I am afraid, however, that they will not believe my story of being able to repay them, and I do not desire charity. In fact, now I come to think of it, it would be very foolish of me to tell my story to the people at the Embassy.'
'Is it, then, such a wonderful story?'
'An Englishman would think so, but a Chinaman would not.'
For a few minutes Ping Wang was deep in thought, and Charlie got up to look at a passing Norwegian ship. When he returned to his seat on the coil of rope, Ping Wang said to him suddenly, 'Have you any Chinese friends?'
'No.'
'Have you any English friends living in China?'
'No.'
Ping Wang gave a slight sigh of relief.
'Then, if you will promise not to repeat what I tell you,' he said, 'you shall hear my story.'
'I promise,' Charlie answered. 'But I hope that you are not going to tell me any anti-European plots.'
RICE-PAPER.
Chinese rice-paper is a thing which we frequently hear of, but do not often see. It is very curious and pretty, but far too frail for most of the uses to which we put our English paper; and, for this reason, it has no commercial value in European countries, and is only brought away by travellers and traders as a curiosity.
The rice-paper which I have seen was cut into small squares about three by two inches, each of which had a beautiful coloured picture of a Chinese man or woman. The paper was very white and thin, slightly rough, like blotting-paper, stiff and brittle. It was impossible to fold it, as the least effort to bend the sheet broke it in two. The pictures upon these little sheets had evidently been painted by hand, and were very beautiful and interesting. The surface of the paint was bright and clear, and the paper was transparent enough to permit the picture to be seen from the back, with all its colours and details only a little dimmed, as if seen through a thin sheet of ground glass.
Notwithstanding its name, rice-paper has really nothing to do with rice. It is not made from rice, nor even from the rice plant, but from the pith of a kind of ivy, the Aralia papyrifera, which grows abundantly in the island of Formosa. This Aralia is not much like our English ivy. It is, in fact, a small tree, which may attain a height of twenty or thirty feet, and is crowned with a number of large leaves, shaped like those of the sycamore. It bears clusters of small, pale yellow flowers, which contrast beautifully with the dark green foliage. The stem is ringed with the marks of the fallen leaves, very like the stems of the castor-oil plants which are often seen in pots in England.
The stem of the rice-paper plant is hollow, and filled with a pith which, though it is rather broken in the centre, is firm and compact outside. After the tree has reached a certain age, the pith becomes less serviceable, and so the tree is usually cut down when it is about twelve feet high, before it has attained its full growth. The stem is cut into lengths of nine or twelve inches each, and the pith is pushed out by inserting a stick at one end, and hammering it through the core of the tree. The little rolls of pith obtained in this way are placed in hollow bamboos, which permit them to swell a little, but prevent them from curling up as they dry. When properly dried, they are ready for the cutting, which is the really skilful part of the making of rice-paper. The man who cuts up the pith has a long, sharp knife, which he places against the side of the roll of pith in such a way that it will take off a thin paring as he turns the roll round and round. It is like paring off the bark of a log by rolling it round against a sharp knife, with these differences, however, that the paring is as thin as paper, and that it is part of the log itself, and goes on until the broken centre is reached. The parings, or sheets, when stripped off, are about four feet long, and they are placed one upon the other and pressed, after which they are cut into squares like those described above. The squares are made up into packets of one hundred each, which the Chinese sell for five or six farthings a packet. Many of these little squares are dyed or stained different colours, and are used for making little artificial flowers; others, as we have already seen, are covered with little pictures, representing sometimes the people and the costumes of China, and sometimes the birds, butterflies, and animals of that country.
There are a few other trees or plants which yield a pith from which rice-paper can be made; but the Aralia is the most important. Though the tree grows best in the northern part of Formosa, the paper is made less by the Formosans than by the Chinese, who barter their goods for the rice-paper trees or logs.
TOO TEMPTING TO BE LOST.
"How it tasted—well, I've never heard!"
fox one day had left his cosy den,
And wandered forth amid the haunts of men.
What did he want? Of course he wanted food—
A tender duck, or something quite as good;
But though he wandered far and wandered near,
No duckling could he see his heart to cheer.
Through fields and copses did the poor fox go,
With hungry longings and a heart of woe.
Thought he, 'It's very plain that dainty food
I cannot find to-day; still, something good
May yet turn up. But stay! what's that I see
Hanging asleep upon the old ash-tree?
'I do declare the creature is a crow—
Not very tempting to the taste, I know;
But still, if nothing better can be had,
Perhaps it may not taste so very bad.
So up at once he jumped, and seized the bird,
But how it tasted—well, I've never heard!